(Side Story: Exposed!) Aliens

[Whit]

The text was sent, giving Whitaker's childe the location of the impromptu meeting. Unlike many vampires who seemed to sire for the sake of sentimentality, Whit almost entirely made his choices based on the golden rule of the bottom line. He was interested in cultivating the power, influence, and abilities of an individual in as much as they reciprocated in a way that was meaningful to the vampire. It was essentially the opposite of the way in which Whit himself had become the undead, a selfless gesture meant to save his life after a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Of course, it remained to be seen if Peter could stomach the monster he had created. Most recent interactions led Mr. Concord to believe Peter was disgusted with him. If not outright terrified. Such was the march of progress.

There were many who might have considered Whitaker's siring criteria self-centered, and he wouldn't have disagreed. He held no delusions about his place in the world, or what he expected of people. In fact, he believed most humans lied to themselves about every-day things. Friends were little more than people who worked towards mutually beneficial goals. Even if the aim was relaxation and comfort, friends still only made friends because they expected to get something out of it. Diamonds were comparatively and deceptively common compared to other gems, and yet priced highly because someone had come up with a marketing strategy that said diamonds equated to eternal love. Even with storehouse after storehouse filled with the uncut rocks. Artificial supply limitation and a near mining monopoly by the DeBeers. Embalming itself was not only heinously disrespectful and defacing to the dead, but entirely unnecessary. People lied to themselves all the time, because they let cultural norms and emotion control their activities. Carefully plucked strings by people with the money and power to influence the desires of entire generations of people.

Whitaker saw through the piss water passed off as an anti-aging tonic.

The question of Fynn was most immediately pressing, so Whitaker was more than happy to relinquish a few details. "He's Irish born, quick of wit, and possesses several skills I deem valuable. You see, my background is rather bland. Aside from some time in an orphanage, my past is unremarkable. I grew up in a suburban home with polite and nice adoptive parents. My own set of skills lean entirely towards the development of technology and entrepreneurship. My associate is more capable of taking a hands on approach when necessary." Which was to say the Irishman was one Whit trusted with the really dirty work, the things he personally couldn't get close to for fear of them endangering his standing in certain social or political circles. Or things that couldn't be easily covered up with bribery. "He also possesses the quality which I find most valuable; that being loyalty." The last word was drawn out, not over-pronounced but clearly emphasized despite the flat tone.

It seemed the plan was coming together nicely. All of the men basically agreed that information needed to be gathered about what had sparked the end of secrecy, as well as potential long-term solutions. The results of those inquiries would shape future plans. However, all of that was beneath the surface, the hidden hand underneath the puppet. Their visible path forward was a media campaign. And Whitaker knew from experience that the pervasive nature of a good ad scheme could mold anyone but the staunchest critic. And those critics were most often seen as over-cynical outliers with little grasp on reality. Tell someone that 'daily vitamins' were beneficial, that they could stop cancer, get a celebrity doctor or scientist to endorse it, and everyone believed that. Even without medical studies to back it up. Even without testing or science to back it up. If enough people believed something, they repeated it to their friends. They repeated it to their children. They kept saying it over and over again until everyone thought it was true, and the line between fiction and reality was permanently snapped. That was the job of a good marketing group.

"I agree. Should we find the Lionelli are responsible for the end of secrecy, they should be held accountable with swift, firm action. Nobody should have the right to endanger all of us with serial neglect." He commented. Though the above mentioned punishment was essentially a given. People did what they could get away with, and the best way to deter them from continuing to be a nuisance was to make it clear there were consequences to pesky antics. "Another good point. I find it hard to believe the government erected the walls around the Quarantine Zone and have not, at the very least, been observing us for years. That place is a locus of activity, and the agents involved would need to be blind not to at least suspect something. Taking it a step further; it would be nice to know if there is some alliance our general population is unaware of. Most importantly, what that alliance garners either side."

