It wasn’t particularly unusual for Gabriella to lay low for periods of time. Gabriella or Catherine or whoever else was co-habiting with her at any given moment wouldn’t really bat an eye if they didn’t see her for a night or two.
Still, even by Gabriella’s standards, her disappearance after the conclusion of Mardi Gras was somewhat jarring. Not one night. Not two. It would be over 72 hours before she’d emerge from her room, and even that was largely because her need for blood outweighed her need for solitude. Still, she could hardly be blamed for that, right? Between the celebrations and the Rant, it had been a long two weeks for the Malkavian. Powering through her anxiety on a nightly basis was simply a fact of unlife. Doing it for this sustained period of time in front of this many people she wasn’t familiar with was an entirely different proposition.
And now think of all the people that you let commit your face to memory. They’re going to hear about you in Miami, Orlando, Boston, the West Coast…
Gabriella shook her head. She wasn’t that big a deal, she reminded herself. And most people in other Anarch cities had probably heard of her already. The Camarilla certainly had succeeded in making her a legendary bogeyman, and for all the talk, they hadn’t actually gotten her.
Yet.
Gabriella squeezed her eyes shut again. On nights like this, with nothing to do and no responsibilities elsewhere, she usually liked to read or write, quiet things she could do by herself without the need for company.
And argue with herself.
She would have preferred not to do that. She’d heard the stories. A lot of Malkavians had the mythical voice in their head. Sometimes it took the form and sound of their sire. Sometimes it was someone they’d known in life. Sometimes it was just random.
But Gabriella had grown to hate hers more than most other Malkavians. Because the voice in her head that always second-guessed her, questioned everyone’s every move, worried about dangers real and imagined, and saw enemies in every corner was simply her own. She couldn’t blame anyone else for it. She couldn’t deflect her resentment at a different target. It was just her.
Because you’re the only one you trust. If this was Klein you’d just push it aside, and you know it, so stop whining.
She sort of grunted to herself as she grabbed a book, as if she was acknowledging the truth of it without wanting to.
You know you talking to yourself verbally like that is just going to make everyone think you’re even more psychotic, right?
She sighed, opening the book, not particularly caring what it was. In truth, she didn’t feel like reading. She was tired. She’d heard all the talk -- she was dead. How could she be tired? But she didn’t buy it. She firmly believed that mental exhaustion could still translate physically, and still was in her case. And to say she was mentally exhausted was an understatement. Sure, it was mostly because of the Rant, which almost certainly ranked as the worst experience she’d endured since she’d fled the Camarilla that night at Elysium. But that, she knew, was an opinion that put her firmly in the minority. So she tried not to indicate it to anyone. She’d probably be branded a heretic or a fake Anarch or however people like that were looked at.
Would they be wrong? You’re not an Anarch. Not really. You’re just not Camarilla and you’re not Sabbat and you have nowhere else to go.
Gabriella scrunched her nose up as she somewhat violently flipped the page of her book. She couldn’t remember a single thing she’d read on the last one. It hardly mattered.
Honestly, you’d probably have been better off just staying in the Camarilla. What’s the difference between dying trying to take Boston for the Anarchs and dying trying to take New Orleans for the Camarilla? Functionally, it ends the same way, doesn’t it?
“No. No no no,” she snapped out loud, abruptly. “I’d have been better off just letting them kill me in Formal Court that night and I’d have saved everyone there and here a whole lot of fucking trouble!”
Gabriella fell silent. So, too, did her own mental voice, even if only for a few moments. Apparently she’d shocked even herself.
She took a breath. She was overreacting, even more than usual. The last two weeks really had done a number on her, even if it was only temporary. She hadn’t expected much from the Rant, and the compromise solution somewhat surprised her (and simultaneously raised her opinion of Alain, which was an even bigger surprise). Sure, it was the solution she’d wanted. Gabriella was, fundamentally, a pragmatist who spent most of her nights hunting for the least bad option in every situation that confronted her.
