We're going too far this time.
Beatrice had been quiet for the past few weeks. Her Shadow, Trixie, had been in control more and more. She was able to control her dark thoughts for fragmentary moments. But since Skylar had been taken her wraith was firmly in control. Beatrice had never cared for Skylar as a person. He had been convenient. But she didn't wish him harm. She didn't mean for him to be put in danger. To die.
But that wasn't the opening Trixie had used to slip into the driver's seat. Beatrice was ashamed that it was the withdrawal. The irritation, the weakness, and the frantic thoughts that had come without her fix. Skylar may have shocked her into anger and remorse. But Trixie's real ticket in had been the loss of her hunting grounds. The loss of a stable haven hadn't helped. Beatrice didn't know where she would sleep each day, or who she'd have to kill to do so.
But she had stayed quiet. She had trusted Trixie like she always did. She'd be dead without her shadow to do the things she couldn't. She had been a good girl. For Juliet. For Klein. For everyone. They seemed to prefer Trixie anyways, so it was for the best that she was the one in control.
But tonight she was going too far.
Trixie please...
Well look who's decided to pipe up! Beatrice's own foreign thoughts assailed her at the back of her own mind. Late to the party, as always. That's why you wound up with heroin - all the good drugs were gone. Beatrice recoiled in her consciousness. Her Shadow knew which buttons to press.
Trixie they won't stand for this. Nobody will. We're going too far. And besides...haven't we killed enough people?
Not until we've won. And we are winning.
Then why not stop now?
Why the fuck would you want that? Don't you want payback for your little boytoy?
This won't get Skylar back.
Who cares about getting him back? This isn't about your Nursing school crush, stupid. The moment they think they can fuck with us, they win.
The two looked into the reflection of the elevator wall together, as they did everything. Beatrice couldn't see herself - she could see Trixie, though. Even if they had the same body and even if Trixie used her own face, Beatrice didn't imagine Trixie as her own twin. She imagined her as the mask she so favored. The pale white, featureless mask with black around its eyes and small lips. She imagined the black clothes Trixie always wore. She imagined the last thing that David Bloom - that all of their victims - ever saw.
She knew she needed Trixie. But she hated her. And Beatrice was confident the feeling was mutual.
Look, you dumb fucking blonde. Juliet's been perfectly clear on this. Trixie looked into the elevator's reflection some more, knowing the camera in the corner couldn't see her. And so has Oliver. We kill this one for Juliet. We kill this one for Oliver. And then we're set!
Set for what?
What kind of stupid fucking question is that?
What do we get? That thought caught in Beatrice's head. It swirled around, taunting her and her Shadow. They've promised us a good unlife. But every time we do what they ask, they always ask for more.
Well this will be the last time.
What if it isn't? There was silence in Beatrice's mind for a moment. A moment of reprieve. But then her Shadow smiled. She couldn't see the smile behind the mask. But she could feel her own lips curl and stretch up her face.
Would that really bother you? Don't pretend you don't enjoy it. I know I do.
Beatrice was silent in her own mind. She hated what she was doing. She always had. At least she tried to convince herself that she did. But if she really hated it, why did she let Trixie continue? Why did she relish the howling in her ears as she stabbed? Why didn't she stop?
Because you have no choice. If you stop, you'll die. It's them or you. There's no way out. And besides what makes this one different from everyone else you've killed?
I don't know Beatrice conceded. It's...just a feeling. That we're going too far this time.
Well get over it. We've been standing in this elevator for like 20 minutes.
Beatrice reached out and pressed the button to open the door. Trixie may have driven her thoughts, but she was never truly in control. Deep down, Beatrice knew that she couldn't blame what she did on some alter ego. On some shadow. But at the same time she was too weak to fight it off. She had always been too weak. Too weak to get through medical school. Too weak to survive her own stupid decisions six months before. Too weak to tell Skylar she liked him before she made him like her.
And too weak to stop herself from going too far.
