an overheard conversation about your OC a letter written by your OC’s family member a report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor a letter from your OC to their love interest letters between two of your OC’s companions about them someone describing a time your OC helped them someone describing a time your OC hurt them your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries a future historian’s account of your OC’s actions a description of your OC by someone who hates them your OC’s description of their game’s events your OC overheard while drunk transcript of an interview with your OC your OC talking about your favorite quest a letter to your OC from a companion they haven’t seen in a while a conversation between your OC and their best friend a description of your OC’s family by a future historian
L - It is. I hope you’re here to tell me you like her and not chide me about my method of bringing her to us.
V - No, no, I’m not so romantic as that, but romantic enough to appreciate a whirlwind. And her voice is good. Kamaria told me about how you found her, was she really not headlining?
L - She was, a few times. It seems that was more a fluke than a plan. When she wasn’t on stage or working some other terribly menial job, she was at protests. Apparently she lost someone in that war.
V - You don’t know who?
L - Brother, I think. It’s not relevant now, is it?
V - Isn’t it? Wasn’t your family before of consequence to you when you joined us?
L - ...Not particularly, no.
V - That’s cold, Lorelai, but I won’t push. Just take my advice and don’t push her. We are a chorus, every voice is necessary to build our sound. If she despairs because of this, it would be a shame.
L - Thank you. I appreciate that you think I would be so crass as to ruin my own Childe so readily now that I have her.
V - You’re welcome. And have her come see me tomorrow night, I’d like to find her full range.
L - Of course, Viktorya. Your approval does mean so much to me.
V - It’s not you I’m going to be approving of tomorrow, but you do have it for now.
I got your letters, even managed to read them before they shuffled us around again. Have to move all my stuff each time so I try to keep it light.
You probably wouldn’t be surprised at how many here don’t want to be here. I passed around a couple of those essays you sent, they’re really popular with some of the guys. Not so much the officers but I don’t think anything is popular with them except maybe Ed Sullivan and keeping the war machine going.
Anyway, if you got more of those to send, keep ‘em coming! And tell Marie and Mom to stop trying to send cookies. They never get here in time, and I love them both but they were never good at baking. Feels bad to have them put in all that effort for stale cookies the guys the next tent over tried to use as hockey pucks.
Good to hear about your album idea, though! Maybe when it’s done you can send me that. We just have to hope it doesn’t break getting across the globe, crushed by someone else’s hockey puck cookies.
Maybe just send socks. My feet never feel dry anymore.
Your favorite brother, Sam
P.S. - I know you’re gonna ask me to tell you the truth about all this. You already know what it is, so I don’t see the point in putting it on paper. One of us has to stay positive, right? You just keep being the one worrying Mom by screaming at Generals and I’ll tell her how nice the plants are over here, and hope it’ll all be fine.
You will like who I have found in the city. Her voice is clear, both in tone and message. One of this new set of musicians playing at being older than they are -- they grow like weeds here, all on top of each other in this neighborhood, then spilling out across the rest of the country. Given time, I’m sure maybe even Viktoriya will see one she likes.
Her name is Bridget, but I have known that for some months now. She hadn’t noticed me until this, which is good for us both. Most nights I have seen her she is singing background for some other personality, consigned to forgettable harmonies. There is a record of her own she made that I am sending with this letter. It is tempting, as I am sure you know, to take her in only halfway to start, but I do not wish to waste any more time than I need to. You must understand, you have Childer of your own, how you know when you hear them that they’ll be yours.
Do not tell me again about the issues here. I know them well enough, and I won’t be spending any time in their courts. When I’m able, when we are able, we’ll leave the city. I refuse to be beholden to asking permission to save a voice from anyone other than my Sisters.
As always, you may advise me against this, and I will pretend to listen.
Has anyone told you that they miss you being in meetings? I’ve been in five since I got to [city??] of varying levels of seriousness, where I have to pay every bit of attention to what’s going on, and every time I find myself glancing to my left to see your opinion, wishing you were there to break some tension, anything.
You can frame this for your office, too, if you really want. If you print it I’ll sign it.
My hope is that at the end of all this frustration I’ll have some information that’s useful, for Lorelai and my sisters. Myself, too, if I’m being honest.
How are things in Vegas? How is Angel Hair? Tell me about what I’m missing if you think I’ll actually miss it and the rest can just be a fun mystery compared to the other mystery I have on my plate. And tell Montrose and Jocalo and everyone else I said hello.
When I get back to Vegas you can fill me in on more enjoyable things.
Miss you, Birdie
letters between two of your OC’s companions about them
Birdie isn’t on board. Not completely. She knows the guy, and she knows the situation is bad, but she still won’t commit. Can’t really blame her, but is there anything you could do to convince her? Get her in on things? No doubt she’d be helpful in getting others into it, galvanizing the troops or whatever.
Should be fine if she doesn’t come around, I know she won’t turn on us at least.
-Trent
--
T-
Just talked to her. No dice. She’s skittish about the ‘potential violence’ or some shit, doesn’t think there’s enough people here pissed off about it all to come around and do anything no matter what she sings, and if they do they might go too hard or he’ll come down too hard to keep it on lock. Tried to get that protest heart in her beating but nada.
Plus, Jessie has been talking her ominous shit. Maybe she told Birdie about it and that’s what’s got her doing this conscientious objector dance. Jessie is still in, but that talk wasn’t good.
Birdie? Oh yeah, she’s fantastic. There was this one time, when she first came through in ‘95 and she managed to hold the whole place together for us.
It’s never that much of an issue for us, you know, keeping a business running one way or another. The things we do and don’t do, we can keep it afloat. We can keep the money moving in and out, but we can’t always make it look more legitimate.
Restaurants and laundromats had been our thing for the longest time. Plain, simple, we know how to make the money look right if anyone decided to start looking too close. We got good herds from ‘em for the most part, too. Regulars, nothing too unseemly.
Then Diego wanted expand, he wanted a club. A bar, and music and shows and all that shit. The bar part was fine, it was like a restaurant but with only a burger and a lot of booze. Fudging the numbers there was old hat, but tickets? Cover charges? Dealing with the goddamn acts?
That shithole was the worst reviewed place in town. Some punk kid for that local culture paper put us on the front page for being so bad. I’m talkin’ “Food’s fine but the rest of this place is a disaster” kinda thing, and I didn’t realize how much that mattered until it happened. Apparently the acts we were getting all sucked, didn’t match the atmosphere or something? No one buying tickets, and obvious enough that our numbers didn’t look passable no matter what we did.
For a while we tried to get better acts, see if that would fix it. The ones that actually showed up were nightmares, and the other ones knew the rep and wouldn’t set foot in the place.
One night, this kid comes in. She’s gorgeous, looks a little dippy, and first thing she did was find out who owned the joint. Talked to my guys on top, worked her way down to me and Diego, asked us if we know what the fuck we were doing. I think it was, “Do you know how to run that place at all? Because if you don’t, I can give you some pointers.”
All she wanted in return was a spot, the stage some nights, and access. Real clear she didn’t want anything permanent, didn’t want to run the place or anything like that. Called it a place to land, and she’d make it work.
Five months in we had goddamn crowds in the place. Making money and faking money all at the same time, even got a new front page from that goddamn punk at the entertainment paper.
