William LuPone sat at the back of the dirty, nameless, makeshift pub that he had made his center of operations. The centuries-old Brujah had both arms wrapped about two gorgeous Blood Dolls, enjoying his latest gift from the Ventrue to the north. Colombo's errand girl Clover, plain and insane as the Malkavian was, had brought him two truly delightful morsels. He mused that his old rival had been his only friend after he was robbed of his holdings in the limits. Everyone else had fled to the usurpers - to his treacherous childe Theodore and the upstart neonate who had thrown William out of the Midwest Crew. It was a setback to be sure, but they would be kissing William's rings again before long. And on nights like this, it almost felt like he'd never been deposed in the first place.
It wasn't just the two drowsy thralls asleep in his arms - some mortals couldn't even take a lick or two without passing out. Tonight the nameless pub had been buzzing with agents from every corner of the Limits. Disturbing reports had begun to trickle in. One spy had spoken of a great, toxic fire had broken out in Theodore's territory and the Swords of South Houston, a strong gang, had fled their holdings. An informant whispered to him about a mass movement from the Wastes towards the very same territory - a migration that killed as it went. And still one more of his agents told him that a pack of wolves had left the Blood Acres to the north. Yet despite the frantic tales of his sources, LuPone felt good. He was awash in a vague sense of well-being, delightedly reminiscing on the old nights when he did more than play-act a kingpin.
As William LuPone continued to dine on his kine, three women sat huddled into the too-cramped cabin of a beaten-up pickup truck. Grace Ricardo sat in the driver's seat, eyes focused squarely on the entrance to the unnamed pub she knew LuPone was at. Cramped next to her was Cleo Reynard, checking her makeup in her flip-mirror. And at the end was Clover. The tall, dirty, street-dwelling Malkavian was staring squarely at her watch. Grace could see her mouthing every second out of the corner of her eye. It was pissing her off. But Grace knew she owed Clover big for this, so she kept her Beast's opinions to herself. She returned her full attention to the pub. She stared at it, unblinking and unmoving, ready to react if anything happened. Waiting for Clover's signal.
"Forty five minutes," Clover finally said. "It's been exactly forty five minutes." Grace didn't need to be told again. She popped the door open and stepped out, reaching into the bed for a steel rod and a piece of wood. "Alright, bitches," she said. "You know the plan. Cleo, you're driving. Clover, you're on lookout. Wouldn't want someone to come along and break one of Cleopatra's precious nails."
"Fuck you!" Cleo squealed, still obediently settling into the driver's seat. "I've been unliving dangerously!"
"You've been dancing, you priss," Grace barked. "Now come on, Clover." The Malkavian looked nervously at Grace, not getting out yet. "What are you waiting for, Clo?" Grace asked.
"I just..." Clover muttered. "We can't take this back. We decided to do this so suddenly. It's not even been a week. We have forever to dec-"
"No," Grace said, going around and opening her door. "We don't. Did you hear what Em said? A fucking Tzimisce flesh temple is burning. Shovelheads are pouring into the east. And nobody can get a hold of Theo." Grace paused, looking down. "Theo or Bruno." That genuinely hurt the Brujah. She didn't count many of the damned among her friends. Even Clover was more of an occasional lackey. But Bruno was a rare equal to her in cunning and ambition. She had not heard from Bruno tonight, and her calls had gone straight to voicemail. He could be running, but Grace had heard the same reports William had from the Blood Acres. She knew in her heart that Bruno was gone. "And the Camarilla isn't going to do shit for us. We can either face this on our own, or we can get some help."
Clover hesitated, not speaking. Cleo was about to say something, but Grace cut her off. "Clover," she said, fighting her Beast to lower her voice. "What have I always told you about hanging with me and doing me favors?"
"I don't have to," Clover said quietly. "I'm free to leave whenever I want."
"That's right," Grace said. "I always meant it, and it's still true." Grace took a step back. "I'm not going to make you do this. I'm not going to kill you if you want out. If you're not ready to take this step, I'll call someone to pick you up and take you to Colombo's turf. That's where it'll be safest for you." Grace was quiet for a moment, letting Clover process the offer. "But," she interjected into the silence. "You don't have time to drag out your decision. You have to make a choice."
"What if it's the wrong one?" Clover blurted out. "What if we die?"
"Then we die fighting," Grace said simply. "We don't get pulled out of our offices by some crazy fundamentalist weirdos or eaten by some feral Mexican Gangrel. We go out with a little fucking dignity. More than the Camarilla ever let us have in these fucking slums."
Clover looked at Grace for a long, hard moment. Grace assumed the madwoman was reading her aura. Or looking into the future. Or whatever it was Malkavians did. Grace didn't even pretend to understand them. But whatever she did seemed to satisfy her. Clover got out of the truck and walked to the side of the pub door, letting Grace enter...
A half hour later, William wasn't in the pub anymore. He was staring out at the night sky, watching the city lights and what stars could shine through them dance about. He still wasn't quite sure how he had gotten here. He was finishing off one of his vessels when the door had crashed open, and Grace walked in carrying a steel rod. He laughed - did this neonate really think he could take her on one-on-one? He rose to face her, but his fists failed to find their home. He struggled to rouse his Beast. Grace laughed at him. Her taunts were muffled, as was the pain of her blows. He could only piece together bits of it. Talk of xanax, of traps, of him being an idiot. It all blended together, culminating in a sharp pain in William's chest. He couldn't move for some reason, simply look at the dancing lights above him as he was hoisted high into the air on a stake in a shape Grace had prepared just for the occasion.
As he stared motionlessly at the dancing lights above him, he could hear Grace's muffled voice. He could smell the noxious scent of gasoline. And after a few more minutes, he could feel a warmth at his feet. The fire lapping at his shoes finally riled the Beast, but he could not move with the stake in his heart. Soon enough, the lights were obscured by the fire. And then everything went black.
Grace watched on as William finally ignited. The Elder Brujah exploded into flames, flaring spectacularly before his body crumbled to ash. Cleo and Clover stood with her, watching this symbol of Camarilla oppression melt away upon the sigil of the Anarch Movement. Once LuPone was ash upon the flames, Grace took out her phone and snapped a picture to send to Alexis. "Let 'em get a good look at the bonfire they built themselves," the Anarch said.
Soundtrack - We are the Hearts