Whispers in Southside

[Alex]

New Orleans' sprawling, southern slums are a city unto themselves. Cut off by the Mississippi River and a deep divide between Southside and the wealthier north, this favella has its own information economy. In an area where access to electricity and internet are inconsistent, word of mouth, rumors, and gossip rule the day (and the night) even among millions. These rumors eventually spill their way online, spreading even further. Having a finger on the pulse of the desperate masses is invaluable for the Kindred residing there. Knowledge is power, and only the strong survive on Southside's turbulent streets.

[Alex]

The official news cycle is quiet for now. There's always more chatter about Obsidian and the police contract. Always more ramblings about "terrorism" and the "plight" of slum-dwelling mortals. But none of it is particularly interesting to the Kindred and Cainites of the Movement. There is other news for them, though. Because what really matters to them is happening on the Southside right now, and the news doesn't sound good. A few snippets are provided below, along with their impacts. Note that these stories are not exclusive - you can assume they've been told in other ways, along with similar stories. If you feel your character heard about them, they have. And don't worry too much about specific names and connections - this is word on the street.

"What Could Be Worse?"

"Did you hear about what happened at the clinic?" Calypso Defoe, an enforcer for the Enterprise whispered to her girlfriend Patricia as they stood on watch. The the in her statement was definitive. She wasn't talking about a clinic or some clinic with a name. There was one clinic she had in mind.

"Where the Dead Lady does her surgery?" Patricia asked.

"We don't talk about that," Calypso harshly hushed her. "The place got absolutely trashed. Word is just getting around." Patricia's eyes went wide. The Dead Lady, one of many names for Alexis, was something of a pillar of the community in Southside. She had about as much goodwill as anyone could in the slums. "Someone tried to take a hit out on her, it's the only explanation."

"Who would do that?" Patricia hissed back. "And is she-"

"No, place was just about empty," Calypso reassured her. "Alexis showed up a few hours later and reached out. But she wants blood, and not for sucking."

"You think the Cats finally lost their minds?" Patricia asked. "Leon's the only one big-ballsy enough to pull something like that off."

"Hell no, the dude's crazy - not stupid," Calypso replied. "I overheard when our Board met that Leon flipped his shit at the other gang leaders. He wants to find who pulled this shit, and even the Clowns are up to help."

"Any leads?" Patricia said. "Have you heard anything?"

"Just crazy bullshit," Calypso said, shaking her head. "People around there saying that whatever did it wasn't human."

"Leeches?" Patricia said.

"Naw, something else," Calypso said, biting her lips. "Something worse."

"That can't be right," Patricia said. But Calypso just shrugged. Vampires existed, after all. Who the fuck knew what else was true?

Alexis DeLaCroix temporarily loses one dot of Resources.

Noctu Invictus

Noctu Invictus

Were the words French? Obviously not - someone or another around here would have known. French Creole still flowed like cheap liquor in the streets of Southside. But where those words hung was a lot more important than what they said. Their intent would be obvious even to the illiterate. They hung, burned into a wooden side, around the neck of a man wearing Guardians' colors. He, in turn, had been crucified against the wall of a Guardians hideout. The gangster was upside down, with bolts rammed through his palms and feet. But one thing was even more conspicuous - the wooden stake through the dead man's heart. It was an unnerving sight in the morning light rising over the Bayou.

"Bailey's gonna be fucking pissed," muttered one Guardian to another, both of whom had been called to the scene. "Did he take out the whole crew?"

"Nah, man, they got chased off earlier," his compatriot explained. "The Rivermen made a push. Another one."

"Shit, from bad to worse," the first said. "First the Rivermen get their oats, and now this shit?"

"This is gonna spook people," the second man replied. "You know it will. Superstitious fuckers."

"Well can you blame them?" the first said in response. "You know who this is meant for. And if it keeps up..."

"...folks are gonna think that if they ditch the Lick, whoever this is will go away," the second said solemnly.

"Well let's not sit around and wait for them to get any fucking ideas," the first Guardian said. "Chase these people off. I'll take the body down and figure out who it was..."

