[u]Introduction
[/u]

Cruel eyes glared in his direction as he slid shut the door and faced the waiting crowd. He was late, and proceedings had taken off without him, accusing stares fixed him from the sparsely populated briefing room, smatterings of blue and off colours donning the illustrious men and women of the force before him. He nodded ironically, tipping his worn fedora in their direction and striding purposely to the empty back row to settle himself forcefully upon a chair, his feet perched on the head-rest of the seat in front of him. 

“Nice of you to join us Mr.Reed.” An authoritarian voiced echoed from the grey haired black man at the front of the room, who had just been interrupted mid oration by the broad shouldered private investigator, Peter Reed, and his unruly entrance. The speaker was unmistakable to anyone present, Simon Fuller, their collective Sire and Deputy Chief of Charlestone Police. The sparseness of the briefing room was telling of one thing, to those in the know, only the Vampiric members of the police were present, which marked the meeting as one seeped in underworld politics. Of course, Peter was aware of all this, he wouldn’t have been in his old workplace for anything less than an official meeting of Fuller’s Kin, he had stuck it out on his own and the price he paid for it was one he paid willingly. Meetings like this were an annual affair in his experience, and they usually spelled misfortune for someone assembled. Even the thralls had been excluded, leaving six Children watching their master and wondering who was missing and if it had further ramifications. 

“As I was saying, there isn’t much I expect from you, only the cardinal virtues of loyalty, respect and obedience without question.” Fuller concluded his rhetoric and Peter sighed inwardly, he’d heard this spiel before. “This is not much to ask from ones children, is it?” He looked at a Hispanic woman at the front and she nodded in agreement, not that she had any choice. “So when one of my own steps out of line, it angers me greatly. This anger in me is not a healthy thing, it flares up recklessly and threatens to consume the object of my anger.” He sighed conspicuously. “Still, a Father must have patience, as must a leader of men. However, when that patience is tried again, and again, and again, an example must be made, or discipline will be lost.” Fuller clicked a small device in his hand over his right shoulder, and the smart-board behind him came to life, sound accompanying it. The assorted Vampires were treated to the scene of Fuller shaking his head sadly at Marty, one of the newer additions to the Chief’s family. Peter noticed at once that Marty was not present, and had a strong suspicion of where things were going.

“Now Marty, you knew it would come to this.” Fuller said, standing beside Marty as he shook with obvious fear, looking at Fuller and then down at the ground and all around himself. He was always a small man, but he looked smaller still next to the hulking form of the Chief in the video. 

“Please Sir, I have a weakness, I’m new to this blood thing, give me a chance.” Marty’s irritatingly nasal voice raised to an even greater irritatingly high pitch, Peter stared at the board with interest.
 
“I’ve heard it before Marty, all of it, and you’re fresh out of chances.” Fuller told him, his voice taking on that sudden deadly serious tone Peter was uncomfortably familiar with.
 
“Please, don’t do this Sir.”

“Open the door Marty.”

“I’ll do better Sir, please.”

“Open it.” Peter felt the force behind those simple words, the power lacing them affecting him even through the medium of video. Marty’s hand shook as he fought the compulsion, but as Peter knew he would, he lost. The handle turned and he yanked it open, screaming as the full light of the sun engulfed his starved form. It took him moments to die, and the video turned to black.

“I hope this has been educational. Dismissed.” Fuller walked down the aisle, staring straight ahead as he left the room with not another word. His message was bright and clear.

Never fuck with the Chief.

[b][u]Friday, September 9th.[/u][/b]

Perhaps a week later, the jaded detective sat at his desk in his small office in downtown above a pawn-brokers with a bottle of whiskey and some scattered paper in front of him. One large hand tapped the table rhythmically as the other clutched a half-empty glass. His thoughts were far away, and it showed on his stern looking face, his steely eyes were staring at the wall with such intensity it would have balked if it could. It was a quiet night, but then most nights usually were, his business was far from lucrative. It was his though, and that meant something. 

Sometime close to midnight there was a knock at his door and he looked up with interest.