She leaves, you know. That’s what she does. Doesn’t matter how good a thing she’s got wherever it is she’s at, she’s gonna go.
And it’s not like she’s gotta go on a trip and come back or anything that simple. Not like she’s just itching to move around and she’ll remember you after she’s gone, keep in touch. That’d be too damn kind.
We had a good thing, a real good thing. I though she loved me, and maybe she did. Brid stuck around for a whole three years, and every time she realized another big chunk of time had gone by she’d say something like, “Can’t believe I’m still here.” Was like a little dig every time, like what I was trying to build didn’t matter to her at all.
I was coming into a lot then. We came into things about the same time, but I never had it in me to wander around like her. Didn’t even think I needed someone with me like that, but she has this way of getting to you, getting in your head. Maybe it’s the music? I don’t know, but she got in so deep, like she knew everything about me that I’d never told anyone else before, not in nearly a hundred years.
But I was coming up, I was getting established. Putting down my roots as deep as I could so I could make changes, the kinds we’d talked about. And we had this good thing that I thought was good for her, too. I’d made plans with her in them, thought maybe she’d settled, maybe she wanted the power I could get for her with how things were shaking out. The things we could’ve done together...
One night, I come home from court and she’s gone. No talk about it before, no hints, no warning. Just this little note on the dresser, ‘S- Gotta be on my way. Be well. Love, Brid.’ Just like that, she was out the door and out of the city and just gone, no calls no letters. Like she was just renting space in my haven, in my heart, until she got bored of it.
your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries
I am not much of a healer, but I will take these notes so I may remember more clearly what has gone on here.
Currently it is fourteen days since the incident and Edward’s Broadstreet. The rest of those that survived are mostly healed from the worst of their injuries without the need of intervention and are returning to normal.
Bridget has not.
Whatever it is that her Sire did, which I still do not understand but am thankful I was not there to see up close before the end, there are places where it seems muscle was nearly ripped from the bone where others it was as if she’d been cut down by some large sword. She was incapacitated for two nights, not including the night of the incident, and her mobility is diminished as we wait for the greater damage to heal. This impacts her right side more than her left, which is logical given how she had to approach.
At this time I no longer fear she will succumb to the Final Death, though it concerns me how delayed her recovery has become. Whether it is a case of mental anguish over the events or some other issue, it is a weakness now that Edward is aware of and more than happy to use to his advantage. Had he not lost two of his Childe’s enforcers in the night, I am sure I would have seen him laugh. Once the incident resolved, both the injured and incapacitated were transported to his haven, and in the night that followed, what remained of Lorelai was secured and taken elsewhere.
I can see that this would have been a good time to bind her to him, and so has he. We did discuss this before she came back to herself. Whether it is hubris or idealism that has kept him from doing so, I do not care. Perhaps I underestimate them both and it is fear that she would drain him out of rage?
Regardless, it is good that he has not. Now she is healing and we are patient.
a description of your OC by someone who hates them
Insidious. And, it may be a different kind of insult among us, but I think ‘leech’ fits, too.
When she first came through Denver, I can admit that I was intrigued by her and her skills, once I was let in on what they were. They’re impressive, but her acumen in other areas is sorely lacking. When she came back through, Edward was charmed even as her little friends plotted. It was like watching a train crash in slow motion, back when they did that and filmed it for fun.
For all her free-love nonsense, her peace, her protest, she is a conniving snipe, and luckily too stupid to do any lasting harm.
To be honest, when it first started I thought I’d be able to get out of it again.
The first time I came through Denver, it seemed nice? Edward seemed like he was running it well, like he had the best interests of everyone there in mind with everything he did. Coming back through, I had no idea that so much had changed. From what I figured out after, something happened after I’d been through the first time with someone using medicine to Embrace a bunch of Fledglings, followed by what nearly became all-out war trying to track them down and remove them from the picture because he was afraid it was a ploy to unseat him.
My coterie and I came back through and it was... Everyone was suspicious of everyone else, looking over shoulders and sending up flags. It was liking walking into a bar the night after an FBI raid, only it was like that all the time.
Trent and Michael and Jessie, the ones I’d come in with, got close to the Anarchs in the city. They weren’t happy with how things were going, but they followed Edward’s lead anyway to make sure the nights kept going smooth for the sake of everyone. They didn’t have enough pull, and not near enough power to go against Edward’s establishment.
And his establishment was mostly his own Childer. Duke was acting as Sherriff and had his own small team under him. Karen was in the band, but she was big on making sure Edward was happy. Both Leslies would inform, and his Primogen council was either in his band or working for him in some other industry in the city. It was enmeshed from top to bottom. The only one that wasn’t was Don Alonzo, who was acting as Seneschal, and went along with Edward saying that he, Duke, and Don Alonzo were running the city as a council instead of the usual Cam structure. And there was nothing to show Don Alonzo wasn’t happy with the arrangement. He had his own Childer working under him to perform his own duties.
It’s how it was, and everyone who wasn’t happy with it didn’t stay in Denver very long.
That included my coterie.
After about a week, Michael and Trent decided that they’d be the ones to unseat him and claim the city as Anarch territory. Full stop. I had a bad feeling about it, tried to keep out of what they were doing much as I could. Jessie did, too-- Malkavian, you know? She felt it more than I did but she went along with them because they were closer than I was.
One night they were there and the next they weren’t.
Edward has this house, outside the city. There’s a courtyard, got all sorts of windows and shades. That’s where anyone not happy with how things were run were going. No one was really leaving, they were set out there in the day, sometimes for weeks...
They were gone, and he kept me around. Figured out I was a Daughter after the first time I came through and decided that I could help him keep people happy.
For a while I played along like it was just another gig. I knew they were gone but I didn’t want to believe-- I was stupid. Or maybe it was him, I don’t know. But I stayed, and I played it like it was just another gig, told myself it was better than letting them all tear out each other’s throats, and figured I’d get gone after things settled. ‘Keeper of Elysium’ isn’t so bad a gig, right? Kinda thing sounds good on paper.
Except they never settled. And every time I talked about making my way out, the hold got tighter. Not just him, but his ghouls. They’d follow me around the city, he put in a security system around the house I’d been given to use to let him know when I left and when I got back. All that shit. It was like being on house arrest.
Eventually, I called out to my Sire. What I didn’t realize is that she wasn’t herself. One night she went... I don’t even know what to call it. Some of the other Daughters call it Banshee, but I’d never heard of it actually happening before. Just rumors. She attacked everyone, even me. And when she was stopped, Edward held her body hostage to keep me from leaving.
A few years later, I met Ouija. I’d had friends come through before thinking they could get me out, but it hadn’t worked well for anyone. This time, apparently, they timed it just right. Don Alonzo was ready to take things over himself and all we had to do was help him out and I was free to take Lorelai and go when it was done.
“No, no! It’s not!” She’s laughing, sitting on a lounge chair with a small snake wrapped around her wrist and a glass of blood in hand. “It’s not-- It’s not how any of that happened, okay?”
A vague gesture with the glass.
“How it happened was, it fell? It did, it fell! I didn’t smash anything, I swear, it fell!”
You should know I saw you again. Passing through Denver. Didn’t see me in the crowd, of course. Always too focused on the music. It was good, that’s good. Besides, I don’t look the same as I did the last time you came through Sacramento.