A Quick Buck

"Oh honey, look at that rock," Matilda "Violet" Cosby gushed over her spritely friend Cho Han's engagement ring. The two Angels were backstage, with the sun yet having set, to get themselves ready for their first shift. "How on earth did Dennis afford this?"

"It's even more expensive than you think," Cho said. "It's an actual diamond. From downtown!"

"That don't answer the question," Matilda harumphed as she began to apply her makeup. "I know your Dennis doesn't make this kind of scratch."

"I kind of felt bad for him, honestly," Cho replied. "He came home with a busted eye. But the Urgent Care fixed him right up with the spare change."

"Oh no, don't tell me he did toxic dumping," Matilda gasped. "It's not worth it!"

"No, nothing like that," Cho said, puckering her lips to spread the cherry red lipstick over them. "It was political bullshit. Some guy offered him a card full of credits to go get his ass kicked by a cop."

Matilda looked at Cho, shocked now. "What?"

"It has to do with the bullshit over which corp gets to kick us around," Cho said, perhaps more casually than she should have. "He got a swollen eye and a sprained wrist, but the creds were good! And once he was patched up, he proposed." Cho's eyes fluttered. The reality of the brutal, uncomfortable lives of Southside were something the Angels had long ago become numb to.

"Well, if my Jay gets up to that shit I'm gonna cram that ring down his throat," Matilda said. "You don't fuck with the cops. No way no how!"

"Oh I told him not to do it again," Cho reassured her friend. "But...you have to admit. It's a beautiful ring."

Matilda rolled her eyes as Cho displayed the rock again. "No sense lying about it," Matilda said as she put her headdress on. "You're a lucky woman. And Dennis is a stupid man."

"The Broad of my Dreams"

Michelle - known to the Crimson Tap as Lara Oakley - was polishing glasses when the door opened. A few men walked in, mohawks shaved into their heads and smiles on their faces. It was a funny look for them - these guys didn't normally smile. This must have been good. Especially since they were here in the late afternoon. This crowd was usually sleeping around then.
"Hey bartender," one said, banging the bar. "Drinks on the house! I just met the broad of my dreams!"

"Lucky you," "Lara" said, beginning to pour beer out from the taps. "Lucky lady here tonight?"

"Hell naw," he said. "I met her at Good Intentions. You know that grunge club down the way?"

"Of course I know Good Intentions!" Michelle replied. She had heard of it, but hadn't been. She'd been much too busy, but she had to keep up the illusion. "You must have missed me last time I dropped by."

"Well shame for you," the man said, passing out beers as Michelle poured them. "I met the sexiest bitch I've ever seen. And she's a vampire." Michelle hid her excitement. Wow...this had just fallen into her lap.

"I thought we avoided Vampires around here," Michelle said. It was a true statement. From what little she knew, most of the Vampires in the Burbs - Houston's own slums, surrounding the city's core - were two-bit Camarilla thugs. Their dumbest, most violent Kindred clawing for some scrap of power.

"Most of the time, yeah, but this is different," the man said. "This is a classy Vampire. Like the ones downtown. A real pretty bitch. And she wants to see me again!"

"That right," Michelle asked, making sure she sounded skeptical.

"Yeah, she said long as I did her a little favor I could come back," the man replied, finally sitting down. "I spent all night with her and shit, I barely remember it!"

"Guess you better get to work, then!" Michelle said, giggling like a bartender would. But she knew she would need to get to work soon, too.

[Alex]

Hundreds gathered along the banks of the southern edge of the Mississippi to watch one of the Rivermen's well-known funeral rituals. The gang was sending off its leader, Gerald Kilpatrick. Kilpatrick's death was sudden and unexpected, but comes on the heels of an embarrassing surrender of territory to the Guardians after the implosion of an offensive effort. Some suspect a coup, while others muse that the disgraced gang leader may have committed suicide. The Rivermen have not yet selected a new leader.