“Come in.” He bellowed a little too loud, his boredom getting the best of him. He coughed awkwardly and then settled back in his well fitted chair, regarding the newcomer with a seemingly casual glance. She said not a word as she walked towards him, dour looking, uninterested to the point of inhumanity. He’d seen the expression before, he saw it often, she was a thrall. Her lack of greetings was a cause for concern, so his left hand snuck down to the drawer at his left as he continued to examine her, the well-kept clothes were a sign of her status, but it seemed to him she had been picked purposely for her general demeanour, one that threatened not a single ounce of interest. She was plain to the point of absurdity, interesting, it suggested a degree of thought in her master’s agenda, perhaps secrecy. His right hand reached out to seize the offered envelope, even as his eyes sought out signs of betrayal. He knew he could react faster than she, thrall or no, his pistol would be pointed at her head before she could close the distance and stake him.

“What’s this?” He asked, turning the envelope over and spying the seal, his eyes shooting back to the woman. She simply reversed out of the room and closed the door, strange behaviour even for a thrall, secrecy was definitely a priority. 

“Drop of blood, seal your lips, how droll.” He read the words out loud, frowning at the object in his hand. 

“Well, even if I alone obtain the information I’ll be no worse off for knowing it and being unable to reveal it to others than if I never read it at all.” Peter had a habit of monologue, stemming from his past in the force and his frequency of bouncing ideas off his old partner. He cut a small mark on his fingertip with a letter opener and traced the seal, watching it open with interest. 

Saturday September 10th, 2016. Midnight. Charleston Harbor. Dock 15 Warehouse. For those seeking advancement.

[b]
[u]Saturday, September 10th.[/u][/b]

The next night, Peter sat at his desk drinking whiskey and considering his options. Should he, shouldn’t he, how idiotic would it be to walk into some petty squabble or trap and die, what was the likelihood an old enemy was luring him to his final death, that sort of thing. Eventually he concluded it would be pure lunacy to take someone obviously secretive and powerful up on an offer such as that for such a vague purpose. He sighed and pushed back his chair, grabbing his gun as an afterthought and walking to the door with a few quick steps. He looked at the fedora and tough brown trench-coat on the stand and sighed, irritated that his style had been misappropriate by idiotic hipsters.

“Damn kids.” He spat, grabbing his apparel and stepping out of the room.

Peter approached the dock with a practiced caution, his average height but powerful build usually enough to see off potential violence there was still no harm in being a little watch-full at his age in his profession. He made it a few minutes past midnight, late as always, but apparently it mattered little as he entered the building and started as he was immediately spoken to by a man. He took in the scene, the female thrall from before and another, a man dressed in khaki with a disarming demeanour, a greeter then. Whoever was overseeing this event had an eye for picking the right pawn for the right job, Peter gave him that.

“What’s going on, how long are we expected to wait?” Peter asked him assertively, expecting little from the thrall. He received only an apologetic smile and a waving on into the room, which Peter took the time to glance across. His interest was piqued by those assorted, Vampires without a doubt. He saw an unkempt female with a forceful glare she directed at those around her, particularly the greeter and the female thrall. He decided she was the most likely to enact immediate violence as his eyes dragged past and onto one of the more malformed and obvious of his kind, at least he presumed as much from what his keen eyes could see past the hood and the claws cutting into the arm-rests. The other man was his polar opposite, an attractive sort, physical robust perhaps but without the look of a fighter, Peter would watch him, but he didn’t expect violence from him. The native woman also lacked the tell of a fighter, though he had heard disturbing stories about the abilities of a certain tribe of Vampires that stemmed from the Native Americans, if the stories were true he had nothing to fear from her physically. The fit man had also apparently gained the attention of an equal of sorts, a woman that caught Peter’s eye briefly before his cold sense of pragmatism re-asserted itself. With a final glance around the room for tactical reasons he dismissed the group, they were Vampires and likely had some power, but they would pose little threat to him unless this was a set-up solely for him, which seemed unlikely.

“Evening.” He muttered, being the first to say anything to his fellows. He placed himself carefully on a chair that gave him a good view of those to either side of him and suitable space besides. You could never be too careful with midnight dealings.