Some of us age, after all.
Whatever your secret is, you can keep it. You look far too sad for all that youth you have the moment those lights go down, even if you have everyone in the place mooning after you, same as always.
Back when you first left, I was so mad at you. I thought it was me, something I’d done. Even owning a club of my own wasn’t cool enough for you and you’d gone on to find something better than I could do, but seeing you again like this maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you just need to run and the staying in one place is what you couldn’t handle and not me.
Call me sometime, my number never changed. Miracle of technology, right? All that, our letters, and cat videos all in one little brick we keep in our pocket. Use it, if not with me then someone else that can tell those smiles on stage aren’t what you want them to be.
Nines was the one that suggested they step out for a conversation. Birdie still isn't sure exactly why, but she's not one to push about it. Maybe he could tell how annoyed she'd been, sitting there overhearing Smiling Jack ramble on. Or maybe he just wanted the air, which she certainly couldn't complain about.
"So," she risks venturing the ask only after they've settled, sitting up on a roof a few blocks away but still firmly in Anarch territory – her feet dangling over the edge, his back against the wall, "what was it you wanted to talk about?"
For all she's seen of how Los Angeles works (or doesn't, in many cases), Nines was someone to know within its scope. Birdie herself was no stranger to Anarch tendencies in Camarilla territory, but something about the dynamics here felt… Off. Like someone had gone and rewound her strings mid-song, each note jangling too tight or too loose. Even the Fugue sounded different here, never quite managing to resolve on a harmonic chord.
For a moment he seems unsure, then says, mock serious, "I was gonna ask if you had a joint, but that might be stereotyping. Not trying to offend."
Quite the opposite of offense, Birdie laughs, bright and clear, the discordant tune of Los Angeles fading somewhat in the background. "Here, hold on," and there, after digging around in her jacket pockets, is a baggie with a few already-rolled joints lined up neatly inside. Nines laughs himself, but it's more a vaguely surprised chuckle than anything like what came out of Birdie, as she pulls one out and lights it.
Once it's lit she leans over to pass it to Nines with a smile. "There, enjoy some stereotypical puff-puff-pass."
He does, and she wonders if this might have been it. Nines just wanting a moment out to get a little high with a new face in town rather than the known elements. Then he leans forward to pass it back to her, looking far more serious than one puff ought to grant him. "You're Camarilla, right?"
Birdie takes back the joint with a cheery, "Nope," letting her lips pop that final 'p' as she fishes out her lighter again so she can take her own puff without the little doobie going out in the wind. She's careful not to show any offense at the assumption, even though she's pretty sure it comes from her reputation from Denver, and that's a sore spot that may never really heal.
She takes some time to reorient herself on the ledge, turning away from the drop and the ground below to stretch her legs out in front of her toward Nines, ankles crossed, and takes another long pull to hold in as she passes the joint back. It isn't until he's taking his own drag that she lets the smoke out again, slow and unhurried, not needing to breathe in again for desperate lack of oxygen, only so she can speak. "I've been around, and been in more Camarilla territories than I think I can remember enough to count, but I'm not official or anything."
"A true wanderer, yeah?"
He doesn't sound mean with it, but it's not a nice tone either. Somewhere in the middle, aggressively neutral, closed off and wary, but Birdie smiles anyway. Like a reflex, like a defense. "You could say that, yeah."
Nines offers the joint back but she waves it off, opting to lean back on her hands and let him take the next few rounds for himself. It's a vulnerable position to lounge in, and it's a little calculated to be so. Point herself out as not being a threat, as not being here to attack. Just talk, just get high and philosophize much as it suits them both.
It surprises her a little when he follows up with, "So you've seen what they're like," and she considers that maybe her reputation from Denver isn't sore in the same way she thought it might be.
"I've seen a lot of ways they're like, Nines. Good and bad, it's always different. Every Prince is different, every domain, every problem and every way to solve a problem. It's like," and here, maybe, the weed is getting to her just a smidge, "Like a house frame. There's the same kind of wood, the same supports, but not every house gets built the same, or has the same things going on inside it."
It looks, at least a little, like he's considering that. It isn't until he's passing her the joint again that he hits her with, "Are you here to do what you did in Denver, then?" It lands on her like a slap, and she doesn't have to calculate the absolute mouth-open, wide-eyed confusion it leaves her in. Her reputation must be supremely fucked up, but she supposses, once she's got her bearings again enough to take a drag, at least he isn't angry and assuming she's a Camarilla spy or something.
"No," and the word comes out with a small plume of smoke. Where before she was smiling on reflex, now she's gone morose, curled in just slightly as she leans again to pass. "I'm never doing anything like Denver again if I can help it. And if you knew what happened, you wouldn't have asked that."
There's a stretch of time, where she looks down at the ground below them and can feel Nines looking at her, that she might otherwise count in heartbeats or breaths. Since she has neither, she counts it in measures of the Fugue, three-quarter time now, still not quite right but as persistently present as always. Her focus is so split she nearly misses what he says:
"Sorry about that, I guess. People talk."
He's offering her the joint again, but she waves it off with more finality than before. Pretty sure he isn't actually sorry, either. "Keep it."
People talk. That's certainly accurate. And from everything she's heard about how Los Angeles turns around itself, Anarch and Camarilla and everything outbetween, it seems they never tell a full story.
"Well, you're right about people talking. Not all of them listen, but they talk plenty. Always have. And for the record, Denver is still Camarilla. Just… Lasombra flavored, now, instead of McCarthyist Wannabe."
She forces herself back into the performance of ease, pulling her attention to Nines and the conversation at hand, her hands back behind her on the ledge to hold herself up. "What do you think the Camarilla is for, anyway?"
Birdie watches his face go from normally expressive to closed off, hard. Just shy of angry, like he's had this conversation before and didn't like it much at all.
"Controlling other Kindred, and keeping power to themselves."
Birdie is very conscious, then, of not laughing at that. Instead she nods, amicable to begin her disagreement.
"Remember when they started saying that about unions? I know you're old enough to know."
And she doesn't laugh, but she does take some satisfaction in watching his confusion cloud his eyes for a moment, that non-verbal what the fuck in the corners that lets her know she's touched on something he never considered.
"Are you saying the Camarilla is a union?"
Birdie shrugs as best she can in her position, tilts her head to one side as she watches him. "When it's working like it oughta, yeah. We all pay our dues and let the reps duke it out with the bosses. They've got power, but it's power they gotta use for something, right? Like keeping up the Masquerade? In all the places I've been, there can be corruption for sure. But when there's a Prince, there's someone that's got the job to solve the problems for the rest of us. It can break if the Prince fucks up, but it can break a lot faster, and a lot worse, if we all stop paying our dues and sending out our reps."
The words hang there in the air between them long enough that Birdie wonders if maybe he's a little too high to get this deep into things, but he takes another drag and says, "Yeah, they said you were a hippie. Sure as shit sound like one," before flicking the remnants off the edge of the roof toward the ground below them.
His tone, at least, isn't completely accusatory. Instead, she's got the distinct feeling she's being dismissed.
"What, you have a better idea of how the Camarilla works with your wealth of experience in their courts?"
