"Si nous recherchons la justice..."
Posted: Thu Jun 17, 2021 9:35 am
May 5th, 2020
Louis Chereau had not felt so tense in decades. The stiffness in his joints made him long for the quickly beating heart, the sound of blood pumping behind his ears, and the heavy, ragged breathing that would have come in life. But in death, he was only tense. A hundred years of a practiced blink and vestigial breaths had gone by the wayside. He sat stiff as the corpse he was, staring ahead. A single thought pounded in his mind.
“Nous avons gagné.”
“We ready for you, Louis.” Louis snapped out of his stillness and gave a quick nod to the young, tattooed Brujah who had been fussing with wires and screws. He only understood the vagaries of the room he was in. The microphone in front of him, he knew from the old black and white television broadcasts of some man with slick hair named Elvis making a terrible racket. He had mostly given up on trying to keep up with mortals, but he got the basics. He didn’t understand what the “internet” was or how it worked. He trusted the young ones who told him it would bring his voice to the whole world like a radio. Now there was a fine piece of work, even if the amount of good music on it grew less and less each night. “No introduction. We don’t need that shit. Just tell the people what they need to know.” The dark-skinned Brujah smiled, and Louis smiled back. It had been a long time since he had smiled and meant it.
The lights in the room brightened, and a hum came on. The Brujah flipped a switch, and the light in his booth turned green. This was it. The Toreador wished he had more time to prepare. His age had gotten him used to thinking in terms of years, not months. But he hadn’t even had that this time. The Anarchs of New York had tapped him to deliver their message just last night. They didn’t want to delay. The young were always so impatient, but Louis knew they were right. If he thought the young were stupid, he would be genuflecting before the Prince instead of…well, what he had done last night. What they had all done. It was a rushed job, and he had offered to let a younger Kindred do it. But the Anarchs wanted Louis. They had fighters. They had politicians. They had influence peddlers. But they wanted him to be their voice. And Louis had managed to keep himself roused into the morning finding that voice. And now it was time to speak it.
“Good evening,” he said, softening his French accent. He spoke firmly and evenly – no frills and no flourish. He copied the human newscasters he saw and heard in the earlier nights of the 20th century. Good evening. Nice and simple. It felt right – give them a moment to settle in.
“My name is Louis Chereau, one Anarch among our multitudes in New York.” They need to know who he was, and that he was not important.
“And this night, New York is free.” Get to the point…but get them excited for it.
“Only two weeks ago, a crime was committed against us by the Camarilla. It is not the first. For our history with the Camarilla is a history of abuse. A history of injury. A history of injustice and servitude. It was a crime not unlike the crimes I know have been perpetrated against you. Perhaps last night. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps every night.”
“But here in New York, we decided that this crime shall be the last crime. That this injury shall be the last we suffer. And that those who committed it must be punished.” Louis paused. Here was the line.
“Last night, we tried Prince Maximillian Rockwell of the Camarilla for that crime – and for all crimes – in his own Elysium.” But it wasn’t just a gore-flecked murder, a mob execution.
“We sought justice for his victims in the blackout. We sought justice for every childe snuffed out by the Scourge for walking a block too far. We tried him for every Anarch savagely beaten for feeding in the wrong part of town. And we tried him for the crimes committed against his own – every young Lick lost in the Accounting to a capricious sire. Every insult and injury endured at Elysium. Every wound imposed by a Boon. And we sought justice for the Convention of Prague, and for the betrayal of the Camarilla at the highest level.” Louis paused. This was it.
“We found Prince Rockwell guilty. And he was executed by beheading on the Elysium’s floor.”
“We found the Sheriff, Jubal Creed guilty of these things and personal brutality. He was executed by burning.”
“We found the Scourge, Mange, guilty of these things and the cursed Diablerie against our kind. He was nailed to the roof and left for the sun.”
“We found the Domain of New York guilty, and those who did not escape us were executed in accordance with their crimes against us. Against Anarch and against the young of the Camarilla alike.”
“We have claimed New York. In fighting for justice, we have found freedom. And every Anarch must know that they can do the same. The time for reconciliation is over. Now is a time for justice. Now is a time for anger. Now is a time for revolt.”
With that, Louis uttered the only excess he allowed himself. A little treat after a disciplined exercise.
“Si nous recherchons la justice, nous gagnerons!”
If we seek justice, we will win.
The light went off, and Louis looked to the African-American Brujah. The big man just smiled, fangs bared. “So,” Louis said. “What did you think?”
“Shit,” the Brujah replied. “I think you gonna start a war with that kind of talk, my man.”