Of course he had no actual idea for how to find out more information on that front. It was also ultimately of secondary importance to everything else they wanted to know. Vampires often acted as autonomous entities. They had no central government. They didn't police themselves. They were spread out, with little cohesion to pull them together as a single community. There was a paranoid inkling at the back of Whit's mind that the state of things was somewhat intentional. Perhaps there were powers at work. Perhaps the Hebigumo Foundation had a hand in it somehow. Of course, his thoughts were entirely conjecture, with no real evidence to offer substance. So he kept the idea locked away in his mind.

It was silently acknowledged that Levi probably had some connection to the underworld, based on his comments pertaining to the relocation of resources, information and people. Not a huge surprise to Whit. Who in Harper Rock didn't have ties to the criminal element? Of course, what the vampire didn't know was just how far reaching that influence went.

"I'm happy to spearhead the media side of things, though I doubt I'm going to step in front of the camera. If Levi has the charisma of a dead fish, then I got its face." Thus was the reality of a Necromancer. There was no way to hide the fact that he looked dead. However, finding an attractive young allurist and a human to fabricate some sort of public romance wouldn't be too hard. In fact, it was done all the time. Give them a YouTube channel, set them up on reality television. Let their celebrity status grow until they were all anyone talked about. Until the news covered everything about their fake relationship over objectively more important stories. Suppression of negative press was going to be the hard part and would require the appropriate greasing of certain palms, as well as diligent programming for certain key words, hacking of certain files, and an extremely competent legal team to utterly decimate anyone who dared to breathe negatively about the undead.

"That being said, I am extremely interested in what the Hebigumo Foundation knows. My colleague can assist in anything that requires a hands on approach. I would even be happy to volunteer my own services in getting into any computers or systems necessary to acquire the information." A reference to Whitaker's little publicized hacking abilities. Little publicized because he didn't get caught, and because he always ended up getting what he wanted.

"As for a drink, I'll politely decline. I can't seem to hold my booze these days."

[Levi DAmico]

The Italian decided to fetch the drinks as requested, which resulted in him fetching two tumblers of the oldest whiskey they had in the building and shooting a scowl toward Grant who’d suggested that while Levi was playing host, he should go get the phone number of one of the bints that worked here. You’ll get what you’re ******* given, were the words that came to mind, followed quickly by a smirk, a shake of his head, and the movement of feet toward the bar. If he was in more familiar company those words would have been spoken, but as it was, he was playing nice. These two men knew the Italian for strictly business purposes, even when Grant and Levi had met in the Siren’s sandbox up in Swansdale. Despite the Vampiro’s vicious territorial instincts, he’d resisted the urge to cut the Englishman’s head from his shoulders and even allowed him to join the make-shift alliance he had squared with Prudence. Levi supposed it was because he was pretty ******* full of himself in all honesty that such things had progressed the way they had. Allowing the Englishman to become part of his ranks was a decision made out of arrogance; he trusted that Grant wouldn’t be able to double-cross him because he had gotten to the point where there was little that could oppose him in Harper Rock. Still, there was also this air around Grant that suggested he was smart enough to realise that making alliances with people like Levi was far smarter than making enemies with them.

The Englishman had exhibited this particular knowledge base that was familiar to the Italian, not merely because Grant reminded Levi of himself in a business sense as well as by their shadowy affiliation, but also because Grant reminded him a little bit of Shiro. The Japanese man in this equation was also regularly making reference to movies, pop culture, music, literature, and even video games that Levi had a very basic understanding of. It made them personable in Levi’s opinion; soft around the edges and approachable in a way that Levi just couldn’t be. His weaknesses were their strengths and their strengths were his strengths too – if he made the right pacts. So he trusted Grant to offer more than he risked, and where Grant would benefit would be in having the type of associate on his books that didn’t cower before a challenge and wasn’t the least bit concerned about getting blood on his hands. Perhaps that narrowed down Levi’s aid to being considered little more than a bit of hired-muscle and a cash-cow, but nobody smart had ever turned down that kind of an advantage. As it happened, Levi had squared an alliance with the temperamental red-head for that very same reason the night he had met Grant – well, at least the hired-muscle bit. In their world of back-stabbers and thieves, there was no shortage to the good one could obtain from having strong arms, sharp shooters, and people with high cash-flow allowances on your team.