That catches him up. Not just the words, the subtle jab at how he hasn't left the city to see how things work elsewhere, but her own tone – light, easy. No fight, just making a point.
"Maybe I'm just not as trusting as you are." And that stings, enough that Birdie lets it show with a wince, looks away at the light-polluted sky above them.
"I might be a hippie, but I was the protesting kind. Anti-war, anti-government. FBI listening in at the bar because I sang songs that made communism look too appealing kinda hippie."
Nines, at least, has the temerity to appear like he's reconsidering his assessment of her. "You trust LaCroix, though, don't you?"
She considers that a moment. Birdie has only really had the chance to talk to her a handful of times, but she comes with Ouija Roman's high regards. If there is anyone she trusts these nights, it's the Setite Primogen of Las Vegas that helped get her out of Denver.
"I do, yeah. I've seen Princes with less reason do… Terrible things to Anarchs. To anyone they don't like or don't trust. Torture, blood hunts… You might not trust LaCroix, but she's trying to help as best she can, even if you don't understand why or how she's doing it."
None of this seems to be what Nines wants to hear, but she appreciates that he keeps it to himself for the most part. A change in his expression – sour, cold – and grunt to acknowledge he's heard her rather than some animated, angry rebuttal.
They sit like that long enough that Birdie opts to enjoy the silence, the touch of high she's riding, the breeze in her hair. Much more enjoyable than still being stuck inside.
It lasts a few minutes before Nines breaks it with a careful, "Is there anyone you don't?"
And isn't that a question of the night? She considers the question, and the kindred she's met in Los Angeles so far. Her answer might be a bit much, all things considered, but everything she knows about Nines and Anarchs besides tell her he'd rather her honesty than mincing words for his ego, or anyone else's.
So she answers honestly, without reservation or hedging.
"I don't trust Jack." Birdie watches his expression, the way his eyes widen a little, eyebrows go up, and takes the lack of immediate argument as a sign to continue. "My brother died in Vietnam. Trip wire out on some patrol after he got drafted. He died alone and afraid and with wet socks. If I told that to Jack, he'd probably laugh, and I don't think you can argue different. He's the kind that likes seeing people hurt, that laughs at war movies and the sound of gunshots and riots. He'd throw a brick and not care who it hits so long as they bleed for it. Someone like that doesn't help anyone else but themself."
Setrakian trails off, fingers tapping against the pages of the journal where he’s keeping his notes. He and Birdie sit across from each other at Fet’s long table at his place, the closest to neutral ground possible. Mostly because of how uneasy she’s been in the basement of the pawn shop.
They’ve been going over similarities and differences, Kindred vs. Strigoi, Birdie feeling the strange pressure of advocating for Kindred from a pretty vulnerable position. Fet left the room for some fresh air while she was explaining a vague theory that maybe the Strigoi made by the Master were like Vozhd, which had probably been the worst track to do down. ‘Oh yeah, they might be like these giant monsters some of us make out of people pieces sometimes for fun with dark magic rituals, they infested sewers in Los Angeles for a while from what I’ve heard. And by the way, we’re totally cool, really different from the Master just give us a chance.’
He hadn’t taken that theory well, given the set of his jaw when he’d stepped out.
Birdie curls in her seat, one foot on the chair and knee pressed to her chest, arms around it, and waits for the professor to finish. When a few more moments pass without him picking that thought back up, she prods, “What were you wondering?”
The look he gives her for that is as piercing as ever, and she can’t tell at first if it’s because she interrupted his thinking or because he’s just always going to look at her like that, like she’s a curiosity.
“From what you have told me, secrecy is paramount. This... Masquerade you all adhere to for survival.” He taps the page again, letting that hang for a second before he continues. “Why would you take the risk of a relationship with Mr. Fet, with any living person? What did you hope to gain?”
It feels, suddenly, like sitting at the kitchen table with her Ma and Joshua after Daddy had died, with him asking her what she expects to get out of running around like she does other than a reputation. A laugh gets out of her without her really having any control over the noise, a sudden bark followed immediately by silence. She puts her chin on her knee, lets herself consider the answer.
“I just wanted something good.” Her voice is quiet at that admission, naked honesty. The silence after it feels heavy while she puts the words together in her head that she wants to say next. “I spent the last ten years somewhere I couldn’t... Exist. Not as myself, not really. Not with people, Kindred or Kine. Everyone turned each other in, I was followed around, I couldn’t even sing what I wanted to. So I came back to New York and got greedy.”
Birdie can’t place the look on Setrakian’s face now, whether that knit in his brows is pained or angry or picking apart her words for further inquiry, so she looks away, focuses instead on some random piece of industrial architecture nearby.
His response is a ragged hum and that ever-present scowl. “No need for belaboring excuses.”
There's a lot of ritual to be had with the Setites. Birdie isn't generally invited to the more serious inner workings when they happen, despite her favored friend status and nights spent at the Wadjet. Those are the ones that are brought in fully, converted or Sired into the clan or sect or however you'd like to slice it. Those are for the ones with Faith, capital F, in a way Birdie doesn't imagine herself capable of despite it all.
She does, however, have a standing invitation to all the others that are less ritual and more excuse to engage in vice and revelry. And, maybe, blood beer, depending on the brewing time of the current batches.
[ something something she gets invited to an orgy with ouija ]
The rooms are lush. Every surface is soft, the colors rich and vibrant from the rugs to the pillows that are strewn on every piece of furniture and all over the floor.
[ something something setup blah blah ]
When Ouija finds her again in the tangle of limbs and pillows and noise, she's on her back splayed over a chaise lounge, one person thrusting into her as she works someone else beside her with her fingers. Her braids are a half-done mess by this point, and who knows where her dress has ended up. All that's left on her is jewelry, with one earring missing. Probably underneath another group somewhere. They watch as writhes and smiles and moans into a kiss, two, three.
Then Birdie's voice is at their ear, keening, "Come here, I miss you," and what choice do they have?
They make their way over, tiptoeing gingerly over configurations in twos and fives, and she smiles up at them like she's the most delighted creature on earth just to see them.
"You came!" She reaches up with her free hand to cup the side of Ouija's face once they're in range, hums happily when they maneuver and lift her shoulders to situate themselves at her back, propping her up to see all that thrusting going on.
"Three times so far, actually." They kiss her cheek, then her mouth when she laughs, their hands at her breasts.
Birdie moans, her hand scrabbling behind her and into their hair when they roll one of her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She moans again when her hand is pulled away from her work and the woman at her side moves to straddle her stomach to face the thruster and she pulls Birdie's hand around her waist to reposition it to continue.
She watches as the others kiss, and strains to turn her head to Ouija as best she can in their current position. "Sit on my face," said with a desperate kind of whine to it. "I want to feel you on my mouth for four and five."
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prompts
oc prompts
an overheard conversation about your OC
V - So that’s your Bridget?
L - It is. I hope you’re here to tell me you like her and not chide me about my method of bringing her to us.
V - No, no, I’m not so romantic as that, but romantic enough to appreciate a whirlwind. And her voice is good. Kamaria told me about how you found her, was she really not headlining?
L - She was, a few times. It seems that was more a fluke than a plan. When she wasn’t on stage or working some other terribly menial job, she was at protests. Apparently she lost someone in that war.
V - You don’t know who?
