Shards of Glass

The lights of the passing subway illuminated the squalid and desolate station. A young woman watched the metallic monstrosity pass as she leaned against a graffiti-stained pillar, her tattered trench coat flailing violently in the artificial wind. Her jeans displayed signs of constant abuse from the grime and smog of the city, and one of the knees was nothing more than a few hanging shreds of denim. The rest of her clothing was equally well-worn and neglected. Her body was another story altogether. The smooth, artistic features of her hands betrayed a grace normally reserved for higher society, and her light, unmarred skin added an inviting trait to her slightly elliptical face.

She watched and waited, hoping the next train would stop.

"Slim pickings tonight," a somber, masculine voice said from across the terminal. The spark of a cigarette lighter and the drawn-out burning of tar and paper could be heard from a darkened corner.

"It’s always slim pickings for us, Campbell," she replied without looking away from the tracks.

"Worse than usual, all things considered," he said as he exhaled smoke from every orifice on his face. "When was your last time, Andreya?"

"I don’t remember," she stated off-handedly. She reflexively bit down on her tongue to take her mind off the pain. It was bad enough having to wait. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about it while they stood here. She had too much on her mind already.

"Really." The word came off dry and cold, just like Campbell.

"Yeah, really."

"Was it the night we first rolled into Baltimore." It was more of a statement than a question. Campbell knew how long it had been. He always knew everything that went down with Les Mains Rouges.

"Maybe. I don’t know." She hoped he would just let this conversation end.

"That was nine nights ago, girl. You’re pushing yourself harder than you should." The rhythmic clicking of the buckles and o-rings on Campbell’s boots echoed through the terminal as he emerged from the darkness. His rugged physique strained against the fibers of his dirty undershirt.

"I won’t allow us to fall behind because of me, Campbell. The Movement’s too important for that." She turned to face him, an intense gaze in her emerald eyes.

"You’re no good to the Movement dead." He ran a chiseled hand across the back of his nearly shaved head. With the other he took one final drag of his cigarette before grinding it beneath his boot. "Without you the Movement is nothing."

Andreya glared at her Ductus. She hated it when he proved her wrong.

"Train’s coming," he said, motioning to the distant lights down the tunnel.

Five minutes later the train doors opened, and a few dozen graveyard shift workers, vagrants, perverts, and drug addicts shuffled out, breathing a vile form of life into the squalid station. Andreya carefully gazed at each and every one of them, hoping to find that certain someone she was searching for.

"Found ‘em yet?" a filthy bum - who appeared to be a resident of the station - remarked as his eyes darted amongst the passing people.

"Not yet, Louis-David," Andreya replied in a soft and distant voice. As she scanned the crowd she found her thoughts drifting toward not only Louis-David and the rest of the Kamut, but also toward all the Cainites she had partaken of the Vaulderie with in the past months. Many Kamuts had formed and proceeded to rapidly fill their ranks as they pledged their Vitae to the Movement. They were honored to fill the sacred Vaulderie Chalices with her heart’s blood; hoping to imbibe some of the passion, zealotry, and dedication that she espoused for the Movement.

"You’d think that in a place like the United States capitol you’d be able to... mmm..." the grotesque man began to smack his lips as he rolled his blackened tongue over toothless, blood-stained gums. "Mmm... the rats here are... mmm..."

Andreya did her best to ignore him. While Louis-David had some less than savory habits, he was dedicated to the Movement nonetheless. The fires of freedom burned within him just as strongly as they did in Campbell, Sekmet, Belle, and herself. It was their cause, their truth, their purpose. And it was the purpose of several other Kamuts and many other Cainites as well. Andreya continued to tell herself this, even though, deep down, her own faith in the purity of the Movement had been slipping. As the ranks of the Kamuts grew, she could see that an increasing number of Cainites followed the Movement not because of their belief in it, but because of their belief in her. They wanted a leader; someone to rise out of the trenches of the endless Crusades and lead them to the promise land. She could see this desire in their eyes as they gazed upon her and placed the sacred Chalice to their lips.

Andreya reflexively clutched her stomach as she contemplated her role in the Movement. She only wanted to follow her beliefs. She didn’t want to be a leader; to have her peers look up to her and have faith in her. She didn’t want to have to make those hard decisions that could cost the unlives of her sisters and brothers. She wondered what Eric would say if he were here now. He was used to these kinds of accolades from his peers after leading The Horsemen into battle time and time again. Or Pit – what would her self-proclaimed student think if his teacher could barely stomach the thought of being in a position of authority?

