Let's Play VtM: Wild Nights - Chapter 10

[grotsnik]

Ok- starting to write up the update. May take a little while.

Everybody just stay veeery still. What's that? You've been swayed by someone else's persuasive argument and now you want to change your vote?

Go ahead, punk. Try it.

 

[Erebus]

Dammit ! I'd just come up with an exciting new theory about the Prince and the Bishop being one and the same and manipulating everybody ala Palpatine !

 

[Black Bart Charley]

whose phone won?

 

[Esquilax]

Oscar's anonymous tip to the Sheriff got it.

 

[grotsnik]

Oscar's anonymous tip to the Sheriff got it.

^ This. Update'll be finished off and posted tomorrow morning - thanks for waiting, everyone .

 

[ironyuri]

Oscar's anonymous tip to the Sheriff got it.

^ This. Update'll be finished off and posted tomorrow morning - thanks for waiting, everyone .

I hope the update is coming soon, I'm at work for the next 4 hours and I need me some sweet grotsnik loving.

 

[Esquilax]

^ This. Update'll be finished off and posted tomorrow morning - thanks for waiting, everyone .

No, thank you for making this fantastic LP. You really threw a curveball on us at the end of the last chapter, great job. The writing is engaging, there's a real ominous sense of mystery and paranoia throughout, and the characters are very memorable. The choices throughout are very well laid out, and there is never really an easy choice, as the last several pages of debate have shown. Oh sure, everyone took B, but the phone call... that was hard. A lot of very quotable lines as well. I especially liked this bit when the Anarchs "kidnapped" us:

"You're ignorant. Barons are a Camarilla invention. It's stuck-up cape bullshit. In the new society, there'll be no need for Barons."

"Is he a Baron?"

They all turn to stare at you.

"No," you say, politely. "No, I'm not."

 

[SCO]

Yeah that was class. Wouldn't be out of place on the best books i've read (far too many to remember, besides i'm senile).

 

[ironyuri]

Lots of views and a nice hardcore of a voters.

I think the main voting bloc is myself, SCO, Serious_Business, root, Esquilax, storyfag, Black Bart Charley, Erebus, Kz3r0, Zero Credibility and laclongquan. I think z o o l has also engaged in voting.

This shit is tight.

 

[Serious_Business]

Fuck it. I'm getting emotional too. 26 pages and not a single yeeeaa? This must be remedied immediately

 

[laclongquan]

I want to bump all day long

i want to suck all night long

Let me lick for one moment more

hallleluah

 

[ironyuri]

Codex Playground
The dumping ground for all your Let's Play, AAR (After Action Review), and other assorted circlejerk needs.

I guess we all knew what we were here for...



I'm listening to John Coltrane's "My Favourite Things" right now. Bros should get involved.

 

[laclongquan]

Not 28 yet? Bah

 

[ironyuri]

This LP encouraged me to start a new playthrough of VtM:B. Oh yeh baby.

 

[curry]

Fuck Masquerade, you should play Requiem instead.

 

[grotsnik]

to you all.

Right. Now to fuck you all over.



Chapter 7: Loyalty



Oscar listens, patiently, while you explain what you want him to do.

“Fuck,” he says, when you finish. “Feckin’ fuckin’ fuck.”

You wait. Your watch is ticking. Thirty-nine minutes to get to Soho.

“Now, if you go and get yourself killed trying to pull this tricksy Ventrue bullshit,” he asks, “who’s going to buy me that new server?”

“If we’re the only ones who know about the Prince’s men,” you tell him gently, “and all of us get killed to keep the secret safe, you won’t get your new server either.”

Silence. He seems to be thinking it over.

“Oh…feck,” Oscar says. He sounds almost sad. “Fuckin’ feckin’ cockfuck. Listen…blueblood?”

“Yes?”

“If we should happen to survive this, you just stay away. You hear? You just stay the fuck away from me. Maybe you're not all bad, but I am not going to feckin' martyr myself for you – understand?”

And he hangs up, without waiting for a reply.


*


You gaze into your enormous bathroom mirror. Slowly, with great care, you adjust the buttons on your suit – Savile Row, quietly fashionable, with the ageless elegance of Dege & Skinner – and tighten the Windsor knot of your Boodles tie, before finally checking the firmness of your Rolex. For a moment, you almost feel like a soldier equipping himself for battle, and the absurdity of that thought makes you smile.

But you look fine, no doubt about that; cold-eyed, upright, and dashing. A true prince.

“Time to go, Patrician,” Fellowes says from behind you, making you start.


*


The Brujah driver remains silent for the long crawl through the packed, cramped streets leading onto Oxford Street. All around, on the pavement on either side, kine are walking; some waving placards. Others chant, raising their faces to the black sky. A couple of young punks, noticing the quality of your car, jeer and pound their fists against the window, snarling something about bankers.