L - Brother, I think. It’s not relevant now, is it?
V - Isn’t it? Wasn’t your family before of consequence to you when you joined us?
L - ...Not particularly, no.
V - That’s cold, Lorelai, but I won’t push. Just take my advice and don’t push her. We are a chorus, every voice is necessary to build our sound. If she despairs because of this, it would be a shame.
L - Thank you. I appreciate that you think I would be so crass as to ruin my own Childe so readily now that I have her.
V - You’re welcome. And have her come see me tomorrow night, I’d like to find her full range.
L - Of course, Viktorya. Your approval does mean so much to me.
V - It’s not you I’m going to be approving of tomorrow, but you do have it for now.
a letter written by your OC’s family member
Birdie,
I got your letters, even managed to read them before they shuffled us around again. Have to move all my stuff each time so I try to keep it light.
You probably wouldn’t be surprised at how many here don’t want to be here. I passed around a couple of those essays you sent, they’re really popular with some of the guys. Not so much the officers but I don’t think anything is popular with them except maybe Ed Sullivan and keeping the war machine going.
Anyway, if you got more of those to send, keep ‘em coming! And tell Marie and Mom to stop trying to send cookies. They never get here in time, and I love them both but they were never good at baking. Feels bad to have them put in all that effort for stale cookies the guys the next tent over tried to use as hockey pucks.
Good to hear about your album idea, though! Maybe when it’s done you can send me that. We just have to hope it doesn’t break getting across the globe, crushed by someone else’s hockey puck cookies.
Maybe just send socks. My feet never feel dry anymore.
Your favorite brother,
Sam
P.S. - I know you’re gonna ask me to tell you the truth about all this. You already know what it is, so I don’t see the point in putting it on paper. One of us has to stay positive, right? You just keep being the one worrying Mom by screaming at Generals and I’ll tell her how nice the plants are over here, and hope it’ll all be fine.
a report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor
Kamaria,
You will like who I have found in the city. Her voice is clear, both in tone and message. One of this new set of musicians playing at being older than they are -- they grow like weeds here, all on top of each other in this neighborhood, then spilling out across the rest of the country. Given time, I’m sure maybe even Viktoriya will see one she likes.
Her name is Bridget, but I have known that for some months now. She hadn’t noticed me until this, which is good for us both. Most nights I have seen her she is singing background for some other personality, consigned to forgettable harmonies. There is a record of her own she made that I am sending with this letter. It is tempting, as I am sure you know, to take her in only halfway to start, but I do not wish to waste any more time than I need to. You must understand, you have Childer of your own, how you know when you hear them that they’ll be yours.
Do not tell me again about the issues here. I know them well enough, and I won’t be spending any time in their courts. When I’m able, when we are able, we’ll leave the city. I refuse to be beholden to asking permission to save a voice from anyone other than my Sisters.
As always, you may advise me against this, and I will pretend to listen.
I’m sure we will both see you soon.
Your Sister,
Lorelai
a letter from your OC to their love interest
Ouija,
Has anyone told you that they miss you being in meetings? I’ve been in five since I got to [city??] of varying levels of seriousness, where I have to pay every bit of attention to what’s going on, and every time I find myself glancing to my left to see your opinion, wishing you were there to break some tension, anything.
You can frame this for your office, too, if you really want. If you print it I’ll sign it.
My hope is that at the end of all this frustration I’ll have some information that’s useful, for Lorelai and my sisters. Myself, too, if I’m being honest.
How are things in Vegas? How is Angel Hair? Tell me about what I’m missing if you think I’ll actually miss it and the rest can just be a fun mystery compared to the other mystery I have on my plate. And tell Montrose and Jocalo and everyone else I said hello.
When I get back to Vegas you can fill me in on more enjoyable things.
Miss you,
Birdie
letters between two of your OC’s companions about them
Mike,
Birdie isn’t on board. Not completely. She knows the guy, and she knows the situation is bad, but she still won’t commit. Can’t really blame her, but is there anything you could do to convince her? Get her in on things? No doubt she’d be helpful in getting others into it, galvanizing the troops or whatever.
Should be fine if she doesn’t come around, I know she won’t turn on us at least.
-Trent
--
T-
Just talked to her. No dice. She’s skittish about the ‘potential violence’ or some shit, doesn’t think there’s enough people here pissed off about it all to come around and do anything no matter what she sings, and if they do they might go too hard or he’ll come down too hard to keep it on lock. Tried to get that protest heart in her beating but nada.
Plus, Jessie has been talking her ominous shit. Maybe she told Birdie about it and that’s what’s got her doing this conscientious objector dance. Jessie is still in, but that talk wasn’t good.
We gotta be careful. Watch your back.
-M
someone describing a time your OC helped them
Birdie? Oh yeah, she’s fantastic. There was this one time, when she first came through in ‘95 and she managed to hold the whole place together for us.
It’s never that much of an issue for us, you know, keeping a business running one way or another. The things we do and don’t do, we can keep it afloat. We can keep the money moving in and out, but we can’t always make it look more legitimate.
Restaurants and laundromats had been our thing for the longest time. Plain, simple, we know how to make the money look right if anyone decided to start looking too close. We got good herds from ‘em for the most part, too. Regulars, nothing too unseemly.
Then Diego wanted expand, he wanted a club. A bar, and music and shows and all that shit. The bar part was fine, it was like a restaurant but with only a burger and a lot of booze. Fudging the numbers there was old hat, but tickets? Cover charges? Dealing with the goddamn acts?
That shithole was the worst reviewed place in town. Some punk kid for that local culture paper put us on the front page for being so bad. I’m talkin’ “Food’s fine but the rest of this place is a disaster” kinda thing, and I didn’t realize how much that mattered until it happened. Apparently the acts we were getting all sucked, didn’t match the atmosphere or something? No one buying tickets, and obvious enough that our numbers didn’t look passable no matter what we did.
For a while we tried to get better acts, see if that would fix it. The ones that actually showed up were nightmares, and the other ones knew the rep and wouldn’t set foot in the place.
One night, this kid comes in. She’s gorgeous, looks a little dippy, and first thing she did was find out who owned the joint. Talked to my guys on top, worked her way down to me and Diego, asked us if we know what the fuck we were doing. I think it was, “Do you know how to run that place at all? Because if you don’t, I can give you some pointers.”
All she wanted in return was a spot, the stage some nights, and access. Real clear she didn’t want anything permanent, didn’t want to run the place or anything like that. Called it a place to land, and she’d make it work.
Five months in we had goddamn crowds in the place. Making money and faking money all at the same time, even got a new front page from that goddamn punk at the entertainment paper.
someone describing a time your OC hurt them
She leaves, you know. That’s what she does. Doesn’t matter how good a thing she’s got wherever it is she’s at, she’s gonna go.
And it’s not like she’s gotta go on a trip and come back or anything that simple. Not like she’s just itching to move around and she’ll remember you after she’s gone, keep in touch. That’d be too damn kind.
We had a good thing, a real good thing. I though she loved me, and maybe she did. Brid stuck around for a whole three years, and every time she realized another big chunk of time had gone by she’d say something like, “Can’t believe I’m still here.” Was like a little dig every time, like what I was trying to build didn’t matter to her at all.