Too Far
Re: Too Far
The sound of clinking glass joined The Boxer playing on a vintage vinyl player. It seemed strange that this was the luxury in the opulent Westside condo Charlie lived in. But a little piece of his past was more valuable to Charlie than anything in this place. He wasn't proud of the jacuzzi, the dining set, or the wide-screen TV. He was proud of the vinyl player, the pictures of his old family on the wall, and of course the set he had with Alain. He wasn't worried who saw it - when strangers asked, it was always a younger brother or nephew he was proud of. A soldier off fighting in some war, for freedom and democracy. He couldn't tell them the truth, but he could get close enough.
"To new beginnings!" He heard the clear, delighted enunciation of Crimson Silver. He and Crimson had always gotten along well enough, but she had basically been his companion - his date, as she liked to declare - at Alain's request. The old man had gotten spooked by all the killings of Anarch allies in New Orleans. Not as spooked as Arthur Beauregard. He had been in a veritable panic, begging Alain to Embrace Charlie before the Pharisee deal had concluded. Charlie had prevailed, and the time he spent with Crimson was certainly a perk of these last few busy week.
"To new beginnings," Charlie said. Funny that he talked about new beginnings as he wore his old body. The one he had before he took on the visage of Benjamin Kind. He wanted to embrace the night as himself, so he had asked Alicia to remake him into his old self. Sure he wasn't as handsome as Benjamin, but Crimson assured him he had a rugged, stern, handsome old man look. Bald even works for you! She had told him, giving his bare head a playful rub.
"I am so very fascinated to hear about your earliest experiences among Kindred," Crimson said, taking a genteel sip of her whiskey. "Alain does not believe I'm ready yet. I admit I was a bit put off, but he waited 50 years for you." Crimson tossed her hair and smiled. "I shouldn't have taken it so personally that our mutual friend has such discerning and rigorous standards."
"I never really asked for it," Charlie said. "He thought the time was right. I don't know if it's a reward or something else to Alain. But I think he's right, and I'm ready to see how things look without the sun."
"I take it you took advantage of the clear skies this weekend, then?" Crimson asked with a wink. "As much as I'd adore an unlife before me, I do think I'd at least want a fine last day to enjoy the warmth on my skin." Crimson sat on the couch now, sprawling herself out as she kept drinking. "And perhaps...other pleasures lost to the damned?"
Charlie chuckled and shook his head. "The sun, yes," he said. "Other pleasures? I'm afraid I have to declined. No offense meant to you, but I never stopped loving my late wife. I've been fine without those pleasures."
"How noble," Crimson said, pulling herself up. "How romantic even. I think you're going to fit right in with the drama that plays out beneath the noses of the living. And perhaps if I am lucky, one night I'll join you as an equal."
"You'll be an equal even once Alain turns me," Charlie said. "That's one thing I've learned from him. Mortals and immortals are equal in the world. Their struggle is ours, and ours is theirs. The deluge." He raised his glass again, and Crimson rose from the couch to meet his toast.
"To the deluge!" Crimson said, grabbing a bottle to refill her empty glass.
Charlie's and Crimson's drinking and discussion was cut off suddenly by a click at the door. Charlie grew nervous, but his nerves subsided for a moment when he saw the guard posted to his room, Raymond. "Raymond," he said, smiling. "Is everything alright?" Raymond didn't reply, though, and Charlie's nerves raised once again. He looked into Raymond's eyes and saw a familiar, glassy stare. The stare of a man possessed. And at the last second, he saw a blur in front of him. A shadow lurching forward. And he swung at it.
Charlie's open swing abruptly impacted the head of a figure standing inches from him. The figure was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a white mask with black rings around the eyes and mouth. It grunted, dropping a knife it had been preparing to stab Charlie with. Crimson screamed and dropped her glass. Charlie looked at her and quickly barked. "Go call security!" He said. "I'll hold him down." Charlie turned back to the figure just in time to raise his hand to black a blow coming for his head. The assassin's fist caught against his forearm, but he felt a sharp pain and a bending sensation as it did. The strength of the damned was in their bones.