“The people march,” Fellowes murmurs. “Their leaders betray them; so they march to war.” You give him an uneasy glance; you’d forgotten about that sentimental Toreador streak of his.

You turn away, into Poland Street and east, the driver tapping furiously at his horn to drive back the midnight crowds.

You’d almost been entertaining the thought that this whole affair was a set-up, nothing more – that you’d arrive at the Pleasure ‘N’ Pain to find the Sheriff, the Prince, and searing fire waiting for you - so it almost comes as a surprise, when, gazing into the trooping mass of protestors, you catch sight of a pale-faced man in a long black coat, walking amongst them. Soon after, you spot two Brujah neonates, chatting together, draped in ill-fitting Everton football-shirts. Then an elderly-looking Tremere. All of them slipping through the kine, slightly apart, moving to their own rhythm and in the same direction.

As the car slows, and the familiar neon sign appears around the street corner – a trussed, androgynous figure jerking mechanically from side to side over the roof of the nightclub - Fellowes turns in his seat.

“Look, Patrician,” he says, awkwardly. “I’m your man, of course. I want to help you in this. It’s just that…I’ll do my best, but if it comes down to…er…”

You put him out of his misery.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “If it comes down to it, you’ll save your own skin. That’s survival, Fellowes. Nothing dishonourable about it. I understand completely.”

He lowers his gaze, and then nods, in acceptance.


*


At the club entrance, the hefty bouncer is allowing some guests to enter, and turning others away - apparently, a stray observer might think, at random. A blonde-haired ambassador for a posse of beautiful kine girls in mini-skirts pleads with him, ineffectually.

“C’mon, Gary, we were here at the weekend…Gary, you remember me, don’t you?”

“Not on the guest list,” Gary growls.

You walk straight up to the entrance, ducking under the red-rope railings, and past him. He pretends not to notice you.

The kine girls wail.

“Hey! You just let that old guy in!”

And as you push the door open, you distinctly hear Gary reply,

“He’s on the guest list.”


*


The great hanging iron cages of the Pleasure ‘N’ Pain’s underground dancefloor turn, gently, on their chains; and below, a hundred vampires chatter.

Samantha Eames, resplendent in her usual, ridiculous garb, an old-fashioned Sixties hippie dress and bouffant, clasps you by the hand and says, loudly,

“Darling – I’m so glad you came. Looks like the Anarch barons haven’t bothered to turn up. Typical, of course. They say it's going to be a raid. I never thought Kirkbeck had it in him, did you?”

Leaning inwards, as if to kiss your cheek, she whispers into your ear,

“Heard about Whitehall. You win some, you lose some, darling. But some of us will always have a use for an intelligent man, right?”

She gazes into your eyes, with sympathy or feigned sympathy.

“Baroness,” you answer, simply.

Eames squeezes your hand, and then slips away into the crowds. On the bare black stage, you note, a microphone is being set up. Du Marchais stands conspicuously nearby, his arms folded, gazing out over the floor with a look of unmistakeable satisfaction on his pudgy face.

And behind him, leaning against the wall, is the Sheriff. Her face is lowered, staring at her own feet.
Slowly, the chatter of the crowd begins to ebb away. Faces turn towards the stage.

And Prince Kirkbeck steps out. He’s removed his professorial coat and scarf; now, dressed in a neat little suit and tie, his beard trimmed, he looks more like a retired businessman.

He takes his place in front of the microphone. The noise dies out entirely.

“Three nights ago,” he says, “our colleague and friend, Baron Terence Rannigan, was kidnapped by the Sabbat in Whitehall. Some of you may already know this. Others may not even be aware that he has been missing, as, for the good of our investigations, we have tried to keep knowledge of the situation on a need-to-know basis.”

He hesitates. And then leans forward, quite deliberately, jabbing his finger into the crowd as he speaks.

“We are a fragmented city. A fragmented Camarilla. And I am aware that I am considered to be a weak Prince. An unworthy Prince. But none of us would be here tonight if some trace of loyalty, some alchemical remnant in our blood, did not exist. In the face of such arrogance, such aggression…it is our duty to one another to stand united. It is our duty to the other cities - which will watch for our reaction – to stand united. The Sabbat cannot be seen to snatch up a Camarilla baron, on Camarilla territory, and go unpunished. And I speak to you now not as an individual – not as an old man, a feeble, absurd old man – but as the voice of the united Camarilla. I speak to you tonight as Nemesis."

He turns, to acknowledge the smirking du Marchais.

“Baron Esteban of Whitehall,” he says, “has worked tirelessly over the past hours to track down Terence’s location as fast as possible. And so it is with the greatest of respect that I pass over to him.”

Kirkbeck steps away from the microphone. And du Marchais steps forward.