While her heart was quickly becoming overburdened with the weight of such responsibility, thinking of her fellow Sabbat helped to ease the weight upon her. The Movement would demand sacrifice of her, just as it did of Eric and Pit, but they all knew this when they made their loyalties publicly known. With this thought Andreya made a silent vow – the same vow she made every night – to give herself completely to the Movement and her faith.

"The road to freedom is often littered with shards of glass," she said below her breath as an afterthought to her vow. She thought for a moment, and then decided to incorporate the statement into her vow, as it reminded her of the many sacrifices that had been made in the name of the Movement.

She watched as the subway doors closed and the train began to slowly grind off towards its next destination. She had not found anyone. The terminal was empty once again.

"Where’s Campbell?" She asked, giving a sideways glance at Louis-David.

"Over there," he replied, crudely gesturing towards the men’s room with a deformed thumb.

They found Campbell in a stall as he viciously gulped down the final liter of life from an elderly man. The man sat on the toilet, a look of fear frozen on his face and a glassy malaise over his eyes. The pants of his drab brown janitorial uniform lay around his ankles. The name patch over his left breast read Ervine. Thick, course blood had ran over the "Er" in a vine-like pattern.

Campbell looked up as fresh blood ran down his chin, which added even more character to his undershirt. He stared intently at Andreya as he walked toward the sink.

"So what’s that make this, ten nights now." He said without emotion as he washed the blood from his chin and neck.

"I can’t believe how extremely well everything went in Baltimore," the young, olive-skinned man reflected as he sunk into the plush hotel chair.

"Just because we’re in this filthy country doesn’t mean we have to speak their vulgar language," the teenage girl leaning on the opposite wall replied in fluent French. "And yes, Baltimore was a good choice. I think we secured some support from one or two of the Covens there."

"I mean," the young man continued, this time in French, "did you see the way she discussed the Movement with them? There was... such passion in her voice. She carried herself, not like a leader, but more like someone... like someone who has had a great obstacle put before her, yet she perseveres... because that is her destiny. That is her destiny, Belle." He repeated himself for emphasis.

"You’re very descriptive as always, Sekmet." Belle replied, allowing a slight smile to cross her face. She had to admit, their Priest was quickly becoming the personification of the Movement. Belle guessed that word of Andreya’s fervor and her commitment to the cause was starting to spread far and wide. When they arrived in Baltimore, a Coven interested in the movement actually sought them out before Les Mains Rogues even knew where they would be sleeping in the upcoming hours.

"Such fame can also attract the wrong kind of attention," Belle added. "So keep your eyes open."

Her warning was followed by a quick, hard knock at the door.

Belle moved quickly and quietly to the side of the door, putting her back against the wall. She pulled a 9mm Sig Saur out of the back of her jeans and put her other hand on the door handle.

Sekmet stood, and prepared himself by training his eyes to mimic those of a predator.

"Who is it?" Belle asked in rough and untrained English.

"C'est M. la Liberté, de Mandarine." The cold voice of Campbell resonated against the door.

She opened the door. Sekmet, still facing away from Belle, silently cursed himself for his stupidity. Now that he intensely scanned the room, he could see that some rat was text messaging on a cell phone not fifteen feet away from him. A throwing knife was already leaving Sekmet’s hand as Campbell walked into the room. The blade connected and cut deep into the intruder’s sternum. The grotesque stranger cried out in surprise as he hit the ‘send’ button on his phone.

In the next second Campbell was on him. The Ductus lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and using his momentum to propel them across the room. Glass shattered as they flew through the sliding door and onto the balcony. They slammed into the cheap metal railing, which groaned under the stress. Campbell forced himself to stagger backward as the metal bars ripped from their housing, causing the lacerated stranger to tumble to a twenty story death below.

"Pack everything up." Campbell ordered as he staggered back into the room. "Let’s go."

The winter wind tore into the solitary individual as he stood motionlessly on the sidewalk. His trench coat, tied at the waist, offered little protection from the cold gusting air. His once-dark features betrayed an expression of simmering hatred, and his black crew-cut hair seemed to bristle on its own accord. The red, white, and blue lights of the nearby ambulance played off of his hard features in an almost macabre display of patriotism.

Another man emerged from the subway terminal across the street. The wind whipped his long, black hair to the side as he walked around the ambulance and toward the other individual. His features were similar to the other man’s, except the look of hatred was replaced with an almost benign malevolence.

"It’s like we thought," the long-haired man said as he produced two cigarettes from his trench coat and lit them, using his companion as a shield against the wind.