In a rare display of unity, the Dark Carnival and Big Cats are both providing manpower and material to rebuild the makeshift doctor's office destroyed about a week ago. The office was known to belong to the Vampire known as Alexis, a popular figure among the Southside community and a respected mediator between the gangs. Perdition's mysterious owners have announced that there will be an event to raise more money for the reconstruction effort, and will be putting out a program for the event in the near future.[/list]

[Alex]

The young woman stood out like a sore thumb in the Laveaux Center. From the flowers in her hair to the comparatively expensive clothes she wore - clothes that weren't cranked out of a 3D printer - she could have hardly looked more out of place in Southside. The center itself was one of the larger buildings in the area, sitting at the southern border of the Perdition Neutral Zone almost across the street from the Children of the Loa gang. As one might expect, the green and black bandannas, shirts, and other articles carried by the self-same gang were common here. The whole center jived with their own iconography. They were a gang at the end of the day, but all of the gangs of Southside had their own identities to cling to.

The young woman looked around, scouting for someone who looked older. Ms. Belle had asked her to collect oral history - it was one of the conditions for the pendant of the dragon-winged woman that guaranteed her safety among the gangs. And besides that, Ms. Belle said it would be good for her. The young woman had more trouble than she expected finding an older resident, a grim fact in a slum where life was short and disposable. At last, her gaze fell on an older black man with a craggy face and dreadlocks dyed green and black - his gang flag. He was admiring one of the mosaics, and turned when he heard the young woman's footsteps approaching. "Bonswa, madam," he said, bowing his head a bit. "Are you lost, mezanmi? You look it." His eyes fell to her chest, and to the pendant. "Or perhaps you're not. Perhaps Madam Bell has sent you to perform some task.

"Yes," the young woman replied, steadying her nerves. "My name is Moxie. Moxie Veillon. I go to Tulane, and I'm a member of a club there. The Lost Souls. Ms. Belle and her apprentice Leigh wanted me to collect some oral history." She paused, as the man gave her a quizzical look. "Stories, I mean. Sorry."

The man just laughed. "Oral history," he chuckled. "You really are a college girl aren't you? No matter! I have time, and these young fools are too stupid to listen to me anyhow." He gestured to several younger gangsters tending to their own business. "Just promise me that you'll put in a good word with Madam Le Blanc. Tell her Papa Legba would appreciate a private show for the trouble." Moxie nodded, and the old man leaned against the wall. "So listen here, young madam, and let me tell you the story of the first Peace of Mardi Gras."

===

The first peace began 19 years ago, not that anyone Southside counts. And if you're expecting a story full of pageantry and legend and myth, you'll be disappointed. The first Peace of Mardi Gras didn't even begin on Mardi Gras! It came with the great storm Hurricane Cassidy, which flooded our city from north to south and east to west. Back then the boundaries between north and southside were far less important. North of the river was always better off, but we were still considered one city then. One Nawlins. When the waters receded to the river, they left behind this new boundary between the civilized and the savage.

Oh, Mardi Gras. Forgive Papa Legba - his mind and his tongue both wander. So like I said, the first Peace of Mardi Gras didn't come about in Mardi Gras, not really. It came in the wake of Hurricane Cassidy, and its reason was simple. Who in the name of the ancestors would be able to fight or fuck or deal with our city flooded? Many of the gangs of the day were devastated by the wind and the rain. Some vanished entirely, killed in their hideouts as they sought shelter. There was nobody to fight, and so there was no fighting to be done.

But just because there's no fighting doesn't mean there's no business. All these gangsters were situated down here with no electricity, no fresh water, little food, and no violence to keep their minds busy. So they did what men have done since we crawled around the first campfire, madam. We talked. Among ourselves at first, but soon we began to reach out and talk to others. The gangs began to converse, the language of blade and bullet replaced with words. At first they simply shot the shit, but business eventually came into it. With no men ready to fight, the gangs did their battles with intimidation, alliance, and tribute. And so then the lines that separated the gang lords of old shifted beneath the dirty floodwaters.

Eventually those waters receded, and before the shanties were even rebuilt the gangs got back to their blood business. But things were not the same, not truly. For an idea had been planted in the minds of these men. That idea? That not every night had to be spent killing each other, madam! That business could be conducted with words and not bullets. And that the people who live here appreciate a break from it - as do the gangsters themselves, even if those boys would never admit it. And so even while the gangs fought, they talked. Perhaps they should do such a thing every year. Not for the months that Hurricane Cassidy took from us. But perhaps for a week, the streets would be free of blood. And what better week was there for such a thing than Mardi Gras?