Charlie's security and military training took over. He jumped at the attacker, pinning them down as Crimson ran for the bedrooms and pulled out her phone to call the Obsidian forces stationed outside and in the building. He delivered a punch to the assassin, cracking the mask. Charlie managed to dodge around a kick, his training winning out over the attacker's unholy strength. The assassin hissed at him behind the mask, and Charlie could hear Crimson's voice beginning to demand security. He landed another blow, cracking a piece of the mask off. He was surprised to see a sliver of a woman's face under it. Her hair was bright blonde, her skin cold and pale, and her revealed eye was dark hazel.
"Surrender!" He said. "You won't get up!" The assassin stared at him for a moment.
...and then she vanished.
Charlie fell back, scrambling against the couch. Just a moment ago he had been fighting for his life. He could still feel the wound on his arm. But his attacker was nowhere to be seen. Had it all just been some lucid dream? The pain shooting through him and Crimson's tearful pleading on the phone would argue against it. And when he looked to the knife the attacker had dropped, he saw it wasn't there. He wasn't sure what was happening.
Until he felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He looked up to see the figure was back, and she had stabbed him. Blood flowed from the wound into his shirt. The figure moved to stab again, but fell to the side. "Get back!" He heard Crimson yell. "Get back! Leave him alone! Security will be here any moment!" The figure knocked Crimson aside, though. Its gaze fell on her, prone, and the assassin lifted her knife. Charlie's training took over and he bowled the assassin over, knocking her away from Crimson and knocking the knife from her hand. The assassin turned to Charlie and delivered a wild, clumsy blow. This time he wasn't able to block. She got him in the head and sent him to the floor. Charlie could feel warm blood spilling from a headwound. He was beginning to tire. Even Alain's Blood was failing him. And for a moment the figure looked like she was experiencing the same. But the crooks and wounds on her body patched themselves up as she approached the hysterical Crimson once more.
Charlie rose to his feet, ready to protect the mortal woman again. But before he could, the figure turned to him. It had been a trap. Charlie groaned in pain as he felt the knife plunge into his chest. And then his stomach. It sank in two more times. As the assassin reached to strike another blow, the door slammed open and Raymond - still motionless - was pushed to the side. Three armed men entered and drew their guns at the attacker. The first managed to pop off a shot, shooting her in her chest. But once more, she vanished into thin air.
With her gone, all eyes fall on Charlie. He had collapsed to the ground, a growing pool of his blood soaking the carpet. His vision had begun to grow dark and blue. Sounds had an echo. Time began to grow fuzzy and indefinite in Charlie's mind as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
He saw Crimson kneeling over him, crying. And then he blinked.
He saw one of the guards standing over him, calling his name. Asking him questions. But he couldn't reply. And then he blinked.
He heard muffled calls for evacuation. Critical condition. Sweep of the area. And then he blinked.
He felt a woman's hand in his own. He felt a man's hand pounding on his chest, attempting CPR. He saw the shadow of Crimson's face over him.
But this time he didn't blink. He listened to her crying. Her pleading for him to hang on. But he didn't know if he could. He looked her in the eyes and spoke tenderly, quietly.
"Tell Alain...that it was a pleasure."
And he blinked.
Charlie saw nothing but a swirl of dark colors. He heard the muffled shrieks of Crimson. And the shouting of his guards.
"How far out is the fucking ambulance?!" One screamed.
"It's too far!" came the reply. "He's not going to make it!"
And then he closed his eyes.
"To new beginnings!" He heard the clear, delighted enunciation of Crimson Silver. He and Crimson had always gotten along well enough, but she had basically been his companion - his date, as she liked to declare - at Alain's request. The old man had gotten spooked by all the killings of Anarch allies in New Orleans. Not as spooked as Arthur Beauregard. He had been in a veritable panic, begging Alain to Embrace Charlie before the Pharisee deal had concluded. Charlie had prevailed, and the time he spent with Crimson was certainly a perk of these last few busy week.
"To new beginnings," Charlie said. Funny that he talked about new beginnings as he wore his old body. The one he had before he took on the visage of Benjamin Kind. He wanted to embrace the night as himself, so he had asked Alicia to remake him into his old self. Sure he wasn't as handsome as Benjamin, but Crimson assured him he had a rugged, stern, handsome old man look. Bald even works for you! She had told him, giving his bare head a playful rub.