"Another geriatric corpse in a pisser," the other replied, taking one of the cigarettes.

"Just like in Baltimore. I’d say your friend is in town, vato." His face gave birth to a wicked smile as he exhaled smoke from between clenched teeth.

"When we find him, he’s going to pay," he replied, taking a long, deep drag off his cigarette.

"We’re just supposed to run them out of town, Carlos." The long-haired Cainite reminded his fellow Templar. "Those were His Eminence’s orders."

"And that’s what we’re going to do. But he needs to learn a lesson first. He fucked with the wrong vato. He made it personal. You understand, Diego? It’s personal." Carlos took another long drag from the cigarette as the rage started to boil inside of him.

"Ahh…that’s right. I almost forgot," Diego said, brushing his hair out of his face as a half-smile crept over him. "He’s a renegade blue blood. You could even use that ‘this is for Carthage’ line you’re so fond of."

"You know the real reason." Carlos said, thinking back to the Game of Instinct where Campbell blindsided him with a bus, which was clearly against the rules. Campbell always claimed that it wasn’t him, but Carlos never trusted the crusader much anyway. "And it’s a good line."

"At any rate," Diego continued, "If you would have just let it go and not held a grudge, you could have went with me to the Festivo Dello Estinto in Montreal last year. But you and I both know that His Eminence didn’t want you going off on Campbell at El Festivo.

"Fuck Montreal." Carlos retorted as he ground his cigarette beneath a steel-toed boot.

Carlos’ phone beeped. He looked at the text message in the inbox and then dropped the phone back into the pocket of his trench coat.

"Ebin found where they’re staying." Carlos said as his anger subsided. "Let’s go."

Carlos and Diego parked the sedan they stole behind some dumpsters off to the side of their destination. The hotel was of average size for D.C. Probably thirty or forty stories, total. They made sure that their trench coats were securely tied and prepared to make their entrance.

"Wait a second," Carlos said, reaching into his pocket as his phone beeped, "I’ve got another message."

"Look up." Diego instructed as he watched Ebin falling through the air, only to make a sickening sound on the ground below. "Looks like your handiwork, ehh, vato?"

"Ebin was on his way to making a decent Templar, too." Carlos observed, ignoring Diego’s last comment.

"Sixty seconds!" Campbell shouted as his Pack scrambled about the hotel room. Two minutes ago he had thrown an unknown Cainite off the balcony, and he didn’t intend to stick around long enough to figure out who the creep was.

He had immediately sent Sekmet down the hall to watch the elevators and stairwells. Belle was in the bedroom packing up the firepower. Louis-David was gathering up all the paperwork on all the contacts they had made and allies that they had won over. And Andreya was getting out the can of gas they kept for just such an occasion. In another sixty seconds they could douse the room and let the fire alarms provide the perfect distraction to cover their flight.

Their plans were cut short as the hotel room door flew off its hinges and crashed down onto the carpet. Sekmet lay on the remains of the door – two of his throwing knives still wedged into his voice box. Two pale Mexicans with their game faces on entered the room a half second later.

Campbell recognized Carlos immediately. They had met a couple years ago, back in New York for a Game of Instinct. Carlos wanted someone to blame because his Pack lost, and that someone ended up being him. Campbell didn’t recognize the other Cainite as being a part of Carlos’ Pack. He did seem familiar, though. At any rate, I can’t worry about that now, Campbell thought as his fist connected with Carlos’ jaw.

Carlos staggered backward, and Campbell stepped forward to take another swing. Carlos reacted faster, grabbing Campbell by the arms and throwing him across the room. Campbell flew into the bathroom and crashed through the sink.

As a cloud of porcelain dust drifted out of the bathroom, Andreya made for the Sig Saur that Belle had set down on the coffee table. Diego beat her to it by a half second. He noticed that she looked oddly familiar as he slammed the handgun against her temple. He absent-mindedly disassembled the automatic in one hand, letting the components fall to the carpet as he stared intently at the Cainite below him.

Carlos spent a good sixty seconds in the bathroom jack-hammering Campbell’s face while he yelled insults at him. Then the Templar dragged him back into the main room and threw the Ductus on the plush couch.

"Cardinal Polonia would like to welcome you Loyalist trash to D.C." Carlos spat as he untied his trench coat to reveal a personal arsenal of weaponry. A pistol-grip sawed-off twelve gauge hung at his waist, while a Colt .45 ACP rested in the front of his pants and a .454 Cassull hung in a shoulder holster."

"Fuck you." Campbell replied coolly through jagged, broken teeth.