“These Sabbat mongrels,” he drawls, “are keeping the Baron in a food-storage warehouse in the Docklands. We have no idea whether or not he lives, so our response must be swift. Those with the skills and stomach to fight will be organised into teams by the primogen. Those of you with contacts in the police and kine authorities-” and here his eyes flicker across the crowd, as if searching for you, “will be expected to ensure that our mission is not interrupted. No doubt those Sabbat brutes will have firearms, so there will be noise. We must have enough time to retrieve the Baron and eradicate all evidence of any Kindred before the lawmen arrive. This is,” he adds, significantly, “demanded of you under Camarilla law.”

Kirkbeck, perhaps sensing a slight murmur of discontent over the peculiar final sentence, steps back in. Du Marchais, however, continues to hover behind him, as if unwilling to go.

“Your primogen will give all of you instructions on the timing and directions concerning how to reach the warehouse,” says the Prince. “Gather together any Kindred under your command; any ghouls. Your vehicles will be directed to our perimeter. This will be,” he concludes, “an obliteration of the Sabbat presence in East London. They must think that the sun has risen on them. Good luck to all of you; we must not fail.”

He ducks his head, and turns away from the microphone. The lights go up. And the room erupts in noise, and movement.

You remain quite still, staring at the stage.

Fuck, you think. I could have stopped it. I could have yelled out the truth for all of them to hear.

Of course, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything, and I’d be dead, but still…

A quiet, venomous voice hisses into your ear,

“Don’t make a fuss, you stupid fuck. Just come with me.”

The Sheriff smiles at you, very sweetly, and slips her arm into yours. Two suited, heavy-set Kindred have positioned themselves subtly a little way behind her.

“Come on,” she tells you. “A big raid ahead. Who knows when us two lovebirds will get a chance to be alone again? After all, one of us could be fucking dead by the end of the night.”

She steers you across the dance-floor and through the red fire-escape door. Pulling you, helpless, up a narrow flight of concrete stairs.

“Sheriff-” you begin, but she tightens her grip on you and mutters,

“Just fucking shut up, all right? Just shut your fucking mouth for once.”

The two of you reach the turn of the staircase. A door bangs open, narrowly missing Schiller, and a group of young kine men stagger triumphantly through.

“See,” one of them shouts, “I told you there was another way in-”

He knocks straight into the Sheriff. Drunkenly, he stares at her - and immediately bursts out laughing.

“Jesus,” he says. “What the fuck’s wrong with your face?”

For a second, Schiller is distracted. Just for a second.



A) Dum-dum to the stomach. (Shoot the Sheriff.)

B) Do nothing.

C) It’s sword-stick time. (Stab the Sheriff.)

D) “Help! The bitch is crazy! She’s trying to kill me!”

 

[grotsnik]

My God, I just realised - this is a quick-time event choice. It's a fucking Interrupt.

What have I become?!?

 

[SCO]

It's still turn based so you're at Jagged alliance level, don't worry.

HA punished for being level!

Let this be a lesson to you all about the masquerade.

B) we are meeting the prince now. Do not work against what we have done now. Though it was secretive, it's only natural the prince wants a catspaw to rid himself of a threat. Who better than a enemy of the target?

 

[Black Bart Charley]

who are we shooting at? if its the punks - AAA
else BBB - dying with dignity

Fuck it, it feels like an execution. AAA and run!

 

[Esquilax]

My God, I just realised - this is a quick-time event choice. It's a fucking Interrupt.

What have I become?!?

My suggestion for a bro / monocle karma meter is looking better and better every time. In fact, you could even put a helpful little picture, just so we don't get confused. Here's an example:

A) Dum-dum to the stomach.

B) Do nothing. (neutral option)

C) It’s sword-stick time.

D) “Help! The bitch is crazy! She’s trying to kill me!”

You're welcome, by the way.

B is just about the only sensible option here. I think that it's safe to trust her. We shut the fuck up. Again.

 

[ironyuri]

B

Totally down with B. We sent her the evidence and we've got to see this shit through. No point shooting some drunk fuck, the Sheriff will take care of them.

 

[Esquilax]

B

Totally down with B. We sent her the evidence and we've got to see this shit through. No point shooting some drunk fuck, the Sheriff will take care of them.

No, the choice is to shoot Schiller while she's distracted. Her demeanor here shows us that she is very unlikely to betray us. We covered our asses already by sending the info anonymously, and from her demeanor, I think Schiller is on the level. It's safe to talk to her.

Btw, grotsnik, what clan is Schiller? You never stated explicitly, but based on her combat skills and the fact that she believes in the Camarilla, she's probably a Gangrel.

 

[Serious_Business]

Yeah... B.

Fuck Masquerade, you should play Requiem instead.

Seriously?

 

[Black Bart Charley]

"Her face is lowered, staring at her own fett."

Who the fuck stares at his own fat? Sheriff is not fat, at least not in my mind. =P

edit

I had an epiphany. Its feet...

 

[SCO]

Btw, grotsnik, what clan is Schiller? You never stated explicitly, but based on her combat skills and the fact that she believes in the Camarilla, she's probably a Gangrel.

He already said she was gangrel