And so that next year, the guns fell silent on the Wednesday before Shrove Tuesday. The knives were sheathed. And the gangs themselves celebrated. They paraded about, showing their might through demonstrations. They haggled and negotiated. And by week's end, the battle-lines were drawn for the coming year.

Ah, madam. Now you want to know what happens during those six days. It wouldn't be the Nawlins way to hide out in smoke-filled rooms. Non, madam. Non. Mardi Gras is as much a party Southside as it is north of the Mississippi. Maybe more of one, since we don't got no corporate sponsors to please. Mardi Gras is one of the only things in the year the ordinary folks down here have to look forward to. The gangs say they're protection? They say they're working for the community? Then the people of that community expect to see it around this time. All the gangs hold their own shindigs and soirees. We Children of the Loa take to the streets, communing with our ancestors to bring us good fortune for the coming year. But the biggest ones are to either end of Southside. Here in the east, the Dark Carnival holds its namesake - the Dark Carnival! A great, big outdoor gathering with food, rides, performers, live music - a giant party with all the ganja, liquor, and whatever it is you kids are putting in yourselves nowadays. Out west, the Big Cats hold a big parade like the ones up north...but with their own flavor.

These aren't just innocent parties, though. The Clowns and the Cats may not share a border, but they fight for hearts and minds. Every year, each tries to upstage the other and establish its position for the coming year. The Clowns send out a call for tribute in cash, drugs, and technical expertise to supply the Dark Carnival. The Cats demand a more human offering - women from each gang to be given spots or stripes for the week's festivities. And while violence ain't allowed during the Peace of Mardi Gras, there can be a fair bit of it in the leadup. The Cats and Clowns might try to steal from each other and put their bounty on display at their festival. Or if another gang don't pay their tribute in time, they might have it taken from them. All this is to make sure everyone knows their place in the pecking order. They can fight among themselves, but the Cats and the Clowns know they the bosses when the dust settles. And they wanna know their neighbors know it, too.

Of course it's all gotta come to an end, non? On Shrove Tuesday, all sides stand down for the last big hurrah right down the street at Perdition. Your mistress, Madam Belle, and the Angels rule the night there - a party to renew their neutral status for the year to come. To bring the gangs in to agree to uphold it, and to shower the people in food, liquor, and beauty. And by a happy coincidence, partying up late prevents the gangs from striking in the wee hours of the truce. When Perdition closes in the morning, the Peace of Mardi Gras comes to an end. Everyone returns home to their new position, and prepares for the next year.

===

"So that's Mardi Gras?" Moxie asked. "A show of force by any means but violence."

"I suppose you could put it that way, madam," Papa Legba said. "But I'd just say it's the biggest party that ever mattered."

"I...think I understand," Moxie replied. But the old man cut her off.

"You don't," Legba said, cackling. "Not until you've been a part of it. You come next week? Then, northsider, you might have a clue what it means to us." Moxie didn't argue, she just nodded. The whole point of coming here and taking this history was to earn Miss Belle's protection for the festival. And it seemed that she had succeeded. "Remember," the old man said. "Send your mistress my regards. I hope to see you next week, to truly experience the Mardi Gras the way the spirits meant it."

[Alex]

North of the Mississippi River, Mardi Gras passes without incident. The pristine celebrations that line the streets of New Orleans' Downtown, Westside, and even Eastside districts to an orderly close. A few arrests were made over the week of debauchery, but for most New Orleans residents life is returning to normal. The same is true of the slums of Southside, to a point. As Mardi Gras winds down, the gangs party together at and around Perdition as the nightclub hosts the last and biggest street party before Shrove Tuesday. But Southside is rarely unchanged between the start and the end of Mardi Gras. And this year's celebration is no exception.

News doesn't travel by print or by byte in Southside, though. It travels by word of mouth. And characters with a presence in Southside will hear these stories, rumors, and claims circulate over the nights and weeks following the final celebration at Perdition and the end of Mardi Gras.