"I think you’re the one being fucked, vato!" Carlos replied, his rage rising to barely contained levels within him. He violently gripped his shotgun and leveled it at Campbell.

"I’m not afraid of you, you worthless errand-boy." Campbell was emotionless as always.

"Maybe not, but I bet your little bitch is afraid of me. Diego, sit her ass up." Carlos turned toward Andreya, his eye twitching from the unrelenting pain and anger in his blood.

Diego jerked Andreya to her knees amidst the shards of glass from the balcony door. She looked so familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her. He held her head back by her hair as Carlos slammed the barrel of the shotgun into her mouth. Then he looked back at Campbell.

"You think you can come here and do whatever you want, hunt where ever you like, and throw other Cainites out of twenty story windows? Christ, that’s my job, motherfucker!" Carlos screamed at Campbell as he gestured at himself with his free hand.

"Are you ready to die, you little bitch?" Carlos mockingly asked as he shifted his attention to stare down the barrel of his gun at Andreya.

Andreya responded by biting down on the barrel so hard everyone in the room could hear it. The road to freedom is often littered with shards of glass, she thought as broken glass dug into her knee through the tear in her blue jeans. She narrowed her eyes at Carlos.

Campbell tried to keep his cool as he realized that the Loyalist Movement was a shell of buckshot away from ending. "I’m the Ductus. I should receive the punishment." He said, a slight trace of fear creeping into his voice. Not fear for himself, but for Andreya.

"I didn’t think you Loyalists recognized position." Carlos replied with a sneer. His rage was subsiding now that he could see the fear in Campbell. And now that this fuck volunteered to take the punishment, Carlos thought, I can let the bitch go and hav—

A deafening roar of thunder erupted throughout the hotel room. Chunks of bone and gore spewed from the back of Carlos’ head as his eyes bulged and he fell forward. Andreya gagged as the gun barrel touched the back of her throat. Carlos’ hands clenched as his nervous system locked up.

Campbell watched in horror as the only person he ever felt any emotion for slowly slid off the barrel of a twelve gauge. The scene seemed to play itself out in slow motion as smoke drifted up from the mouth of a mindless head. Looking over, he saw the source of the first shot was Belle, who had emerged from the bedroom and blasted Carlos in the back of the head with a twelve gauge Ithaca.

As Carlos collapsed before him, Diego received a clear view of his fellow Templar’s assailant. Smoke rose from the barrel of the Ithaca as the young woman pumped out the spent shell. Diego ignored the screaming pain that emanated from the smoldering stump that was his hand as he loosened the strap across his chest.

Belle pulled the trigger.

Click. Misfire. The strap went slack, and a Heckler & Koch MP5k slid from Diego’s back down to his hip. Before Belle had time to eject the bad shell Diego had emptied a full clip into her. Campbell tried to rush him, but he was too mangled from his initial conversation with Carlos to be much of a threat. Diego dropped the sub-machine gun and drew the .357 Desert Eagle from the front of his pants. Six rounds later, Campbell was down.

As Diego’s hand began to reform, Carlos rose to his feet, cursing as the back of his cranium reformed. One tough vato, Diego thought as he picked up Belle’s shotgun and looked at his brother. He found his gaze shifting to the lifeless eyes staring back at him from the floor.

"I doubt His Eminence’s fucking Ghoul will have time to clean this mess up. We’ll just have to torch the place ourselves." Carlos remarked as he ejected the spent shell from his twelve gauge while surveying the room.

"Now I remember," Diego said under his breath.

"What?" Carlos turned and locked eyes with his brother.

"I know who she is," Diego said as he motioned at Andreya’s body with the shotgun.

"How do you know her?" Carlos inquired.

"I met her at the Festivo Dello Estinto last year, when Cardinal Strathcona introduced his Childe to me." The words became somber and heavy as they left Diego’s tongue.

"Oh fuck, Diego," Carlos said, shaking his head slightly, "We just did a Cardinal’s Childe. We’re fucked."

"No... no..." Diego replied, searching his mind for a way to turn this situation around. "No, we’re not fucked, Carlos. They did Ebin first. They brought this upon themselves. We just have to burn the rest of them and we’re—"

"I’m…glad you’re both... alright." He said through strained lungs. "Did you get... my second message."

"Like I said, we’re fucked." Carlos said despairingly as he shifted his gaze from Ebin back to Diego.

"No, we’re not fucked." Diego replied, ejecting the bad shell from Belle’s shotgun.

"Remember," he continued, his eyes turning into cold, piercing slits, "they did Ebin first."

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