Path of the Vampire forum

Vega sat in the abandoned warehouse, alone, and reflecting. Her days as a human were spent, well...not so much alone but with those that she would rather not be with. All the men that came to her, from varying backgrounds, countries, and ethnicities. There was no beauty in her days as a human... until the day she was brought to a museum with her school. Vega was 13 at the time and did not know that this field trip would change her entire life.

Vega's group and chaperone walked the endless corridors of the art museum... pictures here, sculptures there. Nothing much stood out to her, until she reached the second floor. When she stepped out of the elevator with her group, Vega's eyes caught a glimpse of something. Over to the right was a small collection of prints... Vega looked quickly at her chaperone and realized that she was not looking..it is when Vega departed from her group and headed to the corner.

She stood there, mouth wide..and took it all in. The colors, the strokes of the brush...she escaped into each print that was in front of her. Vega had no idea who the artist was, nor the name of the art that she was staring at. Monet...Agapanthus was the first piece that took Vega's breath away. The hues of blue, the light specks of varying green...all assembled to make the most breathtaking thing she had ever seen. The picture, to many...was of flowers..but to Vega, it was so much more. It was a masterpiece, it was something put together with different colors, strokes...that made this print come to life.

After that trip, Vega began to sketch... she did not have much money ,yet..but she had a plan. The men gave her extra cash, that her mother knew nothing about. They considered it a tip for extra special services. Vega began to stash away the money, knowing that soon enough, she could add color to her drawings and maybe to her world.

After a few weeks, Vega had enough cash to buy everything she needed to begin painting. When her mother fell asleep on the couch, vega made her way out..quietly and headed to downtown Miami. It was not the place a child should have been, but Vega had a need and it would be filled. About half-way to the Artists retreat, that sold items at cost... Vega came across a man. He was filthy and smelled like he had just bathed in cheap beer. She knew the smell, as many of the men that her Mother brought to her, smelled exactly like it. She knew not to make eye conact, knew to keep walking...but he was following her. As she turned the corner, the man caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder. Vega did not have the instinct to scream, she was taught not to...ever. Before she knew it, she was on the ground and he was rifling through her purse... then it was over, and her money was gone.

After that night, Vega had met with Carlos and told him of the incident. Carlos was a gang memeber from her neighborhood and sometimes, her only friend. " Vega, you need to protect yourself..you need to pack?" Vega knew what he meant and knew that he was right. She needed to get a gun, to protect...as noone ever could protect her as it would. From that point on, Vega carried. She never had to use it, but the comfort of knowing it was always near..made her feel less helpless.

The warehouse was silent and cold, it lacked any color...as did Vega. Her black garb and pale skin.. were colorless and lacking life. She wanted some color, she wanted to create again. He had left her some cash, and gave no instruction on what to do with it. First, she must have that need to feel comfortable back once again. It might have been her flashback to the night she was robbed, that prompted the thought that next came... it might have been something else. Vega needed to find a gun, and not just a gun...a masterpiece.

She recalled hearing something about a bar and a gunrunner... not like Carlos, something more. Where was she when she heard the chatter??? It was on the corner, near that bar, the one that she knew had both her kind and humans... Lancasters. Without hesitation, Vega grabbed the cash HE had left and also took the gold neckalce from her bag. This must be enough to get something..

She slipped out the window and headed to the bar, hoping that she could find something to protect her. Vega had no clue, yet, that she herself was becoming a weapon... a very deadly weapon. Down the street she walked, faster than she had before...

Vega made it to the bar... as she stood in front of the door, she hoped that noone would ask for ID... she pushed the door open and headed in. Making her way right to the bar and the male bartender behind it. She paid no mind to who was there...

With a smile that would melt anyones soul, Vega spoke to the male. " Uh, Hi... I am looking to make a purchase..." Vega did not want the male to think she wanted drugs... " Like protection, you know?" She was able to use her age and her innocence to feign being naive. She carefully selected each word, ensuring that he thought she was just a young girl needing help.