Louis smiled. Perfect.
Louis Chereau had not felt so tense in decades. The stiffness in his joints made him long for the quickly beating heart, the sound of blood pumping behind his ears, and the heavy, ragged breathing that would have come in life. But in death, he was only tense. A hundred years of a practiced blink and vestigial breaths had gone by the wayside. He sat stiff as the corpse he was, staring ahead. A single thought pounded in his mind.
“Nous avons gagné.”
“We ready for you, Louis.” Louis snapped out of his stillness and gave a quick nod to the young, tattooed Brujah who had been fussing with wires and screws. He only understood the vagaries of the room he was in. The microphone in front of him, he knew from the old black and white television broadcasts of some man with slick hair named Elvis making a terrible racket. He had mostly given up on trying to keep up with mortals, but he got the basics. He didn’t understand what the “internet” was or how it worked. He trusted the young ones who told him it would bring his voice to the whole world like a radio. Now there was a fine piece of work, even if the amount of good music on it grew less and less each night. “No introduction. We don’t need that shit. Just tell the people what they need to know.” The dark-skinned Brujah smiled, and Louis smiled back. It had been a long time since he had smiled and meant it.
The lights in the room brightened, and a hum came on. The Brujah flipped a switch, and the light in his booth turned green. This was it. The Toreador wished he had more time to prepare. His age had gotten him used to thinking in terms of years, not months. But he hadn’t even had that this time. The Anarchs of New York had tapped him to deliver their message just last night. They didn’t want to delay. The young were always so impatient, but Louis knew they were right. If he thought the young were stupid, he would be genuflecting before the Prince instead of…well, what he had done last night. What they had all done. It was a rushed job, and he had offered to let a younger Kindred do it. But the Anarchs wanted Louis. They had fighters. They had politicians. They had influence peddlers. But they wanted him to be their voice. And Louis had managed to keep himself roused into the morning finding that voice. And now it was time to speak it.
“Good evening,” he said, softening his French accent. He spoke firmly and evenly – no frills and no flourish. He copied the human newscasters he saw and heard in the earlier nights of the 20th century. Good evening. Nice and simple. It felt right – give them a moment to settle in.
“My name is Louis Chereau, one Anarch among our multitudes in New York.” They need to know who he was, and that he was not important.
“And this night, New York is free.” Get to the point…but get them excited for it.
“Only two weeks ago, a crime was committed against us by the Camarilla. It is not the first. For our history with the Camarilla is a history of abuse. A history of injury. A history of injustice and servitude. It was a crime not unlike the crimes I know have been perpetrated against you. Perhaps last night. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps every night.”
“But here in New York, we decided that this crime shall be the last crime. That this injury shall be the last we suffer. And that those who committed it must be punished.” Louis paused. Here was the line.
“Last night, we tried Prince Maximillian Rockwell of the Camarilla for that crime – and for all crimes – in his own Elysium.” But it wasn’t just a gore-flecked murder, a mob execution.
“We sought justice for his victims in the blackout. We sought justice for every childe snuffed out by the Scourge for walking a block too far. We tried him for every Anarch savagely beaten for feeding in the wrong part of town. And we tried him for the crimes committed against his own – every young Lick lost in the Accounting to a capricious sire. Every insult and injury endured at Elysium. Every wound imposed by a Boon. And we sought justice for the Convention of Prague, and for the betrayal of the Camarilla at the highest level.” Louis paused. This was it.
“We found Prince Rockwell guilty. And he was executed by beheading on the Elysium’s floor.”
“We found the Sheriff, Jubal Creed guilty of these things and personal brutality. He was executed by burning.”
“We found the Scourge, Mange, guilty of these things and the cursed Diablerie against our kind. He was nailed to the roof and left for the sun.”
“We found the Domain of New York guilty, and those who did not escape us were executed in accordance with their crimes against us. Against Anarch and against the young of the Camarilla alike.”
“We have claimed New York. In fighting for justice, we have found freedom. And every Anarch must know that they can do the same. The time for reconciliation is over. Now is a time for justice. Now is a time for anger. Now is a time for revolt.”
With that, Louis uttered the only excess he allowed himself. A little treat after a disciplined exercise.
“Si nous recherchons la justice, nous gagnerons!”
If we seek justice, we will win.
The light went off, and Louis looked to the African-American Brujah. The big man just smiled, fangs bared. “So,” Louis said. “What did you think?”
“Shit,” the Brujah replied. “I think you gonna start a war with that kind of talk, my man.”
Louis smiled. Perfect.