"I am so very fascinated to hear about your earliest experiences among Kindred," Crimson said, taking a genteel sip of her whiskey. "Alain does not believe I'm ready yet. I admit I was a bit put off, but he waited 50 years for you." Crimson tossed her hair and smiled. "I shouldn't have taken it so personally that our mutual friend has such discerning and rigorous standards."
"I never really asked for it," Charlie said. "He thought the time was right. I don't know if it's a reward or something else to Alain. But I think he's right, and I'm ready to see how things look without the sun."
"I take it you took advantage of the clear skies this weekend, then?" Crimson asked with a wink. "As much as I'd adore an unlife before me, I do think I'd at least want a fine last day to enjoy the warmth on my skin." Crimson sat on the couch now, sprawling herself out as she kept drinking. "And perhaps...other pleasures lost to the damned?"
Charlie chuckled and shook his head. "The sun, yes," he said. "Other pleasures? I'm afraid I have to declined. No offense meant to you, but I never stopped loving my late wife. I've been fine without those pleasures."
"How noble," Crimson said, pulling herself up. "How romantic even. I think you're going to fit right in with the drama that plays out beneath the noses of the living. And perhaps if I am lucky, one night I'll join you as an equal."
"You'll be an equal even once Alain turns me," Charlie said. "That's one thing I've learned from him. Mortals and immortals are equal in the world. Their struggle is ours, and ours is theirs. The deluge." He raised his glass again, and Crimson rose from the couch to meet his toast.
"To the deluge!" Crimson said, grabbing a bottle to refill her empty glass.
Charlie's and Crimson's drinking and discussion was cut off suddenly by a click at the door. Charlie grew nervous, but his nerves subsided for a moment when he saw the guard posted to his room, Raymond. "Raymond," he said, smiling. "Is everything alright?" Raymond didn't reply, though, and Charlie's nerves raised once again. He looked into Raymond's eyes and saw a familiar, glassy stare. The stare of a man possessed. And at the last second, he saw a blur in front of him. A shadow lurching forward. And he swung at it.
Charlie's open swing abruptly impacted the head of a figure standing inches from him. The figure was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a white mask with black rings around the eyes and mouth. It grunted, dropping a knife it had been preparing to stab Charlie with. Crimson screamed and dropped her glass. Charlie looked at her and quickly barked. "Go call security!" He said. "I'll hold him down." Charlie turned back to the figure just in time to raise his hand to black a blow coming for his head. The assassin's fist caught against his forearm, but he felt a sharp pain and a bending sensation as it did. The strength of the damned was in their bones.
Charlie's security and military training took over. He jumped at the attacker, pinning them down as Crimson ran for the bedrooms and pulled out her phone to call the Obsidian forces stationed outside and in the building. He delivered a punch to the assassin, cracking the mask. Charlie managed to dodge around a kick, his training winning out over the attacker's unholy strength. The assassin hissed at him behind the mask, and Charlie could hear Crimson's voice beginning to demand security. He landed another blow, cracking a piece of the mask off. He was surprised to see a sliver of a woman's face under it. Her hair was bright blonde, her skin cold and pale, and her revealed eye was dark hazel.
"Surrender!" He said. "You won't get up!" The assassin stared at him for a moment.
...and then she vanished.
Charlie fell back, scrambling against the couch. Just a moment ago he had been fighting for his life. He could still feel the wound on his arm. But his attacker was nowhere to be seen. Had it all just been some lucid dream? The pain shooting through him and Crimson's tearful pleading on the phone would argue against it. And when he looked to the knife the attacker had dropped, he saw it wasn't there. He wasn't sure what was happening.