When you were human you thought of the life you lived in terms of minutes and hours. Those increments of time rolled into days and months, culminating in a set of years determined by an accepted norm. Within that norm a person could construct love, loss, happiness and fear, but always in the building there was an expectation that it would ultimately come to a natural (or unnatural) end. And if you were lucky, and if you were one of those blessed people, you would take those precious moments and carve into them, and around them, a hearth stone of foundation where future generations would grow. A mother, a father, a sister, a brother and then children, to have more children and in this cyclical way you were made immortal.

Although Pi had never thought herself parental material, nor had she considered it an avenue she’d have taken if she’d lived that normal life, there still was a potential end. She could no longer rely on that assumption.

God forbid what misery she could foster with an eon to ruminate on the tragedy that was her human life. Had she not learned to accept the failure of her mother, or the system to protect. Pi stabbed fingers through shoulder length hair, pushing it off her forehead, scrunching it before letting loose.

The thought, was cut roughly short, then dribbled away, pushed aside by a mind well attuned to the depths she could wallow when she allowed herself to traverse the winding path through her fractured youth.

She had learned to accept what those years had created, but she had yet to forgive them the scars she pretended didn’t exist. For her jealousy and her envy she had paid a heavy price, and happiness was a daily fought battle against an instinct that howled its covetous suspicion. If it felt too good to be true, it invariably was and her battles fought against her own self-destructive behaviour.

There was no fire in the hearth that sat before her, although her hands itched to stretch out to warm themselves against nonexistent flames. She heard the words spoken behind her and wondered whether she could ignore them in favour of continuing her rather morose staring into the space between wall panels. Riveting though that was Pi turned in the wing back chair, soft coverings cushioning her arm as she leaned around the high back. “Marcus…” She said softly, raising her hand.

She wasn’t the imperious sort, although the action took on that of someone who was used to asking for things to be done. It wasn’t in her to abuse her leadership, or make a pretense of having more than she could claim. But in this place that she owned with Elliot she knew the staff looked to her. It was inevitable really, even as she balked at the necessity.

The woman (and Pi could barely name her that) was small, age a fuzzy line that could crawl from 18 – 25 with an ease. She was a pale thing, the dark clothes she wore hardly an affectation of someone who wanted to project warmth. Standing, Pi smiled at the woman-girl, her hand motioning to the seat unoccupied beside her. “I think you are looking for… me.”

In Pi's case, she was a diminutive French woman, with equally pale features, but hers were those whose parentage, gypsies maybe, had given her skin a naturally darker cast despite what being a vampire leeched from her. Tonight she was wearing long dark pants, molded to her lithe body. The tank top she wore was tucked, not left to float free and impede her draw on the weapon she wasn't wearing.

Vega was not one to be bold, but tonight she had a purpose. To acquire a tool, to help her feel more comfortable. It seemed like seconds after she spoke that she heard the words of a woman. Vega turned and her head tilted to the right a bit, a woman…it is not possible.

Vega was use to the rough streets of Lil Havana. The power players there, those that bought and sold guns, were always men. Large, ominous men that were covered in gang tattoos. Carlos had introduced Vega to these men, when she got her first piece. What Vega did not tell Carlos, as many of the men he introduced her to, were some of the same men her mother had sold her to. She recalled every tattoo on their body and every act they had her perform. So when introduced, Vega did touch them, merely nodded. She saw the smile in their eyes and felt sick. She could not tell Carlos though, she just couldn’t.

This woman looked nothing like those men..she had an aura about her…one of strength and beauty. Vega was not afraid and did not lower her eyes, she walked directly over to the woman and nodded. “ I am looking for something to help keep me safe. I had overheard some rumblings and thought I could find some help here.” Vega did not sit, not yet. She wanted to make sure that this dark haired woman knew she was here for a gun and not drugs.

Vega felt something inside her start to move and writhe…it was the same feeling she had a few nights ago. Was it a warning, telling her to run and leave this place, to head back to the warehouse and HIM… or was it something else. Something that she was familiar with but had not felt move like this since she was back in Miami. Not now, Vega thought… you cannot come out now and ruin everything…

“ I do not want no drugs, I want a piece.” Vega was so young and she was not use to talking to people like this woman. Her social skills were surely lacking and it showed.