---

Pictures of the celebration are passed around every year, but one in particular gets shared a fair deal. It's an image of a tall, thin woman with striking features in a cylindrical cage atop a gaudy float. She's naked and covered in the color and markings of a leopard, and she's holding the bars and looking desperately at the camera. Captions explain that this is Sonya Williams, a lieutenant for Bailey Spencer and her Guardians Gang - an "involuntary tribute" as Leon Breaux has called it. Most of the Gangs of Southside, save the Guardians, make a voluntary tribute to Leon's parade every year to remain in his good graces. Sonya Williams was taken, though, and made the centerpiece in a show of force by the Big Cats. With his ornament on display, Leon's parade cut into turf considered as belonging to the Rivermen. The Big Cats claimed no territory, but passed out food and resources to locals harmed by the seeming implosion of the Rivermen. Altogether, Southsiders expect Leon is laying the groundwork for an active year.

In the same breath that Southsiders snicker and gawk at the cat-printed Guardians Lieutenant, they also talk about the other big shake-up in politics west of the Canal. Perhaps sensing their own weakness, the Guardians ended their long-time refusal to deal with the other gangs. Word had spread that Bailey Spencer and Octavio Guzman had come to an understanding, and the Guardians were in with the Caimans now. The terms of the deal seem to shift with the teller. Caiman gangsters act as though the Guardians are their subsidiary now, while Guardians talk about it as an agreement for mutual defense and nothing more. But it's broadly understood that the Caimans are in the superior position. With one of their four borders with other gangs taken care of, the Caimans may be able to act more assertively in the coming year.

That said, Mardi Gras did end on a slightly sour note for the Big Cats. As the party raged in the Perdition Neutral Zone, a fire raged in the southern tip of the Big Cats' territory. Several lines of homes, including a Big Cats hangout, burned to the ground, though no deaths were reported. Word on the street is that the fire was an accident - perhaps a firework gone wry, or a cooking setup that went up in flames. It's nothing of importance to the Big Cats on the whole, but certainly an inconvenience for them.

To the east of the Harvey Canal, the usual pleasantries of Mardi Gras Gang diplomacy gave way to a rare spat between the Westbank Gang and the Choirboys. The details have been kept in private, but rumor has it that the Dark Carnival had to directly intercede to keep the Westbank Gang and the Choirboys from shredding their agreement to respect each others' borders. Locals are concerned, as the Westbank Gang is all that stands between the potential for violence between the Choirboys and the Children of the Loa - long-time enemies. The source of the dispute isn't known to anyone outside of the gangs or their mediators, and the Dark Carnival has kept what they know under lock and key. For now, the community breathes a sigh of relief for another year of tense peace in the southeast. But now that the prospect of violence is raised, it's hard for them not to think about its possibility.

[Alex]

Club Perdition - the jewel of Southside - was usually the loudest, most swinging party in the city. Most nights there was no break in the music, the dancing, the gambling, or the drinks. And for the most part that was still the case. But regulars could tell that there was a hesitation to the debauchery these nights. An extra bit of desperation to chase away some lingering anxiety. The mood was like the subtle shockwaves of an earthquake before anyone could truly feel it. The earthquake itself came in the whispers that were spreading throughout the club. The hushed conversations sound something like the ones below, and can be heard by any Kindred operating in Southside.

"Davey Stewart is dead. The leader of the Westbank Gang. The ones who separate the Choirboys and the Loas."

"Assassination?"

"Nobody knows. The gang is keeping a lid on it while they fight over who's in charge."

"Was it th-"

"I said nobody knows. A guy I know in the Carnival says they're fucking pissed."

"Well what's so bad about that? Gang leaders die all the time."

"It's bad because things were already tense with the Westbankers and the Choirboys. Some bad blood had to get settled by the Dark Carnival during Mardi Gras. The pump is already primed for a fight."

"And what's so bad about that? Gangs fucking fight all the time. It's kind of their thing."

"Gangs fight over turf and money and bitches and drugs. The Choirboys and the Loa want to fight over fucking religion."

"What kind of dumbfuck reason for fighting is that?"

"I know it's dumb and so do you. But they don't. And you can fight and win and settle over and lose turf and money and bitches and drugs. You can't exterminate faith."