Until he felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He looked up to see the figure was back, and she had stabbed him. Blood flowed from the wound into his shirt. The figure moved to stab again, but fell to the side. "Get back!" He heard Crimson yell. "Get back! Leave him alone! Security will be here any moment!" The figure knocked Crimson aside, though. Its gaze fell on her, prone, and the assassin lifted her knife. Charlie's training took over and he bowled the assassin over, knocking her away from Crimson and knocking the knife from her hand. The assassin turned to Charlie and delivered a wild, clumsy blow. This time he wasn't able to block. She got him in the head and sent him to the floor. Charlie could feel warm blood spilling from a headwound. He was beginning to tire. Even Alain's Blood was failing him. And for a moment the figure looked like she was experiencing the same. But the crooks and wounds on her body patched themselves up as she approached the hysterical Crimson once more.
Charlie rose to his feet, ready to protect the mortal woman again. But before he could, the figure turned to him. It had been a trap. Charlie groaned in pain as he felt the knife plunge into his chest. And then his stomach. It sank in two more times. As the assassin reached to strike another blow, the door slammed open and Raymond - still motionless - was pushed to the side. Three armed men entered and drew their guns at the attacker. The first managed to pop off a shot, shooting her in her chest. But once more, she vanished into thin air.
With her gone, all eyes fall on Charlie. He had collapsed to the ground, a growing pool of his blood soaking the carpet. His vision had begun to grow dark and blue. Sounds had an echo. Time began to grow fuzzy and indefinite in Charlie's mind as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
He saw Crimson kneeling over him, crying. And then he blinked.
He saw one of the guards standing over him, calling his name. Asking him questions. But he couldn't reply. And then he blinked.
He heard muffled calls for evacuation. Critical condition. Sweep of the area. And then he blinked.
He felt a woman's hand in his own. He felt a man's hand pounding on his chest, attempting CPR. He saw the shadow of Crimson's face over him.
But this time he didn't blink. He listened to her crying. Her pleading for him to hang on. But he didn't know if he could. He looked her in the eyes and spoke tenderly, quietly.
"Tell Alain...that it was a pleasure."
And he blinked.
Charlie saw nothing but a swirl of dark colors. He heard the muffled shrieks of Crimson. And the shouting of his guards.
"How far out is the fucking ambulance?!" One screamed.
"It's too far!" came the reply. "He's not going to make it!"
And then he closed his eyes.
Alex - Your Friendly Neighborhood Storyteller
Re: Too Far
Had she gone too far?
Luma stood in the bedroom of her Haven looking into the mirror. She had been there for hours, since she had left Alain and Arthur. Red tears streamed down her face. She had mourned for Charlie with Alain. And she had mourned for Alain's loss just as much. Alain was her friend. Her inspiration. She wouldn't be here without him. But now she wept for herself. The burden she had been carrying for a week now finally crashed down on her. It was all she could do not to let it show when Alain and Arthur were there. They couldn't know about her burden. Nobody could. They would never understand.
But if she felt guilt, had she done the right thing? If she was right, why did she feel she had gone too far?
Luma had been here before. She had been in here when she broke the seal on Alain's letter asking her to keep an eye on Charlie and protect him against any threat that came to him. He trusted her. And he likely remembered her visions that had saved Austin in nights past. After Luma had read the letter, she focused on it. She focused on Alain, on Charlie, on the words Alain had written. She cleared her mind and allowed herself to peer into fate itself. It was a talent of her Clan, and one she was unusually adept at. She had closed her eyes.
Had she any right to tamper with fate like that? Had she ever had that right? Had she always been going too far?
Luma opened her eyes and saw fire ahead of her, riling the Beast and her own fear. She looked in front of herself and saw a great mountain of tinder, kindling, and lumber. It burned furiously from its top, the flames descending towards its base. She could see a body atop it. Not knowing what else to do, she steeled her soul and reached out to begin climbing it. She expected pain as she climbed towards the approaching flames, but felt nothing. So she continued. The pyre was taller than it had looked, and much more sheer and daunting. She struggled to climb its seemingly flat face. When she got to the top, she could see New Orleans below her. And when she looked at the corpse, she saw the dead man's face.
It was Charlie's face.
Charlie rested atop the fire, the flames looking at but not burning his body. She placed her fingers on his neck and felt no pulse. She pulled his lips up and saw no fangs. His body was cold and dead despite the raging fire around her.