Pi wondered, not for the first time, whether selling guns out of Lancaster’s was a good idea. There were many things that happened below the surface in this place that she hadn’t believed another wouldn’t make much difference. Except, business was booming; the gun business that is. Already word had got out about her weapons and this wasn’t the first person who sought her out directly. They were people she didn’t know, like this female who looked so young, barely old enough to have the necessary contacts to know to come find Pi.

There was something there though, something that drew Pi’s attention to the pale woman. What did desperation look like? Did it look like a pale faced woman in dark clothes coming into an Irish pub looking for a weapon from a stranger, for her own protection? You couldn’t help but make assumptions based on the few words they’d exchanged and the almost furtive way the woman acted. Drugs. No, they weren’t here because of drugs, and Pi discarded the throw away comment uttered by the woman and concentrated instead on the first things she’d said. Protection.

Pi could understand that rationale. Pi would had lived her young life rough in a system that spat out the weak and ground their bones into the dust of a uncaring factory focused only on discharging a duty they didn’t want in the first place.

They didn’t look alike, her or this woman, they didn’t act alike nor sound the same. The other woman’s features hinted at a genetic history far removed from Pi’s own French descent, but Pi couldn’t shake the inner certainty that they had a commonality. Leaning her elbow and lower arm along the Queen Anne arm rest Pi turned a little in her chair to face the newcomer. The silence stretched a little longer as she wielded the space between words to assess what would be her next move. It was longer than was polite as she indulged in unmasked scrutiny.

Guns were her babies, in the same way other people had dogs or cats, or other animals to dote love and affection on. Unlike animals though, Pi willingly, joyfully allowed hers to leave the roost, knowing that in the letting go of her creations they fulfilled their ultimate purpose. To protect.

Standing to her impressively (not really) short height, she motioned for the other to follow her.

“Come on back then. I have something that may suit in my office.”

Vega watched the woman, every move that she made… however subtle. Vega had come for protection, but she realized that she may leave with something much more. There was a hardness to this woman… an outer shell of sorts. Underneath though, there was something about her that drew Vega closer.

Vega had never had a woman in her life that she could consider a role model, certainly not her mother. Her mother sold her to every man that crossed their threshold, at times for pennies. It was all so that her mother could live her life and acquire the things she wanted. Vega was her golden goose, her meal ticket…at least until Carmen came. Carmen came when Vega was just 10 years old, she came to protect Vega from the men that pawed over her body and had her do things that would have normally destroyed the mind of a young child.

Carmen was Vega’s strength, her escape. She did not operate upon emotion, only intent. Her intent, was to manipulate the men that came to Vega and get all she could. Whether it was money, gifts or promises…Camen got them all. As Vega got older, Carmen became more of a presence. She was the one who came out in social situations..the one who would flirt and use what she had to take from those that stole from Vega. Carmen enjoyed her role, her charge. Maybe at times too much… but to steal from those, that stole from Vega made her a robin-hood of sorts…

Vega took a step towards the woman, but hesitated…then she heard the invite. This, brought a smile to Vega’s face… it made her feel immediately comfortable. The thought of protection was comforting, the hope that this woman could help provide that…eye-opening. As Carmen was the only one who had given protection to Vega, to this point.

“ Thank you, you have no idea how appreciative I am.” Vega did wonder what HE would think about all of this. His first childe going and searching out protection... from another. Vega knew he was the sort that thought he was the only protection that she may need... he was wrong, so very wrong.

Pi’s smile was short and sharp, her gaze pointed as she took a final assessing look at the female. But no radars were going off in her mind, no gut feeling that this was a bad idea. Not that her gut had always been a reliable indicator of ideal situations, but she trusted the inclination when it was silent. It was usually good at warning her about bad things, by the expediency of silence. There wasn’t even a blip, or waver in her inner certainty that this woman was as she projected herself to be.

There were few crowds in the pub. There rarely were. That isn’t why Elliot ran the place. It wasn’t intended for it to be filled to the gills with people every evening in order to turn over a profit. Neither Elliot or Pi required money, their avenues for revenue were unnecessary given the other ways they tended to make money. It could be said the business itself was a beard, a hide for other activities, and it would be a reasonable assumption.

