[b][i]A Few Days Ago, At A Public Park Near Downtown Los Angeles...[/i][/b] [i]CLANG![/i] The ball bounced off the side of the rim. Mihal reached out a hand to catch the rebound out of the air as the metal vibrations rang out, taunting him. He sighed, returning to his position at the free throw line in the nearly-empty park. His shooting practice was going... poorly, to say the least. The layup drills his coach had suggested went well, but of his last twenty practice shots from the free throw line, he had made only nine. His massive form was drenched in sweat, he was exhausted from all his previous drills, and he was getting frustrated. He simply wanted this day of practice to be over. He locked his eyes on the net, bounced the ball on the ground twice, squared his shoulders, and took another shot. [i]CLANG![/i] No good. Mihail grunted with frustration, ran to collect the rebound, and in a rage, haphazardly hurled the ball at the net on the other end of the court. It flew through the air in a shallow arc, bounced off the backboard at the other end, and... [i]Swish![/i] Mihail watched as the ball went through the net, the basket now swaying in the breeze. A few kids playing two courts over watched as the full-court heave went in. One of them gave him a thumbs up, and two applauded. Mihail just stood there, confused as to why his free throws continued to miss, but this pointless heave had not. He smiled uneasily as the children--maybe twelve or thirteen years old--walked over to him. One of them had recognized him and was spouting off praise in regional slang which Mihail was having trouble understanding as a non-native English speaker. As he began to sign their ball, hats, and other articles of Lakers merchandise, Mihail’s shyness melted away. Smiling, Mihail handed one of the kids his ball. “You know what a lob is, yes?” The adolescent nodded, thankfully able to comprehend Mihail's significant accent. The athlete took a few steps back, then began to jog towards the net, pointing his finger skywards to signal for the toss. As the ball was lobbed skyward, Mihail leaped into the air, caught it, and spun 180 degrees before dunking it over the back of his head. His display was rewarded with more laughter and applause. The kids took turns lobbing the ball into the air, and Mihail returned the favour by entertaining them with a series of increasingly absurd dunks. After a while, a small crowd had gathered, but Mihail was tired from all the high-flying showboating, and the sun was starting to set. He hadn’t realized just how late it had gotten. [i]It is as mother says: time flies when you are having fun.[/i] English wasn’t his first language, but the language of basketball was universal. “Sorry everyone, the show is over. I need to go home.” A few fans expressed their displeasure at this, but Mihail couldn’t stand here and sign things all night. By the time he completed the last few autographs (he wasn’t a particularly famous player, and so there were mercifully few), the sun had set almost completely. One individual standing towards the back of the crowd was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. [i]Odd,[/i] Mihail thought, [i]It is summer, much too warm for that.[/i] He placed his ball inside his gym bag and changed into a pair of more casual walking shoes, then began to make his way back to the condominium he shared with his mother. [i]When I get my extension, I will buy mom a nice place all to herself. And she can retire.[/i] Mihail continued along his normal route, now illuminated by streetlights. The sounds of the city were quiet in this neighbourhood; eerily so. Hardly anyone was out in the streets, quite odd for summer near Downtown Los Angeles. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps a raccoon rummaging around in an alleyway garbage can. Parched, Mihail stopped to unzip his gym bag and get out a bottle of water. That was when a mysterious figure slammed into him. Mihail could not see the individual’s face, but did not fall right away. Instead, he was able to push the assailant off of him, running deeper down the alleyway to escape by any means necessary. This attacker was stronger and faster than Mihail had expected, and before he knew what had happened, Mihail was pushed again, this time to the ground. He scraped his knee across the ground as he impacted with the concrete, and was scrambling to get up from the alleyway when he fully saw the man before him. Mihail’s assailant was pale and gaunt, with long dark hair and a robust goatee. His eyes faintly glowed blood red as he smiled, revealing a set of segmented fangs with a slight red tint. Blood dripped down his chin as though he were salivating. Based on what little Mihail knew about vampires, this one had not properly fed for some