Perhaps that should have been the end of it. She saw Charlie's death - she could have stopped it. Had she gone too far to keep looking?
But then Luma saw something else. She reached down and picked up a mask - a mask like the one she had seen in the footage of Dr. Bloom's death. Its top-right corner was cracked, and it was burning in her hand. She looked to the left and saw a fasces - an axe surrounded by a bundle of sticks. A symbol of command and authority. Then she looked to her right and saw a metal replica of the Tremere's symbol - the circle and arrow of Hermes - melting on the pyre. She looked up to spy an eagle overhead, calling out with grief and wrath.
And then she was back in her Haven.
Charlie wasn't hers to lord over. It wasn't her place to make life or death decisions for him. Had she gone too far?
Luma had cancelled her shifts at Club Neon. She didn't leave her bedroom that night. She contemplated her vision and what it meant. Charlie was dead, but he was not maimed and mangled. The flames may have licked at him, but they didn't burn. Yet the mask of the assassin, the symbol of command, and the mark of the Usurpers were burning away. The eagle flew overhead, not attacking her but mourning the man upon the pyre.
Then her eyes shot open. Luma realized she hadn't been standing on a pyre. She was standing atop a tower. Charlie didn't burn because he had started the fire, and it was consuming the remnants of their enemies.
If Charlie died, the great tower in New Orleans would burn.
If Charlie died, their enemies would burn away upon it.
If Charlie died, the Camarilla attacks that had destabilized New Orleans and driven the Anarchs into hiding would end.
If Charlie didn't die, Luma could not know what would happen. But she had seen her fellow Anarchs suffer at their hands.
What if it went too far? If the Camarilla did something that couldn't be fixed?
Luma thought back to her early nights. Her solitary scheming to betray Henry to the Anarchs and to free herself. She had been scared, but there was a certain comfort in the possibility of Final Death. If she made a mistake, she would not unlive to suffer for it. Now she was faced with a decision that cut her deeper. Perhaps her vision was right, and Charlie's death would be the moment the Camarilla went too far. Pushed too hard. When they left themselves open. But if it wasn't, she would have to live with the guilt for an eternity. She could not know when Final Death would come. She might spend eternity with it gnawing at her soul.
In that instant, Luma made her decision. Everyone had made mistakes. Everyone had suffered for the Movement. Everyone had bled. Everyone but her. And if guilt was the price to free New Orleans and push back the Tower within it, it was a price she was willing to pay. Was it wrong to sacrifice Charlie this way? Perhaps. But how many innocent strangers had met their end for the benefit of the Movement? How many prison guards, security personnel, and standers-by had suffered in the Third Anarch Revolt?
Luma knew what she saw. And if this was going too far, so be it. She would accept the consequences, whatever they were.
But in the present, these thoughts were little comfort to Luma. She finally slumped over on her bed, crying loudly. Tears spilled into her lap. Just because she had done the right thing didn't make it easy. She had betrayed her inspiration and lied to him. She had let a good man meet his end. She had let a Camarilla agent get away with murder.
She had gone too far. But she'd do it again if it meant the Movement would survive.
Luma stood in the bedroom of her Haven looking into the mirror. She had been there for hours, since she had left Alain and Arthur. Red tears streamed down her face. She had mourned for Charlie with Alain. And she had mourned for Alain's loss just as much. Alain was her friend. Her inspiration. She wouldn't be here without him. But now she wept for herself. The burden she had been carrying for a week now finally crashed down on her. It was all she could do not to let it show when Alain and Arthur were there. They couldn't know about her burden. Nobody could. They would never understand.
But if she felt guilt, had she done the right thing? If she was right, why did she feel she had gone too far?
Luma had been here before. She had been in here when she broke the seal on Alain's letter asking her to keep an eye on Charlie and protect him against any threat that came to him. He trusted her. And he likely remembered her visions that had saved Austin in nights past. After Luma had read the letter, she focused on it. She focused on Alain, on Charlie, on the words Alain had written. She cleared her mind and allowed herself to peer into fate itself. It was a talent of her Clan, and one she was unusually adept at. She had closed her eyes.