Boston made sense. There was already a war. There was magic that the Camarilla wouldn’t hesitate to make use of. It was, in her estimation, more vulnerable than Philadelphia, which she viewed as a suicide mission. And it was more valuable than Canada, a region she saw as a headache waiting to happen, offering little of value in exchange for a wide swath of unremarkable territory that would require more extensive effort to clear out and govern. She had wanted to hear what everyone had to say before making a decision, and when she did, she wanted to make a decision that she’d feel comfortable verbally advocating in favor of. And her urgency only increased when she saw Boston’s jumbled sales pitch contrasted with Alain’s charisma and Alexis’ willingness to murder the entire room to make her point.
And eagerness. Willingness and eagerness.
She had braced herself for the noise and the fights, but bracing one’s self for it and actually experiencing it were two different things. She felt overmatched from the moment she first spoke. Gabriella’s brand of logical persuasion, she’d realized, wasn’t going to play in a room where barbarism and showmanship were more important than facts and arguments. She had forced herself to accept that she could have spoken for ten minutes and wouldn’t have won over anywhere near as many converts as Alain did simply from beating Bonaparte in a fight. And she definitely didn’t expect to have to engage in a whole separate debate when Austin somehow managed to get a significant part of the crowd lined up behind him with an emotional appeal to...go after the target that Gabriella had been under the impression they were already focusing on.
It was a stupid and barbaric way to make life-or-death decisions. But it was the game she was playing, whether she liked it or not. And she was immensely grateful that Vivian had swept in and singlehandedly ensured that they weren’t going to die in a doomed suicide mission in Philadelphia.
Gabriella, all she did was ensure that you die in Boston instead. We’ve been over this.
The Malkavian sighed again. That kind of underlined the problem. More than ever, Gabriella felt marginalized. Disheartened. Like any concerns she raised would be dismissed or steamrolled. She was a pragmatic creature in a community of dogged, determined go-getters. She had a glass-half-empty mentality in a movement of unflinching optimists. A reluctant public speaker and debater with an aversion to combat in a world where everyone else commanded a room more effectively, be it with their words or their fists.
It was kind of her nightmare scenario. She wanted to be useful -- necessary, even, because the lesson she’d taken from her Camarilla trial by fire was that the less integral you were, the more likely you were to be tossed to the wolves as cannon fodder. Acceptable losses. And she’d failed to escape that category in New Orleans. Alexis outranked her on Southside. Bonaparte had taken cities -- a fact that he hadn't been modest in using to win people over when they'd debated, and one she had no good counter to. Alain was inspiring….to some people, anyway. Vivian and Corinne could go toe-to-toe with anyone in a fight. Sheldon and Catherine had magic that nobody else had access to. She ran down a whole list of Anarchs in her head, reminding herself what they brought to the table and why they would be given priority.
Gabriella had vague gang ties and not much else. Sure, she knew the inner workings of the Camarilla, but was that even a benefit at this point so much as it was a reason for others to be wary of her? So much for essential. No wonder no one listened to her.
Now now, Gabriella. It’s not your fault you’re not good at anything.
“Not true. Anarchs just don’t value the things I’m good at!”
Gabriella. You’re talking back to me again like a psycho. Besides, you’re dwelling on the wrong thing. It doesn’t matter how cannon fodder-y you are. Houston’s already here in some form. They’re going to find you waaaaay before you get to Boston. So hey, there’s that. I’ll leave it up to you whether that’s better or worse.
Gabriella fell silent, gritted her teeth, and started picking at her fingernails, one of her go-to tics for when her anxiety started to get the better of her. It helped keep the worst at bay. She didn’t know why. After this long, she also didn’t question it.
Forget the Rant, Gabriella. And ignore your uselessness. You haven’t even internalized that parade yet, have you?
No, she hadn’t. She had ample reason to. She had suddenly become something of a celebrity in Caiman territory, the sudden subject of hushed whispers of is-that-really-her and selfie requests. It was everything she didn’t want. Thousands of people, she knew, had seen her on display, and a decent percentage of them no doubt committed her face to memory.
And what are the odds that at least one of those people was there working under Houston’s orders? Probably better than 50/50, right, Madame Queen of the Caimans? Is that too conservative? Maybe 75/25? Your head would probably look good on a plate, at least. That’s what they do to queens, you know. Remember that old Coldplay song?
