Keep Calm and Carry On

[Roland Salisbury]

July 30th 2012, 10:39pm - Kings Cross, London

Saul Leavis stood on the balcony overlooking the main hall of the Camden Centre. His fingers, knotted and gnarled like the trunks of old birch trees, were curled around the railing that stood between him and a twenty-five foot drop to the hall below.

The hall was large enough to accommodate the gathering of hundreds of Kindred and so the pitiful show of attendance looked all the more embarrassing. There were fifty Kindred at most, clustered here and there on the polished wood floor in knots of allegiance. There were no dark corners to skulk in but the balcony did afford a measure of privacy that apparently only the Primogen had earned – though, Saul noted, not all of them had deigned to attend the Prince's monthly gathering.

"This Kindred is accused of breaking the Third Tradition," the Prince said, stood at the centre of the stage. The murmur of conversation was quiet enough that his voice carried, without any need to shout. "As we all know, the punishment for this is Final Death for the accused and their unsanctioned childer."

There was no ceremony or pomp in the Prince as he gestured to his right, where four figures in shackles knelt on strip of clear plastic sheeting. Roland Salisbury didn't have an ounce of pomp in his body, Saul knew. It was as if he was reading a shipping forecast, not announcing the certain death of four undead beings. The imposing figure of Dylan, Scourge of London stood behind the accused: a narrow-bodied, alabaster-skinned Toreador. Disgustingly beautiful. The three younger Kindred shook visibly, their fear no doubt amplified by the shadow of the Scourge looming over them. A cruel, maggot of a smile wriggled onto Saul's lips.

"Please! You don't have to do this! I'm – I'm sorry!" one of them sobbed, but Roland ignored the cry. Instead, he focused on a single figure in his audience. Saul did not strain to see who it was; he could guess, given the look of the accused and the notable absence from the Primogen gathered on the balcony. Amelia Shuttleworth, the representative of Clan Toreador in London. Also abhorrent on the eyes, but with a personality more palatable than her predecessor at least.

"Amelia, you speak on behalf of the Toreador in this city. Was the creation of these Kindred done with your approval?"

"No, the-” Amelia began but another voice cut through her words.

“Fuck this farce! There are Kindred being murdered in our city! We need more bodies on the streets!”

Now, Saul did lean forward, hunching over the balcony railing. His eyes, like two dark chips of coal, narrowed at the knot of Brujah now writhing like a rat-king. Other coteries were murmuring louder now. Saul did not need to hear their voices to know what they were speaking about. The whispers of the community were loudest in the Nosferatu warrens: hunters, assassinating Kindred, in London. On the stage, the Scourge managed the impossible and frowned even deeper than he had been before. Saul's eyes slid slowly to his right. Zahid Salarzai, the Brujah Primogen, also stood with his hands braced on the railing. His young face was split with a bleached white grin.

“Bodies is exactly what they'd become if we let these fledglings loose,” grunted Dylan.

Roland held up a hand. He was a picture of control. His blood ran Ventrue blue, through and through. “I will hear concerns from the community after the sentencing is complete.” As he spoke, Saul felt the faint tickle of the Prince's blood-power rippling into the hall, his Presence compelling his subjects to respect the order of the day.

“The Traditions are the laws that maintain the stability and security of our society. Break the laws and.. you will be punished accordingly."

Turning his head a fraction, Roland nodded towards his Scourge. Dylan took a step forward and within the blink of an eye, the huge Gangrel had lopped the accused's head of. The goggle-eyed head had barely hit the plastic sheeting on the stage when Dylan took a step to the side, preparing to swing his blade once more.

While his Scourge made quick work of the sentence, Roland crossed his arms behind his back and turned the room as a whole. Blood pooled on the plastic sheeting behind him.

“Now, to any other business...”

[Gabriel Rodermark]

10:45pm - Floor 72, The Shard

I stared clock tower of St Pancras, remembering a time before the grand old station had existed. Somewhere within spitting distance of what was now a landmark of the city, the Prince of London was holding court in a building better suited to amateur dramatics than a gathering of Kindred. I had not been invited, for reasons that I am sure are abundantly obvious. Instead, I was to spend the evening in the monolith of clan Ventrue: the Shard.

I was under no illusion as to the reason why Roland had sent me there. Comfortable as it was and as striking as the view might be, I was as free to leave as I had been in the Tower of London. There was no heavy doors barring my way. Only Kindred in immaculately cut suits who appeared seemingly out of thin-air whenever I so much as glanced towards the lifts. So I stood on the partially covered viewing platform, the rain slowly soaking into my clothing as I looked out at what had once been my city.

There were eight million people in London. Only a handful of them knew that I had saved their home – my home. That I had saved the entire nation. Not single-handedly, of course – I am not so arrogant as to believe that – but I had stood between Britain and the Baa'li like a shield. I had repelled the fiends and in doing so... I had become a fiend myself.

“You don't need to watch me all night, Gideon,” I said, knowing without looking around that I was not alone on the viewing deck. “I won't... jump to my death.”

“Mores the pity,” said Gideon. The Ventrue had been standing about ten foot behind me the whole time. Watching in silence. That was the skill and purpose of his clan, after all. Watching, waiting, silently nudging this and that until everything slipped into place just so.

“The fall wouldn't kill you,” he went on. “Cripple you for a while, perhaps. Mess your face up, certainly. Actually, come to think of it - jump if you like. Cleaning you up off the pavement would give me a reason to get out of here for a while.”

[Jack Bradley]

10:46pm - Soho, London

If the pint hadn't been piss-warm when they'd poured it, it was now. In a corner of the Duke of Argyll, Jack Bradley huddled over the pint glass, like it was a bin on fire in a post-apocalyptic wasteland version London. It was his first Saturday night off in three weeks and this was it. This was what it had come to. A right shower of shit. Alone, perched on a tiny stool, squeezed into the corner by a table full of tourists eating two torn-open packets of crisps like a beggars buffet. Dipping his head lower, he sipped a slurp of the pint of Sam Smith's and tried not to think about the absurdity of the fucking ghost in his flat or... - he swallowed - or Sean. Nausea swirled in his stomach then surged up his throat and Jack had to clap a hand to his mouth to stop from heaving right into the pint. He pushed the drink aside, the glass rattling against the tabletop and almost wobbling over, as he pushed himself to his feet. Shouldering through the crowd, he stumbled his way out into the damp tarmac of Brewer Street.

[Vahid Hesam]

10:52pm - Soho, London

"Khos khol," Vahid swore, as an intoxicated kine stumbled into his path and vomited in the middle of the road. Idiot.

A disgusting beige mess splattered onto the tarmac as the kine clutched his stomach, heaving. Hissing through his teeth, Hesam gave the drunk a wide-berth, stepping to the side without a single fleck of bile staining his khaki trousers or pristine white trainers. He turned a corner onto Great Windmill Street where the narrow pavements were crowded with people, tumbling in and out of restaurants and bars, a melange of cultures and cuisines filling the air with dozens of smell. Turning the collar of his denim jacket up against the light rain,

When the street opened up onto an intersection with Ham Yard and Archer Street, Vahid paused to look up at the white neon words in the sky, the drizzling rain making each letter a little fuzzy around the edges: THE WINDMILL INTERNATIONAL CLUB.