view so cruel
reggie ties his hair back--what pitiful remaining wisps could be gathered into a ponytail, at least. sliding an earbud into a gnarled, pointed ear and pulling a hood low over his face, he sets out. moving unseen, his legs carry him to the address he'd been provided. a boring, unassuming little suburban home awaits. it's decent camouflage--he reckons there weren't enough flashy ventrue penthouses or dusty church undercrofts to shelter every kindred in town, anyway.
the sample-heavy electro-industrial that flows through the device at his hip strengthens him. he mouths along to the lyrics, silently hyping himself up as he works the lock open.
"you know i must be crazy, to show this as my way of living--"
reggie pauses midway, fiddling with the cord until it restores the audio in one ear.
"--g-g-g-get outta here!"
the lock clicks. a victorious grin splits his face.
breaking into the haven of another kindred wasn't reggie's first choice of job. would he do it? of course. he would have preferred something with minimal involvement, though. eavesdropping, a lazy tailing gig, deliveries or drops, perhaps--but the occasional high-risk, high-reward mission kept things interesting. the payment he'd been offered was more than enough to encourage him, and it kept him from spending more hours than necessary sitting around his haven feeling sorry for himself.
just sneak in, sniff around, tell me what you find.
sure.
at first, it seems unremarkable. just a house furnished with mind-numbing minimalist decor. no incriminating documents or letters stashed away in a desk, not even a computer to snoop through. that was the strangest thing, the lack of tech. camarilla ass-kisser, most likely. though, from his humble nosferatu perspective, the anarchs weren't any more tolerable. self-righteous pricks that they were.
minutes tick by as reggie searches. aside from all windows being sun-proofed, the dwelling barely even looks lived-in.
not gonna have shit to report, he thinks.
after some time, the doubts begin to arise. he begins to fear that he may not have the right place. already he feels himself mourning the drugs he'd been promised. or perhaps this was an ambush, and he had been sent to meet his final death for some petty slight against a vampire whose name he couldn't even recall.
when there's nothing left to examine on the ground floor, reggie creeps down into the basement. it's there that he finds what he was surely sent for--the staked body of a kindred hidden away beneath a tarp-covered table.
he crouches beside the figure in disbelief. the wide eyes of a corpse stare back at him, pale and lifeless. it's impossible to tell if there's any sight or awareness behind them; the thought makes his skin crawl. he hesitates, a hand hovering above the wood that protrudes from her chest, afraid that freeing her may cause more problems than they solve. she could simply be an asshole, staked and held in an empty house for the greater good--but as he weighs his options, the moment of deliberation is broken by the distant creak of a door swinging open.
the front door. reggie almost laughs in disbelief--it carries the comedic timing of a horror movie.
he waits for his intrusion to be discovered; only when the footsteps hammer down the stairs does he dare to wrench the stake from the fellow vampire's heart. she lurches to life with a roar, launching herself at her captor with the desperation of a feral animal and providing reggie a window to slip away.
he laughs as the chaos erupts behind him, sprinting from the scene and vanishing into the shadows with the stake still clutched in his hand.
a coward's move? perhaps--though reggie preferred to think of it as resourceful. whatever kept him from getting his face further mangled.
he comes to a stop at the seclusion of the railroad tracks. when he's certain he hasn't been tailed, he takes the opportunity to report back.
they speak in code over burners. reggie gathers that the staked kindred had been presumed dead--and that leland hadn't anticipated the possibility that he would actually stumble upon her.
"no faith in me," reggie snorts, without any real resentment. in any case, he had made the right move. leland was pleased, and his reward would be waiting for him the following night.
stumbling into success was a talent of his. any consequence for breaking into the haven would be a problem for future reggie.
the call ends. reggie crushes the device into the ballast, gathers some pieces, and reluctantly begins the trek back to his haven.
--
the trailer park was in shambles, uninhabitable since a hurricane swept through nearly a decade prior. it could no longer be accessed by vehicle, and had been slated for demolition years ago, until the project was mysteriously called off. reggie attributed it to the subtle string-pulling of his clanmates.
reggie's haven was the only one with a roof still fully intact. he kicks the siding of the trailer, red clay scattering from the soles of his boots. there's a soft skittering noise as he wrenches the door open, the scatter of cockroaches over peeling linoleum. having spent the early years of his embrace scurrying between the sewers and railway tunnels, an infested trailer could be considered an improvement. it suited him. it reminded him of his mortal life, and on some level, he felt at home in the grime of it.
home sweet home. he slips his coat off his shoulders, leaving it in a heap of shaggy fur and worn leather at the foot of his mattress. the stake rolls out of it, stained with vitae. for now, he could rest in the satisfaction of a job well-done.
or so he should.
his task was completed, yes, but some hours remained before sunrise. his payment awaited him the next night, but until then? to be unoccupied, left alone with his thoughts was unbearable. opportunities to socialize were often not afforded to his clan, he had no coterie to pester, and though circumstances were dire, he wasn't yet desperate enough to crawl back to his sire for attention.
sluggishly making his way towards his setup, reggie reaches for the mouse, guiding the cursor to his mp3 folder. scratchy, abrasive industrial fills the room. if nothing else, listening to ogre grate out "rot and assimilate" could offer some solace.
or better yet...
he reaches for his coat, digging a metal flask out of a pocket and tipping it back. cold blood slides down his throat, thick, foul, partially coagulated. a few days old by now. he couldn't remember what substance the bled victim had indulged in; it doesn't matter.
rancid clots stick to his teeth. he licks them clean, then reclines, his back against the wall. he waits.
drugged blood works its way through reggie's veins quicker than the pills did when he was alive--and when it hits, it almost feels like joy. as a dulled sense of euphoria blooms from his chest, a metallic taste sits in the back of his throat. the familiarity of it curls his lips in a smile. an old friend.
hazy eyes follow a cockroach as it scurries along the edge of his room.
his music sounds clearer, feels richer, and he's content to let shuffle guide him on a journey.
after some time, the high peaks, but not strong enough. was it ever? perhaps he could squeeze more out of it, if only he could feel something. his limbs heavy, he shifts, allowing a hand to dip into the waistband of his pants.
he tugs and strokes in vain; the dead flesh remains unresponsive.
come on.
undeath hadn't stopped him before. reggie works harder, conjuring the most indulgent images and acts he could muster through the fog of his brain--but try as he might, no fantasies of densely-furred bellies nor skillful tongues are enough to spark a reaction. whatever neural pathway was responsible for his arousal was utterly deadened. it's futile; he feels nothing.
he withdraws his hand. the only pleasure to be attained is the warmth of a subpar high, and even it fades too quickly.
defeated, the back of his head thuds against the wall.
what more could be taken from him? he had lost his life, his friends, his channel, his sobriety--and now, for a cruel moment, even the use of his dick. the thought forces a bitter laugh from his lips.
in the cold wake of his high, reggie's gaze drifts to the flask, lying emptied on its side. he hadn't sourced it himself. as his mind begins to clear, questions begin to arise, questions better shoved to the back of his mind. the source of the blood--had they been killed for a high that was ultimately unsatisfying?
it doesn't matter.
if they died, they died the way he'd wanted to. the poor fucker doesn't know how lucky they were.
a wave of disgust washes over him. he heaves himself up to stash the flask in his coat.