I was coming into a lot then. We came into things about the same time, but I never had it in me to wander around like her. Didn’t even think I needed someone with me like that, but she has this way of getting to you, getting in your head. Maybe it’s the music? I don’t know, but she got in so deep, like she knew everything about me that I’d never told anyone else before, not in nearly a hundred years.
But I was coming up, I was getting established. Putting down my roots as deep as I could so I could make changes, the kinds we’d talked about. And we had this good thing that I thought was good for her, too. I’d made plans with her in them, thought maybe she’d settled, maybe she wanted the power I could get for her with how things were shaking out. The things we could’ve done together...
One night, I come home from court and she’s gone. No talk about it before, no hints, no warning. Just this little note on the dresser, ‘S- Gotta be on my way. Be well. Love, Brid.’ Just like that, she was out the door and out of the city and just gone, no calls no letters. Like she was just renting space in my haven, in my heart, until she got bored of it.
your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries
I am not much of a healer, but I will take these notes so I may remember more clearly what has gone on here.
Currently it is fourteen days since the incident and Edward’s Broadstreet. The rest of those that survived are mostly healed from the worst of their injuries without the need of intervention and are returning to normal.
Bridget has not.
Whatever it is that her Sire did, which I still do not understand but am thankful I was not there to see up close before the end, there are places where it seems muscle was nearly ripped from the bone where others it was as if she’d been cut down by some large sword. She was incapacitated for two nights, not including the night of the incident, and her mobility is diminished as we wait for the greater damage to heal. This impacts her right side more than her left, which is logical given how she had to approach.
At this time I no longer fear she will succumb to the Final Death, though it concerns me how delayed her recovery has become. Whether it is a case of mental anguish over the events or some other issue, it is a weakness now that Edward is aware of and more than happy to use to his advantage. Had he not lost two of his Childe’s enforcers in the night, I am sure I would have seen him laugh. Once the incident resolved, both the injured and incapacitated were transported to his haven, and in the night that followed, what remained of Lorelai was secured and taken elsewhere.
I can see that this would have been a good time to bind her to him, and so has he. We did discuss this before she came back to herself. Whether it is hubris or idealism that has kept him from doing so, I do not care. Perhaps I underestimate them both and it is fear that she would drain him out of rage?
Regardless, it is good that he has not. Now she is healing and we are patient.
a description of your OC by someone who hates them
Insidious. And, it may be a different kind of insult among us, but I think ‘leech’ fits, too.
When she first came through Denver, I can admit that I was intrigued by her and her skills, once I was let in on what they were. They’re impressive, but her acumen in other areas is sorely lacking. When she came back through, Edward was charmed even as her little friends plotted. It was like watching a train crash in slow motion, back when they did that and filmed it for fun.
For all her free-love nonsense, her peace, her protest, she is a conniving snipe, and luckily too stupid to do any lasting harm.
your OC’s description of their game’s events
To be honest, when it first started I thought I’d be able to get out of it again.
The first time I came through Denver, it seemed nice? Edward seemed like he was running it well, like he had the best interests of everyone there in mind with everything he did. Coming back through, I had no idea that so much had changed. From what I figured out after, something happened after I’d been through the first time with someone using medicine to Embrace a bunch of Fledglings, followed by what nearly became all-out war trying to track them down and remove them from the picture because he was afraid it was a ploy to unseat him.
My coterie and I came back through and it was... Everyone was suspicious of everyone else, looking over shoulders and sending up flags. It was liking walking into a bar the night after an FBI raid, only it was like that all the time.
Trent and Michael and Jessie, the ones I’d come in with, got close to the Anarchs in the city. They weren’t happy with how things were going, but they followed Edward’s lead anyway to make sure the nights kept going smooth for the sake of everyone. They didn’t have enough pull, and not near enough power to go against Edward’s establishment.
And his establishment was mostly his own Childer. Duke was acting as Sherriff and had his own small team under him. Karen was in the band, but she was big on making sure Edward was happy. Both Leslies would inform, and his Primogen council was either in his band or working for him in some other industry in the city. It was enmeshed from top to bottom. The only one that wasn’t was Don Alonzo, who was acting as Seneschal, and went along with Edward saying that he, Duke, and Don Alonzo were running the city as a council instead of the usual Cam structure. And there was nothing to show Don Alonzo wasn’t happy with the arrangement. He had his own Childer working under him to perform his own duties.
It’s how it was, and everyone who wasn’t happy with it didn’t stay in Denver very long.
That included my coterie.
After about a week, Michael and Trent decided that they’d be the ones to unseat him and claim the city as Anarch territory. Full stop. I had a bad feeling about it, tried to keep out of what they were doing much as I could. Jessie did, too-- Malkavian, you know? She felt it more than I did but she went along with them because they were closer than I was.
One night they were there and the next they weren’t.
Edward has this house, outside the city. There’s a courtyard, got all sorts of windows and shades. That’s where anyone not happy with how things were run were going. No one was really leaving, they were set out there in the day, sometimes for weeks...
They were gone, and he kept me around. Figured out I was a Daughter after the first time I came through and decided that I could help him keep people happy.
For a while I played along like it was just another gig. I knew they were gone but I didn’t want to believe-- I was stupid. Or maybe it was him, I don’t know. But I stayed, and I played it like it was just another gig, told myself it was better than letting them all tear out each other’s throats, and figured I’d get gone after things settled. ‘Keeper of Elysium’ isn’t so bad a gig, right? Kinda thing sounds good on paper.
Except they never settled. And every time I talked about making my way out, the hold got tighter. Not just him, but his ghouls. They’d follow me around the city, he put in a security system around the house I’d been given to use to let him know when I left and when I got back. All that shit. It was like being on house arrest.
Eventually, I called out to my Sire. What I didn’t realize is that she wasn’t herself. One night she went... I don’t even know what to call it. Some of the other Daughters call it Banshee, but I’d never heard of it actually happening before. Just rumors. She attacked everyone, even me. And when she was stopped, Edward held her body hostage to keep me from leaving.
A few years later, I met Ouija. I’d had friends come through before thinking they could get me out, but it hadn’t worked well for anyone. This time, apparently, they timed it just right. Don Alonzo was ready to take things over himself and all we had to do was help him out and I was free to take Lorelai and go when it was done.
Now I’m here.
your OC overheard while drunk
“No, no! It’s not!” She’s laughing, sitting on a lounge chair with a small snake wrapped around her wrist and a glass of blood in hand. “It’s not-- It’s not how any of that happened, okay?”
A vague gesture with the glass.
“How it happened was, it fell? It did, it fell! I didn’t smash anything, I swear, it fell!”
Laughter, then a sudden and reverent gasp.
“Oh, Angel Hair smiled at me.”
transcript of an interview with your OC
DET. HOGAN - Your name?
B. LEWIS - Who knows.
HOGAN - I’d assume you’d know, miss.
LEWIS - I can probably tell you the name of every soldier that died in the last release, but no, I don’t think I can give you mine. Sorry.
HOGAN - Miss, we have your license.
LEWIS - Then why are you asking me? Do you not know how to read?
HOGAN - I’d advise you to take this very seriously, Miss Lewis.
LEWIS - Oh, you do know how to read! Congratulations!
HOGAN - Miss Lewis.
LEWIS - Don’t know her. Sounds like a dud.