Gabriella squeezed her eyes shut. Her head was not going to end up on a plate. She didn’t even know how that would work, first of all.
And yet, for all the triggers...there was something she’d grown to like about her new role as Antonella. Part of it came down to expectations, she knew; Octavio was a gentleman and a bit of a romantic, not fitting at all with the stereotype she’d had about ruthless, callous, emotionless brutes running the gangs of Southside before she’d involved herself. And part of it was seeing what it was like. Contrary to belief, Gabriella did value new experiences. A huge part of her efforts to protect herself came from reading the people around her; what they wanted, what they feared, what motivated them. Experiencing and embracing this level of public adulation was entirely new to her. And her response to it…
It was complicated. She’d really wanted to like it. She thought she genuinely might have enjoyed it once upon a time in a past life. In fact, she found herself jealous...jealous of the people who could like it. As it was, her mind simply wouldn’t allow her to ever be comfortable enough with it to seek it out, whether she wanted to or not.
Because I’m looking out for you, just like you do for Catherine. Too bad you’re just as bad a listener as she is. I can’t believe I’d ever want you emulating Vivian, but at least she stays out of trouble!
“Leave them out of this,” Gabriella muttered aloud to herself, not particularly happy with her subconscious invoking her gangmates.
There you go with the talking to yourself again. Klein taught you better than that, didn’t he?
Gabriella’s physical reaction to that was visceral, even more than usual. In the blink of an eye, without even realizing quite what she was doing or why she was doing it, fangs met skin, and she was left staring at a large self-induced gash she’d slashed into her forearm.
Yes, she remembered Klein’s education. She remembered every moment. She hardly needed the reminder. It never left her.
Maybe, deep down, she’d just wanted to punish her subconscious. She’d wanted to make it hurt the way it hurt her. But that wasn’t possible without hurting herself more, too. And in her head, she knew that. Because nobody knows how to make you hurt more than yourself.
She sealed the wound, her breathing -- unnecessary yet practiced and existent even in private -- a bit shaky as she did so. Her subconscious subsided a bit, crowded out by the growing chaos in her head -- or perhaps a bit startled at her abrupt self-assault. Or pleased that it had gotten the reaction it wanted. She didn’t know. It was one of the things she chose not to question. Gabriella preferred to fixate on things she could change or control, which was why she rarely analyzed her own behavior. Changing that, she knew, was a lost cause.
Maybe there was a reason she was relatively comfortable on Southside, at least by her own standards. It wasn’t real -- not really. She was wearing a persona, and it invalidated any hint of genuineness that came with any personal interaction. And yet...none of the people looking at her or talking to her had any reason to suspect that anything unusual was going on in her head. None of them felt like they needed to walk on eggshells around her. None of them treated her like she was different, a threat, a cat amongst the pigeons, someone who should be looked at from a distance and responded to with a nod and a slow retreat. Not that she didn’t get why they did. It was a perception she understood. Frankly, it was a perception she’d at times encouraged.
But it was a perception that sometimes she wished she could turn off. A world where everyone just treated her like...Gabriella. And in Southside, she could do that. She’d just have to settle for everyone treating her like Antonella instead.
You want everyone to treat you normal while you push them away and the only version of you people like is a fake identity constructed to fit in with a gang of thugs. Talk about nailing life, Gabriella.
She gave up, tossing her book aside, sitting in silence and squeezing her eyes shut. She had lost both the battle and the war. There would be no beating back the demons tonight. She rarely did when left to her own devices. It was, more than any safety or security concerns, why she chose not to live by herself, chose to keep close to a handful of people, chose to seek companionship even when it went against her instincts.
She’d never admit it to anyone. The best way to prevent one’s vulnerabilities from being exploited was to keep one’s vulnerabilities to themselves.
No, it’s just that you’re a coward.
Ella the Ripper. Antonella. Lola. It didn’t matter how many times she reinvented herself, how much she pretended to be someone she wasn’t, how many people she fooled with fake confidence and bravado, how many enemies she marginalized or chased off, how many wars she survived against the odds, how many dangerous situations she skirted her way out of. Eventually, her greatest enemy was always going to catch up with her: the one in her head.
Rude, Gabriella. Rude.