It could have been created for the sole purpose of two vampires who needed a reason for being nocturnal. It could have been created to enable Pi to gain maximum contact with veritable strangers with little note from any who would witness exchanges like the one she was having now. No one turned an eye on people meeting in pubs, no one considered it abnormal for that conversation to move into the Manager’s office either, because no one was watching. Anonymity was guaranteed when you ran an establishment like this. They would be wrong though, those people who assumed those things. It was, in fact, all of those things as a secondary benefit to its primary purpose. To give voice to Elliot’s muse, his music. There was a stage and a piano, a guitars and on any given night avid attendees to her Australian gypsy’s musical moments.

Pi smiled to the staff at the bar as she walked past it, ducking behind the corner end to the office door beyond. She left the office door open. “Could you please close it behind you.” She asked, as she moved inside.

The office was small, crammed with a sturdy desk, two receiving chairs and the paraphernalia you’d expect in a utilitarian room. When she stopped it wasn’t to take up a position behind the desk, but squarely in front of her, perching herself on top of the heavy wood to look at the woman who followed her in.

“What… sort of gun are you looking for?” It was a serious question, but also a test. Pi understood her weapons in a way a carver understands the wood they would turn into a work of art. They understood the grain and the tensile strength. They understood the weight and weft of their material, how much it would bend, what specific properties each type had and what conditions it would thrive in. Her knowledge was the same, for her chosen field. She understood what her weapons would do, and in whose hands they would best fit. For her, she needed a smaller stock, a narrower grip. Her hand size was ill suited for the bulky hand guns and sought instead the sleek rifle she could fit into her shoulder to cushion the retort, or a slim line handgun that would fit into her smaller grip.

The answer the stranger gave would indicate to Pi whether this was a customer she would follow, or one she would guide.

Perched on the end of the desk she waited.

Vega followed the woman into the small office behind the bar, being sure to not make eye contact with any of the patrons or employees. She walked with purpose, with intent. This was not a social visit, it was to acquire protection.

Vega had spent some time in the slums, mulling about and picking up random gun parts. She noticed, over time, that the police had taken a special interest in her. They seemed to follow her around…every corner of the slums, every step she made, they were always watching her. The police are supposed to make you feel comfortable, but Vega knew better.

Back in Miami, the police were either working for the drug lords, or they stayed away from her neighborhood. Carlos had told her that the police did not much care for those that resided here, that we were basically on our own. Vega recalled sitting on the stoop of her home one eve, with Carlos, and seeing a man gunned down in front of her. There were no sirens, no police… not until the next morning when the body was seen by a passing car. This is where Vega grew up, this is where she learned that protection was key to her survival.

Vega stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. The woman was seated on the desk, seemingly sizing her up. She asked Vega what kind of weapon she wanted…Vega recalled the men that walked the streets of her city, with large firearms sticking from their waistband. The guns were so large and bulky, she always wondered how they handled the things. She had seen some try to use them and they had difficulty doing so. The larger the weapon does not make it a more deadly one.

“ I prefer a lightweight firearm. I use to have a Glock 21 when I lived down south. It was about 2 lbs when loaded and the perfect size for me. I became quite accustomed to its kickback, as a friend of mine use to take me shooting in the alley on occasion.” Vega wanted to tell her more about her old gun…she wanted to tell her how she came to feel as thought it was a piece of her.

“The weapon I use to have was beautiful. It had a dull black finish and had a sleek look to it.” Vega recalled sketching her gun, one night. She paid close attention to the ridges and grooves on the barrel, and how if she moved it slightly...she would get a whole new perspective on it. Like her paintings, her gun was a piece of art. At times, Vega thought that it was built especially for her. She did not even think about how many lives it had taken and how many crimes it had been a part of. She knew that it had, as Carlos had helped her get it. “I would like to have something that is suited for me… that I can call mine.”

Pi listened, her expression thoughtful. She wondered if the woman knew that Pi didn’t actually sell guns, not in the normal way. She wasn’t a procurer of firearms that were housed in a warehouse somewhere just waiting for the right person to come along and request a glock or a Remington.