So where did that leave the Necromancer? Levi didn’t necessarily know what Whitaker could provide in terms of brute force or bullets or cash, but, the Italian did know that he offered intelligence and critical thinking in spades. So while Grant could provide a personable approach, Whitaker could offer that no-nonsense perspective that Levi also found invaluable – not forgetting a little bit of technological prowess that Levi severely lacked. The Mafioso could often be accused of losing his temper, thinking with his heart instead of his head – a muscle that just so happened to pump nitro-glycerine around his body as well as blood. In its purest form, nitro-glycerine is a contact explosive, which meant that any physical shock could cause it to explode. Not only that, but the chemical degrades over time to become even more unstable. This makes nitro-glycerine highly dangerous to transport or use and also makes it one of the world's most powerful explosive agents. All this meant that Levi could pretty much guarantee to get angry and blow up at any given infraction, and that it would only get worse with age. So he needed more level-headed personalities in his midst, the type of people that could keep him cool and quell his draconic rage. The jury was still out on their next associate for the evening, but Levi held onto a silent hope that he was right to trust the Necromancer. Plus, if their new associate could help with the more ‘hands-on’ tasks, then Levi certainly wouldn’t mind the extra pair of hands.

Infiltrating an organisation as sophisticated and as fortified as the Hebigumo Foundation, and then doing the same to the equally formidable Lionelli Crime Family, would be colossal tasks individually. Infiltrating both would therefore be twice the headache – provided that the two groups weren’t collaborating at any rate and passing warnings to and fro. Levi envisioned many long nights finished with stiff drinks once they’d started these campaigns. Their collective would clearly need more than a handful of upstarts to get anywhere near to success. His thoughts turned to the rest of The Midnight Court at that point and if there were any advanced individuals within its collective that might be valuable assets and helpful volunteers, but it wasn’t really his right to make that call. Maybe he would have a quiet word with Whitaker and discuss whether this was something that the faction would want to get a hand in, or, if this was something that they could quietly aid and support. Businesses were always subdividing and creating subsidiaries for plans and strategies that weren’t always aligned with their original corporate image after all, and Levi was always happy to be able to lead the charge on any dark and seedy venture. In other words, if Whitaker wanted to put the responsibilities in Levi’s hands for a particularly unsavoury task, the Italian would accept it happily. Blood and shadows were his elements.

That just left them with this need for new recruits, more members to fill the dour halls of their fast-growing empire. Levi wasn’t much of a people-person, not in the general sense, but he knew how to motivate a team, grow a company, as well as to obtain and develop new recruits. Vampiri were not unlike the people Levi was used to snatching up off the floors and outfitting them for a higher purpose, but, they were more powerful than your average thug. They often had their own ideas of what they wanted out of life and had developed themselves for their individual purposes. Thus, they were that much more difficult to manipulate, charm, intimidate, and convince. Plus, they weren’t always so desperate as to need a family. The only thing Vampiri needed in any kind of severity was to quench their hunger and live peacefully amongst their prey. Levi knew of a way to circumvent a Vampiro’s hunger and if their collective was successful, they could provide a way for their kind to obtain true immortality. Thus, their collective offered everything one could want, and the only thing they had to pay in return was their immediate allegiance and support. Seemed simple enough save for the fact that this generation of folk were inherently distrustful and disloyal…

The Italian returned to his seat, handing one glass of whiskey to Grant and retaining the other. There was a thoughtful look on his face, one that suggested that while he’d been at the bar for five minutes that he had had a lot to think about. And of course he’d definitely had plenty to consider. Umber eyes looked to his companions equally, watching Whitaker’s composure for one full minute before he considered the Englishman. He started to wonder then, as the ice cubes crackled in the caramel liquor like faraway embers, what Grant would be able to provide in terms of contacts as well. Levi had pulled in Whitaker and Whitaker had pulled in some other fellow that was currently on his way, and what had Grant done? Technically he’d pulled in Levi, but that had been round one. They were completing a cycle now, had come full circle, and the Italian wanted to know if Grant was going to skip his turn or provide any further reinforcements. Levi was already thinking about the types of people he could pull together next, people outside of The Midnight Court even, and that was why nobody ever wanted to play a board game with him. He’d been brought up on chess, so he naturally plotted out a move sequence to success, including variables depending upon what kind of moves his opposition would make. So if this was technically round two, then Levi was already thinking about round ten plus.

