Post by Ghost on Feb 14, 2012 23:50:22 GMT -8
Ghost stepped quietly into the franchise coffee shop, a backpack slung over his shoulder. The power of his Blood kept the mortals in the place from staring at him in horror, their minds seeing what he told them was there instead of what their deepest subconscious was silently screaming at them. He knew what they should be seeing, but he made sure that all they saw was one of his many well-known human aliases, in this case an overworked college student with bags under his eyes.
Ghost normally preferred to work in the comfort of the Warrens, but tonight he just needed to get away from his clan. He was getting fed up with all these clan politics. He'd had to sit there and nod his head dumbly while The Fish told him... things he hadn't wanted to hear. Things that meant a fucking year plus of legwork was just something to be filed away for a rainy day, that it wasn't nearly as valuable in the current political climate as it might be a year, or a decade, or a century in the future.
And now... now Ghost had to move on to other things. The death of Seneschal Clayfield was still unsolved in the public eye, despite a lot of people's interest in such, especially those annoying Sons of Clayfield that were starting so much shit lately. Cindi Bryce was now the Toreador whip of three fucking Burroughs. The source of the Habiba virus and the kindred connected to it had still not been revealed. The Master and his freakish Dark Carnival experiments had gone suddenly quiet after the ridiculous incident at Blakemore's rave, which would be a welcome rest if Ghost only knew the reasons behind it all. There was a bevy of new kindred in the Sunnydale burrough, and he had to size them all up and estimate which ones would end up cats-paws, which ones allies, and which ones thorns to be plucked and tossed in the trash. And now there were fucking Lupines showing up on kindred radars.
Sometimes Ghost just wanted to scream at the overwhelming hassle of it all. The troubles that had started with Drusilla and the other Malkavians had awakened a slow-burning rage in him that their various demises had not quenched. He used to take people's bullshit in stride, just accepting it as part of the deal. Now when someone mouthed off to him or snubbed him or said something inane or stupid he wanted to forget about diplomacy and go straight to decapitation.
But these were just impulses to be mastered. Ghost wasn't normally violent by nature, and this mood would pass. He took the coffee he had bought, pretending to sip it while letting the cup's warmth seep into his cold fingers. He found a table near a corner that he could put his back against while keeping an eye on the rest of the room, opened up his backpack, and pulled out an expensive-looking laptop. He fired it up and sat down to get some work done.
Ghost normally preferred to work in the comfort of the Warrens, but tonight he just needed to get away from his clan. He was getting fed up with all these clan politics. He'd had to sit there and nod his head dumbly while The Fish told him... things he hadn't wanted to hear. Things that meant a fucking year plus of legwork was just something to be filed away for a rainy day, that it wasn't nearly as valuable in the current political climate as it might be a year, or a decade, or a century in the future.
And now... now Ghost had to move on to other things. The death of Seneschal Clayfield was still unsolved in the public eye, despite a lot of people's interest in such, especially those annoying Sons of Clayfield that were starting so much shit lately. Cindi Bryce was now the Toreador whip of three fucking Burroughs. The source of the Habiba virus and the kindred connected to it had still not been revealed. The Master and his freakish Dark Carnival experiments had gone suddenly quiet after the ridiculous incident at Blakemore's rave, which would be a welcome rest if Ghost only knew the reasons behind it all. There was a bevy of new kindred in the Sunnydale burrough, and he had to size them all up and estimate which ones would end up cats-paws, which ones allies, and which ones thorns to be plucked and tossed in the trash. And now there were fucking Lupines showing up on kindred radars.
Sometimes Ghost just wanted to scream at the overwhelming hassle of it all. The troubles that had started with Drusilla and the other Malkavians had awakened a slow-burning rage in him that their various demises had not quenched. He used to take people's bullshit in stride, just accepting it as part of the deal. Now when someone mouthed off to him or snubbed him or said something inane or stupid he wanted to forget about diplomacy and go straight to decapitation.
But these were just impulses to be mastered. Ghost wasn't normally violent by nature, and this mood would pass. He took the coffee he had bought, pretending to sip it while letting the cup's warmth seep into his cold fingers. He found a table near a corner that he could put his back against while keeping an eye on the rest of the room, opened up his backpack, and pulled out an expensive-looking laptop. He fired it up and sat down to get some work done.