HOGAN - Where were you on the night of April 15th?
LEWIS - Harold Carver, Jack Duff--
HOGAN - Miss Lewis you--
LEWIS - David Glover, David Gorrell--
HOGAN - You were witnessed by multiple people breaking the tail lights--
LEWIS - [ Shouting ] Jimmy Harper! William Kelly! Donald Long!
HOGAN - Damaging police property! City property!
LEWIS - [ Continued ] Ira Rice! Harold Vanbuskirk!
HOGAN - [ Shouting ] Now quiet down!
LEWIS - [ Cont. ] Raymond Austermann! Dorsie Register!
HOGAN - [ To OFFICER O’CONNOLLEY ] Can’t we shut her up?
LEWIS - You can goddamn try! [ Singing ] Oh I marched in the Battle of New Orleans--
HOGAN - Jesus Christ.
a letter to your OC from a companion they haven’t seen in years
Bridget,
You should know I saw you again. Passing through Denver. Didn’t see me in the crowd, of course. Always too focused on the music. It was good, that’s good. Besides, I don’t look the same as I did the last time you came through Sacramento.
Some of us age, after all.
Whatever your secret is, you can keep it. You look far too sad for all that youth you have the moment those lights go down, even if you have everyone in the place mooning after you, same as always.
Back when you first left, I was so mad at you. I thought it was me, something I’d done. Even owning a club of my own wasn’t cool enough for you and you’d gone on to find something better than I could do, but seeing you again like this maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you just need to run and the staying in one place is what you couldn’t handle and not me.
Call me sometime, my number never changed. Miracle of technology, right? All that, our letters, and cat videos all in one little brick we keep in our pocket. Use it, if not with me then someone else that can tell those smiles on stage aren’t what you want them to be.
-Jenny
assorted
a conversation - for ~terrifies
"So," she risks venturing the ask only after they've settled, sitting up on a roof a few blocks away but still firmly in Anarch territory – her feet dangling over the edge, his back against the wall, "what was it you wanted to talk about?"
For all she's seen of how Los Angeles works (or doesn't, in many cases), Nines was someone to know within its scope. Birdie herself was no stranger to Anarch tendencies in Camarilla territory, but something about the dynamics here felt… Off. Like someone had gone and rewound her strings mid-song, each note jangling too tight or too loose. Even the Fugue sounded different here, never quite managing to resolve on a harmonic chord.
For a moment he seems unsure, then says, mock serious, "I was gonna ask if you had a joint, but that might be stereotyping. Not trying to offend."
Quite the opposite of offense, Birdie laughs, bright and clear, the discordant tune of Los Angeles fading somewhat in the background. "Here, hold on," and there, after digging around in her jacket pockets, is a baggie with a few already-rolled joints lined up neatly inside. Nines laughs himself, but it's more a vaguely surprised chuckle than anything like what came out of Birdie, as she pulls one out and lights it.
Once it's lit she leans over to pass it to Nines with a smile. "There, enjoy some stereotypical puff-puff-pass."
He does, and she wonders if this might have been it. Nines just wanting a moment out to get a little high with a new face in town rather than the known elements. Then he leans forward to pass it back to her, looking far more serious than one puff ought to grant him. "You're Camarilla, right?"
Birdie takes back the joint with a cheery, "Nope," letting her lips pop that final 'p' as she fishes out her lighter again so she can take her own puff without the little doobie going out in the wind. She's careful not to show any offense at the assumption, even though she's pretty sure it comes from her reputation from Denver, and that's a sore spot that may never really heal.
She takes some time to reorient herself on the ledge, turning away from the drop and the ground below to stretch her legs out in front of her toward Nines, ankles crossed, and takes another long pull to hold in as she passes the joint back. It isn't until he's taking his own drag that she lets the smoke out again, slow and unhurried, not needing to breathe in again for desperate lack of oxygen, only so she can speak. "I've been around, and been in more Camarilla territories than I think I can remember enough to count, but I'm not official or anything."
"A true wanderer, yeah?"
He doesn't sound mean with it, but it's not a nice tone either. Somewhere in the middle, aggressively neutral, closed off and wary, but Birdie smiles anyway. Like a reflex, like a defense. "You could say that, yeah."
Nines offers the joint back but she waves it off, opting to lean back on her hands and let him take the next few rounds for himself. It's a vulnerable position to lounge in, and it's a little calculated to be so. Point herself out as not being a threat, as not being here to attack. Just talk, just get high and philosophize much as it suits them both.
It surprises her a little when he follows up with, "So you've seen what they're like," and she considers that maybe her reputation from Denver isn't sore in the same way she thought it might be.
"I've seen a lot of ways they're like, Nines. Good and bad, it's always different. Every Prince is different, every domain, every problem and every way to solve a problem. It's like," and here, maybe, the weed is getting to her just a smidge, "Like a house frame. There's the same kind of wood, the same supports, but not every house gets built the same, or has the same things going on inside it."
It looks, at least a little, like he's considering that. It isn't until he's passing her the joint again that he hits her with, "Are you here to do what you did in Denver, then?" It lands on her like a slap, and she doesn't have to calculate the absolute mouth-open, wide-eyed confusion it leaves her in. Her reputation must be supremely fucked up, but she supposses, once she's got her bearings again enough to take a drag, at least he isn't angry and assuming she's a Camarilla spy or something.
"No," and the word comes out with a small plume of smoke. Where before she was smiling on reflex, now she's gone morose, curled in just slightly as she leans again to pass. "I'm never doing anything like Denver again if I can help it. And if you knew what happened, you wouldn't have asked that."
There's a stretch of time, where she looks down at the ground below them and can feel Nines looking at her, that she might otherwise count in heartbeats or breaths. Since she has neither, she counts it in measures of the Fugue, three-quarter time now, still not quite right but as persistently present as always. Her focus is so split she nearly misses what he says:
"Sorry about that, I guess. People talk."
He's offering her the joint again, but she waves it off with more finality than before. Pretty sure he isn't actually sorry, either. "Keep it."
People talk. That's certainly accurate. And from everything she's heard about how Los Angeles turns around itself, Anarch and Camarilla and everything outbetween, it seems they never tell a full story.
"Well, you're right about people talking. Not all of them listen, but they talk plenty. Always have. And for the record, Denver is still Camarilla. Just… Lasombra flavored, now, instead of McCarthyist Wannabe."
She forces herself back into the performance of ease, pulling her attention to Nines and the conversation at hand, her hands back behind her on the ledge to hold herself up. "What do you think the Camarilla is for, anyway?"
Birdie watches his face go from normally expressive to closed off, hard. Just shy of angry, like he's had this conversation before and didn't like it much at all.
"Controlling other Kindred, and keeping power to themselves."
Birdie is very conscious, then, of not laughing at that. Instead she nods, amicable to begin her disagreement.
"Remember when they started saying that about unions? I know you're old enough to know."
And she doesn't laugh, but she does take some satisfaction in watching his confusion cloud his eyes for a moment, that non-verbal what the fuck in the corners that lets her know she's touched on something he never considered.
"Are you saying the Camarilla is a union?"