“Didn’t get the blonde’s number,” Levi told Grant quite flatly, though the slight glimmer in his dark eyes suggested he was being a bit sly here. “Figured you could do better than that given your relative company. Speaking of which,” he added being oh-so-subtle, “do you got anyone you might wanna bring into the fold on this? The way I figure, we’re going to need a lot of able bodies, people open to the idea of going home with a few missing limbs, and some strong minds that can help Whitaker crack into any security systems and the like that we might encounter.”

Was he missing anything? Probably. He knew of ritualists, a kind of magical discipline that offered various benefits, but that was about the breadth of his knowledge on the subject. Lorelai had practiced the arts, but, she never really talked to Levi about it and he wasn’t one to ask questions of people on a personal basis unless they offered up the subject first. It just never really occurred to him that it was the type of conversation subject they’d both enjoy either. The blonde seemed to want to avoid talking about all things supernatural as it was and Levi was happy to oblige. Besides, Lorelai tended to prefer to talk about other subjects when they had been together and perhaps Levi had been a little too self-absorbed and short-sighted around the blonde to veer onto the subject of rituals. That turned out to be a problem in hindsight, resulting in him knowing next to nothing about the discipline and whether they needed a ritualist on their team. He understood what hackers brought – he had one on his books currently – but the whole magic thing was a completely different kettle of fish. Maybe he could defer to somebody else on that topic – probably another discussion he would have to have with the Necromancer unless Grant brought it up.

[Stonehouse]

“Paranoid? I’m not paranoid. All my fears are real.”
~ Bill Whitney - Society ~

Stonehouse accepted the glass tumbler from Levi, clunking the sturdy rim of the container against the rigid body of the identical glass held by his Italian companion. The clinking noise sounded like the soothing voice of a long lost friend.

“Many thanks,” said Stonehouse, “cheers, grazie mille, etc, etc.”

He raised the tumbler as he received the drink, like it were some kind of sporting trophy or award handed out at a prestigious ceremony. The glass was hardly made of the finest lead crystal, but it served its purpose perfectly well. Stonehouse swirled the rich amber liquid round and round in the cylindrical container, watching the lighting from the club illuminate the contents as if it were molten gold. For a moment or two, it looked as though Stonehouse was holding a miniature disco ball in his hand, the refracted beams of light dancing to the circular rhythm of his wrist. Slowly, the Englishman brought the tumbler close to his nose, inhaling the sharp alcoholic fumes of the drink into his receptive nostrils.

“Oh, that does smell rather nice,” said Stonehouse. “Clearly, this is a wondrous establishment. We should come here more often, don’t you think?”

Smiling, firstly to Levi, probably out of politeness as it was the Italian who had purchased the liquor, and then across to Whitaker, Stonehouse drew the glass towards his lips, gently, as if the Englishman were reeling in a gargantuan fish. Closing his eyes to enhance the experience, making it almost seem religious in nature, the businessman took a small sip of whisky from the tumbler, as if he were drinking from the Holy Grail at the Last Supper. The liquor trickled across Stonehouses’s velvety tongue, tingling his taste buds, teasing him to take more into his mouth. Each tiny receptor begged for more, for a huge gulp to send them into overdrive, to fill his yearning throat with the sensual, burning liquid. But he didn’t. He defied the will of his hungry mouth, and rather than allowing the alcoholic nectar to flow into his stomach, he let it dribble back into his glass. Dabbing his damp lips with a handkerchief, Stonehouse completed his bizarre ritual, and looked across to his two colleagues.

“It doesn’t matter if this is the finest single malt that Scotland has to offer,” he said almost apologetically, “or some cheap American bourbon crap from a rundown Kentucky farmyard, I can’t drink the bloody stuff without throwing my guts up.”

Stonehouse paused, eyeing up the glistening contents of the glass once more as he sloshed it around in a back and forth motion, scaled-down tidal waves of burnt orange liquid crashing against the sides of the container.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if I suffered from a little bit of acid reflux after that tiny taste,” added Stonehouse. “The joys of our physiological predicament, I guess, well, mine at least. It did taste good, though. Cheers again!”