"...so they might never stop fighting if they can."

"And the Choirboys are moving guys to their border with Westbank."

"Are the Loa doing the same?"

"Yep. And the Vipers are, too. They don't want to take sides. But they sure as fuck don't want that shit spilling over."

"And if the Westbank guys are surrounded, they might do something stupid. And the Clowns can't stop this?"

"Nobody's all-powerful. The Clowns are only as strong as their word. They got the Loa to back off on their word the Westbankers could keep the Choirboys away. If the Clowns can't keep their word, the Loa have no obligation to keep theirs."

"And this is all, what? A few blocks from Perdition?"

"Now you know why everyone's so fucking down."

[Alex]

In early April, the Perdition Neutral Zone was abuzz with talks of an almost-incident at the Club. The first time weapons had entered the premises in almost 10 years. With so many armed men around, a few dust-ups were expected here and there. But this one was forthright. It was direct. And it ended in an unusual way.

"I saw it myself! The Vipers marched right into Perdition and guns drawn. They were out for blood."

"Yeah, right in the side door! I heard they wanted to gun down the Loa for trying to poison them."

"Why would they try to fuck with the Vipers? The Loa want to kick the Choriboys' asses. And the Vipers are in the way."

"Did you hear? That one Angel, the...uh...senior one. Belle. She stepped right in the way of the Vipers and made them put down their guns."

"How did she make them? With...powers?"

"No, she talked 'em down. Brought their leaders aside. Then everyone partied like it didn't happen."

"It can't be that simple!"

"Of course it's not but gangs don't talk about their private shit in public. All I know is that they've dropped their guard at their borders. So something good happened."

"Thank fuck. The last thing we need is fighting right now."

"Well we aren't out of the woods yet. The Westbank fuckers still don't have a leader. And the Choirboys haven't stopped making noise."

"Shit. I hope those whackos step off before someone gets killed. A lot of someones."

[Alex]

Over the last two weeks, an unusually widespread sight has become common in Southside. It's not that public executions don't happen, but they're not usually so uniform - or so gruesome. Word spreads of certain avenues where old streetlights have been turned into impromptu gallows. Some hold one body. Some hold three. The one at the edge of Big Cats turf holds five - Leon was never one to take half-measures. On the night that the men were hung, Leon spoke to an assembled crowd - to explain why the execution.

"See these fuckers? These are hyenas. You kittens know what a hyena is?"

The crowd stares mostly in silence. Until a young boy raising his hand. Leon smiles, gets down on his haunches to look at the boy at eye-level. "What's a hyena, son?"

The boy replies. "Ugly dogs!" he says, as though he's answering a question asked by his teacher - not a professional killer. "They steal food from lions and other big cats instead of hunting for themselves."

Leon seemed to like that answer. To the relief of the boy's parents, Leon ruffled his hair and then produced a candy bar from his jeans. "Smart cub," he said, looking to the parents. "He's going to wind up working for me one day and owning this fucking town." Leon returns to his feet and looks around. "Ugly dogs! Scavengers! Outsiders to our pride and cowards to boot!"

"These fuckers!" he said, pointing to the men as they choked out on the light pole - there was no short drop or sudden stop in Southside. "They call themselves the Syndicate! And they think they're going to get rich getting Southside to tear itself apart. By getting us to fight when there's no reason to. By putting you in the line of fire for some far-away fucking Fang master!" The crowd actually booed and hissed at that. People tend to not want to die.

"Be fucking pissed!" Leon said in encouragement. "These cowards want to pick your bones clean! But I won't let them. Because I am the lion! You are my pride! And lions protect their own!"

"Mark my fucking words," Leon continued. "I will meet any gang on Southside anywhere at any time. I'll kill Commies, Clowns, or Snakes any day of the week! But I'll do it on my terms! Nobody rules me! Nobody's making me their bitch! I make bitches!" Leon was getting worked up, continuing to fire up his little crowd. "So if you find anyone from the Syndicate, take them down and bring them to me. The men will hang. The women will get their stripes. And you'll be rewarded! The lion takes care of his pride!"