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Damien leaned over the railing of the houseboat, staring out over the Mississippi River and into Southside. He took in the peaceful sight of the river in front of him. The gentle sound of water flowing into the Gulf of Mexico. The subtle smell of curdled blood drying out on the floorboards behind him. He had thrown the two corpses he found in the houseboat into the river. They were unsightly, they smelled bad, and he didn't like something in the room being uglier than him. Go big or go home. Even without the corpses, though, he could only process one thought.
It's over.
Deep down, Damien had known it was over since Juliet ignored his advice to retreat underground after Ben Kind was murdered. He had told her the Anarchs would be out for Blood. He had heard about their work in Southside. But Juliet had always thought she knew best. Even if they come, she had said. They shan't lay a finger on me. Damien laughed at that thought - according to Roger, she had fallen to ash in the Lasombra's hand. He didn't have to do much more than lay a finger on her.
But Juliet didn't listen. Juliet died. And for a few nights Damien let himself believe that Marcus, slimy fratboy douchebag he was, would be able to pull things together. He had even bit his tongue when the douche had said Beatrice was better off dead. Marcus being a prick wasn't news to him. And it would be simple enough to recover her and figure things out from there. He'd left his Southside operation on autopilot to find the blonde Malkavian. To find his friend. His search had led him here, but Beatrice was gone. And when he asked the crickets, they told him she had left with three others of her Blood. That the Anarchs had her.
That was when he knew it was over.
Damien was a cold man even in life, but his heart hurt for Beatrice. He told himself he didn't love her - she wouldn't have even fucked him while he was alive. Before he looked like this. She was a sweet girl, though. She hadn't chosen to become a killer. And she was the only Camarilla in the city who didn't think less of Damien for his Blood. She was his friend, if nothing else. Perhaps his only friend. And seeing the way his friend was treated began to grate on him and challenge his loyalty to his sires' cause.
Even beyond his personal feelings, though, he knew the offensive was over. Juliet's plan had always been a longshot, but it seemed possible while they had the initiative. While the Anarchs were catching up to them. While they laid traps for the Rabble and sent the federal government wherever Pratik sang. But now they had beaten him to Beatrice by at least two nights. Maybe more. Now Agent Northam had descended on them in retribution for Pratik's trickery. Now Marcus was going on a full-blown ego-trip and pulling a dumb stunt instead of going to ground and trying to survive.
But then, Marcus was just taking his advice. Go big or go home. Marcus was going big. He was going to risk his worthless unlife for some big spectacle, for the chance to take the offensive again and become Prince or King or whatever the Camarilla had run cities.
But in that moment, as Damien pondered his unlife before him, he felt his phone buzz. It snapped him out of the moment of tranquility he had achieved staring out over the river. He lifted his phone. It was Marcus. He needed something. He always needed something.
But it was over.
And in that moment, Damien made his choice. Go big or go home. With all of his Potence, he hurled the phone over the side of the boat and into the water. He heard it vanish under the water, and then he turned to leave. He wouldn't die Marcus. The Syndicate would buy him the time he needed to vanish. And then...who cared what was next? He'd survive. And as long as he survived, there would always be another night. Just like when he had lived. He would survive and see what happened.
Damien felt his feet crunch against the gravel as he made his way back towards the bridge to Southside. He was going home. But as he looked back over the moonlit water he had just one thought.
He hoped Beatrice would be okay.