The vampiric bon viveur raised his glass for a second time, offering an ironic toast to the fact that he could no longer ingest “real” food or drink without suffering from bouts of vomiting. Effectively, normal human nourishment was off limits for Stonehouse, and although he viewed the situation as incredibly frustrating, he was able to deal with it, and work around the problem. The vampire knew the consequences of eating and drinking, he was acutely aware of the negative effects of surrendering to his desires to eat a rare fillet steak washed down with a bottle of vastly over-priced Barolo. In essence, Stonehouse knew that regular food and drink were his enemies. The incredibly annoying point about the scenario in which the three vampires currently found themselves, was that they were still unclear as to whom the “enemy” really was.

A lack of knowledge, of clarity, of a clear understanding of a situation, may lead to a person fabricating his own often wildly incorrect interpretation of the subject. If someone has only half of the puzzle pieces from a jigsaw, they’ll still try to mentally fill in the gaps, despite not having the full picture. There had been a lot of speculation around the table about the potential factions who were to blame for the recent events, some culprits seemingly having the finger of guilt pointed firmly in their direction due to circumstantial or sketchy evidence, but as yet, no concrete proof. There was a risk of paranoia masking the truth, putting the blinkers over the eyes of the three amigos.

It would be easy to turn a blind eye on the situation, to say that everything would be fine, that vampires and humans would live happily ever after once Harper Rock was renamed Neverland or Disneyworld. But that would be a dangerous thing to do. Hiding from the problem would not simply make it disappear.

Joseph Heller, the author of the excellent novel, Catch-22, is famed for saying that “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.” The phrase rang true in Stonehouse’s mind. Vampires had every right to be paranoid, every right to be looking over their shoulders, wondering if someone was lurking in the shadows, ready to take a shot at them. Stonehouse was adamant that he’d rather be labelled paranoid, and avoid a bullet in the back of his head, than be blasé about the situation and end up face down in a gutter. Phobias were irrational, based on an unrealistic sense of danger, but genuine fear was, in many ways, a sensible emotion. Phobias could make somebody look crazy, but fear could save one’s life.

In Heller’s masterpiece, American WWII bomber pilots were frightened of participating in air raids over Italy because they knew that the missions were highly dangerous, and they may be killed in action. A way that the pilots could escape their duty to fly such harrowing sorties was to be certified crazy, but anyone who applied to be relieved of their position was classed as showing a rational concern for their own safety, so was therefore deemed sane. Only genuinely crazy pilots wouldn’t see the inherent danger of flying over enemy territory.

Stonehouse was most definitely not crazy. He knew the dangers that lay ahead now that the vampire cat was out of the bag. The realist also saw the risks involved with stealthy incursions back into Hebigumo territory, or attempts to infiltrate the Lionelli faction, but needs must, and action had to be taken.

“Now back to business,” said Stonehouse, placing the tumbler on the table in front of him. “Levi, sadly I cannot really suggest anyone else to join our little gang. Most of my acquaintances wouldn’t be up to the job.”

This was a fair assessment. Stonehouse had sired a couple of offspring, but they were still young and relatively inexperienced. Bringing them on-board would be a risky strategy. As for other casual acquaintances, they were few and far between. If nothing else, they’d be classed as somewhat unreliable. Stonehouse kept a very tightknit circle of friends. There were no jesters allowed in his court.

Advertising in the local newspapers or on the internet was utterly out of the question. The group weren’t looking for a plumber or a gardener. They needed not only someone with a specific skillset, but they required individuals who were totally trustworthy. Stonehouse was already taking a small leap of faith with Whitaker, and a gigantic stride with the Irish bloke who was yet to arrive. Recruiting a total stranger into the fold was completely off the cards.

“So, Whitaker,” added Stonehouse, turning his attention to the orphan, “do you know when your mate is going to turn up? Loyalty is a great asset, as is punctuality.”

Stonehouse smiled, running the tip of his index finger around the rim of the whisky glass, producing a faint, high-pitched tone.