time. “Little Dobrescu... do you know how many of us your family killed in the old country?” Mihail scrambled backwards, clutching aimlessly behind him for his gym bag as he shakily stood on bended knees. He looked around for an escape ladder or fire exit he could climb, but there was nothing here aside from a few trash cans with some broken furniture sticking out of them. “Get away from me!” Mihail screamed, “What the fuck are you?!” The vampire laughed, then grew deathly serious as he brought a fist across Mihail’s cheek. “YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT I AM!” Mihail’s vision blurred for a moment. By the time he refocused, the bloodsucker was pointing menacingly at Mihail’s neck, the red glow of his eyes becoming more and more intense. Mihail felt a searing pain along the arteries in his neck as the Tremere’s blood magic began to work. “I hear you Dobrescu folks are quite... delicious. Let’s see if that’s true.” ... And then, nothing. No jet of blood from Mihail’s neck, no boiling of his veins, and even the pain began to disappear, becoming nothing but a slight discomfort. The bloodsucker seemed confused, then noticed the jewelry on Mihail’s hand as the athlete began to stand up. It was now glowing a faint yellow. “Ah, I see. Looks like I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way...” The beast lunged forward, attempting to grab Mihail by the neck. This time, though, Mihail was prepared, taking a crucial step back before countering with a vicious right-hook to the jaw. Aside from stopping the attack, the punch seemed to do little, if anything. The vampire, occupied with its own hubris, took the time to gloat. “Superhuman durability! Didn’t your daddy teach you anything about vampires? Or did we get to him before he had the chance!” He began to cackle. The laughter was cut short by a second punch, this time aided by the ring on Mihail’s left land. The vampire reeled back, the symbol on the ring now etched onto the vampire’s face in a glowing orange rune. “How does your [i]own[/i] blood taste, [i]bitch?[/i]” Mihail screamed in Romanian. The vampire collected himself and lunged forth once again. The famished creature was getting desperate. More dangerous, but sloppy. Mihail knew how to deal with a rattled opponent from his time in the NBA. As the vampire charged, Mihail used his gym bag to shield himself, which would have worked had Mihail not been bowled over, its contents flying out onto the ground behind him. Mihail pushed one leg against the vampire’s chest as it tried to bear down on Mihail’s neck. Scrambling behind him with one hand, Mihail grabbed a lighter and can of spray-on deodorant which had fallen out of his bag. As Mihail pressed his foot into the vampire’s chest, a puff of floral scent spilled forth from the deodorant. By the time the vampire realized what Mihail was doing, it was too late. Mihail ignited the gaseous cloud with the lighter. A gout of flame erupted forth, engulfing the bloodsucker’s face as he screamed in agony. The vampire reached up to try and pat out the flames, leaving him open for assault. Mihail ran at the vampire and tackled him before picking up his still-burning form. With strength Mihail did not know he possessed, he slammed the vampire down chest-first on a cluster of broken table legs sticking out of a garbage can, impaling him through the heart. [i]CLANG![/i] “Fire and stake through heart,” Mihail exclaimed as the vampire burned, “That is what father taught me. Bloodsucker piece of shit.” The rest of the furniture inside the metal bin began to catch fire as the vampire’s entire being was engulfed. As he collected the rest of his belongings, Mihail could hear the monster’s death throes rattle the series of cans. “I put you in trash, right where you belong...” Mihail muttered. And then, in his moment of triumph, Mihail realized the gravity of the situation, and what he’d just done. To any bystander, he had committed a murder. Panicking, he tore off his bloodstained shirt and shorts and threw them into the burning garbage can, donning his blue tracksuit and making sure that he had collected all his belongings. His heart began to pound heavily in his chest. [i]The police will not see a vampire. They will see me, and a dead burning body...[/i] And so, Mihail ran. He ran as fast as he could, fearful that a second vampire could strike at any time, or someone would confront him for killing the first. He had to get home, and quickly, stopping only briefly at a drugstore to get a bandage for the knee that had been scraped bloody by the encounter. Mihail’s father had killed thirty-one vampires in his life. As that fact bubbled up from his subconscious, a small and newly-awakened part at the back of Mihail’s mind whispered: [i]Thirty more to go.[/i]