Birdie shrugs as best she can in her position, tilts her head to one side as she watches him. "When it's working like it oughta, yeah. We all pay our dues and let the reps duke it out with the bosses. They've got power, but it's power they gotta use for something, right? Like keeping up the Masquerade? In all the places I've been, there can be corruption for sure. But when there's a Prince, there's someone that's got the job to solve the problems for the rest of us. It can break if the Prince fucks up, but it can break a lot faster, and a lot worse, if we all stop paying our dues and sending out our reps."
The words hang there in the air between them long enough that Birdie wonders if maybe he's a little too high to get this deep into things, but he takes another drag and says, "Yeah, they said you were a hippie. Sure as shit sound like one," before flicking the remnants off the edge of the roof toward the ground below them.
His tone, at least, isn't completely accusatory. Instead, she's got the distinct feeling she's being dismissed.
"What, you have a better idea of how the Camarilla works with your wealth of experience in their courts?"
That catches him up. Not just the words, the subtle jab at how he hasn't left the city to see how things work elsewhere, but her own tone – light, easy. No fight, just making a point.
"Maybe I'm just not as trusting as you are." And that stings, enough that Birdie lets it show with a wince, looks away at the light-polluted sky above them.
"I might be a hippie, but I was the protesting kind. Anti-war, anti-government. FBI listening in at the bar because I sang songs that made communism look too appealing kinda hippie."
Nines, at least, has the temerity to appear like he's reconsidering his assessment of her. "You trust LaCroix, though, don't you?"
She considers that a moment. Birdie has only really had the chance to talk to her a handful of times, but she comes with Ouija Roman's high regards. If there is anyone she trusts these nights, it's the Setite Primogen of Las Vegas that helped get her out of Denver.
"I do, yeah. I've seen Princes with less reason do… Terrible things to Anarchs. To anyone they don't like or don't trust. Torture, blood hunts… You might not trust LaCroix, but she's trying to help as best she can, even if you don't understand why or how she's doing it."
None of this seems to be what Nines wants to hear, but she appreciates that he keeps it to himself for the most part. A change in his expression – sour, cold – and grunt to acknowledge he's heard her rather than some animated, angry rebuttal.
They sit like that long enough that Birdie opts to enjoy the silence, the touch of high she's riding, the breeze in her hair. Much more enjoyable than still being stuck inside.
It lasts a few minutes before Nines breaks it with a careful, "Is there anyone you don't?"
And isn't that a question of the night? She considers the question, and the kindred she's met in Los Angeles so far. Her answer might be a bit much, all things considered, but everything she knows about Nines and Anarchs besides tell her he'd rather her honesty than mincing words for his ego, or anyone else's.
So she answers honestly, without reservation or hedging.
"I don't trust Jack." Birdie watches his expression, the way his eyes widen a little, eyebrows go up, and takes the lack of immediate argument as a sign to continue. "My brother died in Vietnam. Trip wire out on some patrol after he got drafted. He died alone and afraid and with wet socks. If I told that to Jack, he'd probably laugh, and I don't think you can argue different. He's the kind that likes seeing people hurt, that laughs at war movies and the sound of gunshots and riots. He'd throw a brick and not care who it hits so long as they bleed for it. Someone like that doesn't help anyone else but themself."
thanksgiving wip - for ~exterminatory
Setrakian trails off, fingers tapping against the pages of the journal where he’s keeping his notes. He and Birdie sit across from each other at Fet’s long table at his place, the closest to neutral ground possible. Mostly because of how uneasy she’s been in the basement of the pawn shop.
They’ve been going over similarities and differences, Kindred vs. Strigoi, Birdie feeling the strange pressure of advocating for Kindred from a pretty vulnerable position. Fet left the room for some fresh air while she was explaining a vague theory that maybe the Strigoi made by the Master were like Vozhd, which had probably been the worst track to do down. ‘Oh yeah, they might be like these giant monsters some of us make out of people pieces sometimes for fun with dark magic rituals, they infested sewers in Los Angeles for a while from what I’ve heard. And by the way, we’re totally cool, really different from the Master just give us a chance.’
He hadn’t taken that theory well, given the set of his jaw when he’d stepped out.
Birdie curls in her seat, one foot on the chair and knee pressed to her chest, arms around it, and waits for the professor to finish. When a few more moments pass without him picking that thought back up, she prods, “What were you wondering?”
The look he gives her for that is as piercing as ever, and she can’t tell at first if it’s because she interrupted his thinking or because he’s just always going to look at her like that, like she’s a curiosity.
“From what you have told me, secrecy is paramount. This... Masquerade you all adhere to for survival.” He taps the page again, letting that hang for a second before he continues. “Why would you take the risk of a relationship with Mr. Fet, with any living person? What did you hope to gain?”
It feels, suddenly, like sitting at the kitchen table with her Ma and Joshua after Daddy had died, with him asking her what she expects to get out of running around like she does other than a reputation. A laugh gets out of her without her really having any control over the noise, a sudden bark followed immediately by silence. She puts her chin on her knee, lets herself consider the answer.
“I just wanted something good.” Her voice is quiet at that admission, naked honesty. The silence after it feels heavy while she puts the words together in her head that she wants to say next. “I spent the last ten years somewhere I couldn’t... Exist. Not as myself, not really. Not with people, Kindred or Kine. Everyone turned each other in, I was followed around, I couldn’t even sing what I wanted to. So I came back to New York and got greedy.”
Birdie can’t place the look on Setrakian’s face now, whether that knit in his brows is pained or angry or picking apart her words for further inquiry, so she looks away, focuses instead on some random piece of industrial architecture nearby.
His response is a ragged hum and that ever-present scowl. “No need for belaboring excuses.”
wip - orgy - for ~terrifies
She does, however, have a standing invitation to all the others that are less ritual and more excuse to engage in vice and revelry. And, maybe, blood beer, depending on the brewing time of the current batches.
[ something something she gets invited to an orgy with ouija ]
The rooms are lush. Every surface is soft, the colors rich and vibrant from the rugs to the pillows that are strewn on every piece of furniture and all over the floor.
[ something something setup blah blah ]
When Ouija finds her again in the tangle of limbs and pillows and noise, she's on her back splayed over a chaise lounge, one person thrusting into her as she works someone else beside her with her fingers. Her braids are a half-done mess by this point, and who knows where her dress has ended up. All that's left on her is jewelry, with one earring missing. Probably underneath another group somewhere. They watch as writhes and smiles and moans into a kiss, two, three.
Then Birdie's voice is at their ear, keening, "Come here, I miss you," and what choice do they have?
They make their way over, tiptoeing gingerly over configurations in twos and fives, and she smiles up at them like she's the most delighted creature on earth just to see them.
"You came!" She reaches up with her free hand to cup the side of Ouija's face once they're in range, hums happily when they maneuver and lift her shoulders to situate themselves at her back, propping her up to see all that thrusting going on.
"Three times so far, actually." They kiss her cheek, then her mouth when she laughs, their hands at her breasts.
Birdie moans, her hand scrabbling behind her and into their hair when they roll one of her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She moans again when her hand is pulled away from her work and the woman at her side moves to straddle her stomach to face the thruster and she pulls Birdie's hand around her waist to reposition it to continue.
She watches as the others kiss, and strains to turn her head to Ouija as best she can in their current position. "Sit on my face," said with a desperate kind of whine to it. "I want to feel you on my mouth for four and five."