Had she any right to tamper with fate like that? Had she ever had that right? Had she always been going too far?
Luma opened her eyes and saw fire ahead of her, riling the Beast and her own fear. She looked in front of herself and saw a great mountain of tinder, kindling, and lumber. It burned furiously from its top, the flames descending towards its base. She could see a body atop it. Not knowing what else to do, she steeled her soul and reached out to begin climbing it. She expected pain as she climbed towards the approaching flames, but felt nothing. So she continued. The pyre was taller than it had looked, and much more sheer and daunting. She struggled to climb its seemingly flat face. When she got to the top, she could see New Orleans below her. And when she looked at the corpse, she saw the dead man's face.
It was Charlie's face.
Charlie rested atop the fire, the flames looking at but not burning his body. She placed her fingers on his neck and felt no pulse. She pulled his lips up and saw no fangs. His body was cold and dead despite the raging fire around her.
Perhaps that should have been the end of it. She saw Charlie's death - she could have stopped it. Had she gone too far to keep looking?
But then Luma saw something else. She reached down and picked up a mask - a mask like the one she had seen in the footage of Dr. Bloom's death. Its top-right corner was cracked, and it was burning in her hand. She looked to the left and saw a fasces - an axe surrounded by a bundle of sticks. A symbol of command and authority. Then she looked to her right and saw a metal replica of the Tremere's symbol - the circle and arrow of Hermes - melting on the pyre. She looked up to spy an eagle overhead, calling out with grief and wrath.
And then she was back in her Haven.
Charlie wasn't hers to lord over. It wasn't her place to make life or death decisions for him. Had she gone too far?
Luma had cancelled her shifts at Club Neon. She didn't leave her bedroom that night. She contemplated her vision and what it meant. Charlie was dead, but he was not maimed and mangled. The flames may have licked at him, but they didn't burn. Yet the mask of the assassin, the symbol of command, and the mark of the Usurpers were burning away. The eagle flew overhead, not attacking her but mourning the man upon the pyre.
Then her eyes shot open. Luma realized she hadn't been standing on a pyre. She was standing atop a tower. Charlie didn't burn because he had started the fire, and it was consuming the remnants of their enemies.
If Charlie died, the great tower in New Orleans would burn.
If Charlie died, their enemies would burn away upon it.
If Charlie died, the Camarilla attacks that had destabilized New Orleans and driven the Anarchs into hiding would end.
If Charlie didn't die, Luma could not know what would happen. But she had seen her fellow Anarchs suffer at their hands.
What if it went too far? If the Camarilla did something that couldn't be fixed?
Luma thought back to her early nights. Her solitary scheming to betray Henry to the Anarchs and to free herself. She had been scared, but there was a certain comfort in the possibility of Final Death. If she made a mistake, she would not unlive to suffer for it. Now she was faced with a decision that cut her deeper. Perhaps her vision was right, and Charlie's death would be the moment the Camarilla went too far. Pushed too hard. When they left themselves open. But if it wasn't, she would have to live with the guilt for an eternity. She could not know when Final Death would come. She might spend eternity with it gnawing at her soul.
In that instant, Luma made her decision. Everyone had made mistakes. Everyone had suffered for the Movement. Everyone had bled. Everyone but her. And if guilt was the price to free New Orleans and push back the Tower within it, it was a price she was willing to pay. Was it wrong to sacrifice Charlie this way? Perhaps. But how many innocent strangers had met their end for the benefit of the Movement? How many prison guards, security personnel, and standers-by had suffered in the Third Anarch Revolt?
Luma knew what she saw. And if this was going too far, so be it. She would accept the consequences, whatever they were.
But in the present, these thoughts were little comfort to Luma. She finally slumped over on her bed, crying loudly. Tears spilled into her lap. Just because she had done the right thing didn't make it easy. She had betrayed her inspiration and lied to him. She had let a good man meet his end. She had let a Camarilla agent get away with murder.
She had gone too far. But she'd do it again if it meant the Movement would survive.
Alex - Your Friendly Neighborhood Storyteller