For her, weapons were more than a personal accessory, which should be given as much consideration as many spent on buying a house, or an engagement ring. It wasn’t just a utilitarian device that served a single purpose, then packed up until it was needed again. Pi knew it was how many treated them, like a toaster oven to be forgotten once the bread has popped, left neglected on the kitchen counter until breakfast and eggs deigned notice and purpose gave it life again.

“I don’t sell guns like that.” Pi stated baldly, keeping her place on the edge of her desk. ‘Glocks.” she qualified. “I create custom weapons, … make them… myself.” She finished.

“And they are either going to cost you a great deal of money… or nothing at all.” Pi’s smile started as a small thing, her lips barely curling. She wasn’t one for great swathes of emotion. It wasn’t in her to expand on her humour, but rather thought it was better as a subtle unfurling. In this case, her humour was aimed directly as her own obtuse statement. She sounded like a female Yoda, handing out vague statements and inflicting casual confusion with impunity.

“Could you hold out your hands?” Pi asked, lifting her own out, palm up. The gesture was one of supplication, a show of good faith many used to show they held nothing in them that could be used to hurt.

“I expect you have hands like mine, smaller, that needs a more delicate treatment.”

Vega looked at the woman that stood in front of her. Her eyes lowered, as she surely has brought embarrassment upon herself.

“ I am sorry, if I offended in any way… I am just not real use to speaking with people, especially ones that I am unfamiliar.”

Vega was use to the streets of Lil Havana, she spoke in slang, at times..just to fit in. She should have realized that this woman in front of her would no appreciate her street lingo. Vega knew how to speak properly, she simply always retreated to the slang, merely out of habit or when she was out of her element.

“ You speak about guns as I speak about my art. Each piece I sketch is a masterpiece, in my mind. As they are each a moment of time, in my life. Some people take pictures to remember or hold onto memories. I sketch and hopefully, one day will turn those sketches into real paintings.”

Vega frowned a bit, she had not spent time gathering material to paint and her sketches were piling up. She felt not as colorful as she use to..its as if a subtle hue of grey has settled over her since being turned..and each day that grey gets a tad darker.

Vega took a step forward and outstretched her arms to the woman, she turned her palms up, as requested. Vega’s hands were small, and surely gave off the appearance of being delicate. But lately, those hands had been participants in some unspeakable horrors...her delicate hands had killed.

Pi wasn’t an artist. In many ways she thought of herself a blunt instrument. She had a hard time understanding subtlety and invariably made a mess of situations where caution was the better valour. She didn’t envy artists, how could she when her husband was as much an artist as she was a killer. It’s just that she didn’t have the gift of it.

Unless you counted her weapons. Lowering her gaze to the raised hands in front of her Pi considered the woman’s words. In her guns she found inspiration to create a kind of beauty. Not many people understood it, nor saw it for what she believed it to be, but for her, guns were a clinical sort of poetry. She understood the cold iron, the perfectly bored chamber, and artistically rendered grip, designed to fit the hand wrapped around it.

No, she didn’t make a ‘Glock’ or a ‘Remington’, it wasn’t so simple. Instead she stole parts from all of those, shaved them down, refit and redesigned them until they were reborn into something else entirely.
Maybe she was selling herself short. Maybe, in her way, for her, her weapons were her art, exactly as this woman said.

“I understand, I do feel that way about… them too.” Pi replied simply, giving the woman credit for showing Pi the artistry inherent in her love of the weapons she created. When the small female held out her hands Pi didn’t touch them, instead she took a few quiet seconds to complete her perusal.

With another nod Pi motioned for her to drop them again.

“I can make you something… if you’d like.” Pi offered. On the tip of her tongue was the offer to make the gun for free. How long had it been since Pi was turned herself. How long since those long arduous days holed up in the sewers passed out in a dark corner, rats chewing on parts of her body they could reach. She hadn’t had the power to stay awake in the day time then. She’d been caught outside, rescued by Etienne, dragged out of the open, her blistered body hidden in the sewer by the Quarantine Zone. It had been so long ago, years even, the days faded into memory she knew would become even more vague as more years piled on top of those that had already passed.

For a moment she offered the weapon for free and before she could stop herself she made the offer, her words as spare as she ever used. Pi was one for effusive discussion when simple statements would work just as well.

“It will be yours… pro bono.”