murdoc — Roleplayer Guild

Reggie didn’t much like America.

The people were loud, rude, fat, and the garish, yellow cabs speeding through the streets weren’t exactly easy on the eyes.

Of course, Reggie wasn’t the saintliest of characters either, but he liked to think he was a step above them.

So, why was he here again?

Well, thanks to a favour he owed his sire - one Mr. Gallo Alberici - he’d had to catch a flight from London to Washington in the dead of night. While these so-called “business trips” were no stranger to Reggie, it was rather ridiculous, and also a tad insulting how they all had to bend over backwards to accommodate Cranston’s every request. The Ventrues were all a bunch of uppity fascists who felt like the Camarilla, or hell, the rest of the world owed them something.

...Then again, the guy was the president of the United States, so maybe he was obligated a modicum of respect. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. No matter how they put it, no matter how much they talked about the good they were doing for vampires, it just never seemed to sit right with him. Whatever they did, it was for their own gain. Nothing more, and the rest of the Camarilla were blind not to see it. Underneath his slurring, whiskey-fugged facade, Reggie’s blood boiled, and he had the feeling that most of the Brujah felt the same way. Even those who called themselves True Brujah like a bunch of truly separatist pricks.

One day, the Ventrue will see their end - he thought, as he stepped off the pavement and onto the asphalt, flagging down a cab. But that day, unfortunately, was not going to be today. After all, they did have one of their own sitting on the metaphorical throne. For now, however, he had better things to worry about - like getting to this little parley on time, for example. Before meeting up with Cranston later that night, there was much to discuss with Mr. Alberici, as he insisted on being called, for some inane, frivolous reason (not that Reggie cared, that is). He’d flew in from Vatican City the day before, and was now, presumably, stationed at the Hilton.

Now, “stationed” was a term Reggie used loosely. Chances were, that Italian bastard was just lying around his suite, waiting to issue him an order under the pretense of a friendly request.

Fucking wanker.

“Where’re you headed?” the cabbie’s voice snapped Reggie out of his anti-reverie, and he slid smoothly into the passenger seat, baring his teeth in a grin.

“The Hilton, darlin’, quick as you can.”

After all these years of travelling, Reggie’s inflection was still flavoured with sharp stabs of Cockney. The realisation that he was a foreigner quickly dawned on the cabbie (a squat, middle-aged Latino with a glaring bald spot right at the top of his head), and he regarded the term of endearment with nothing more than a roll of the eyes before peeling into the next road, towards their destination.

Room 856.

The woman at the concierge had been reluctant to let Reggie trawl through the building without a room of his own, but with a few choice words, the woman eventually relented. Easy smiles, and light touches on the hand, that was always all it took, and it didn’t take long until she reciprocated his advances. Perks of being a vampire, he supposed. Ease of persuasion was something he couldn’t deny.

She was a tall, blonde affair, with glittering green eyes and legs that just don’t stop. In another life, she might’ve even been Reggie’s type, and he made a mental note to himself to pay her a visit if he found some time to spare. He had half a mind to take her round to the back stairwells, sinking his fangs into her neck, the taste of her blood staining his tongue. But alas, now was not the time to get distracted. This was a business trip, and he was nothing if not professional.

Right as he was about to knock, the door swung open, and standing face-to-face with Reggie was a man, seemingly in his mid to late forties, with pale, olive-tinted skin. His features were gaunt, nose aquiline, and his steely, grey eyes only narrowed when he saw just who was at his door, already thin lips pressing into an even thinner line.

“Good, you’re finally here. Come in.”

“What? Not even a hello? Salutations? How’s tricks?” Reggie snorted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Fuckin’ hell, Gallo. What happened to, uh... what was it? Manners maketh man?”

In response, Gallo simply shot him a withering look, like he’d been invited to pet a hated neighbour’s dog.

“Sit down, Reginald. We have a lot to talk about.”
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