The days went by without much fanfare. The village survived. It only survived. Hank returned victorious from Montréal with a stolen vintage station wagon - a gorgeous but incredibly conspicuous vehicle. It was brimming with both necessities and luxuries alike, and for a time the village was thriving. However, he also brought back a large cache of illicit, manufactured drugs with him, and the local population, traumatized, hard-living and afraid of the future, were enthusiastic customers. He was careful in who he chose, but they began to distribute among the crowd.

Melanie in particular found escape in opioids. For someone who had been so isolated and reserved, it was hard to have a baseline. No one spotted it, because for a while the drugs did their job well, and as she was no longer in such pain. She opened up. She began to leave the Yurt and gather around the fire. Liam even managed to coax her to one of his combat sessions. Most importantly, she opened up to Joyce.

And then, just as quickly, it took a turn. Her tolerance increased rapidly, as did her appetite for the newfound relief. Eight days after he returned, she collapsed by the firepit under the influence of too many pills. The now notorious overdose kit in Robyn’s fridge likely saved her life. It nearly didn't, as it took a while for them to understand that drugs were the problem.

Robyn was furious. Hank had become somewhat of a golden boy during the downtime. Liam, in particular, had grown fond of his company and his competence in the tasks he assigned. He was an outcast among the other villagers, and his transgression forced them to examine how they were going to police themselves moving forward. In the end, they stuck him in a tent at the edge of the property to await his fate.

Two weeks to the day that he rolled in triumphantly, Robyn took him for a hike in the woods to discuss his future. The two of them left at sunrise. Robyn came back alone at sunset. When the people around the fire asked what happened to him, she said a Redwatch ghoul had attacked them, and she'd buried them both out in the wilds.

Liam’s trip to the Sabbat’s former haven was a standard and hassle-free affair. The four ghouls they had “guarding” the place were clearly not selected for their hypervigilance. There was very little here that needed protecting. It was chiefly their job to dump the naked corpses (as most of them arrived already stripped and relieved of any valuables by the delivery personnel) of Verdant Falls’ many, many COVID deaths into the gnashing maw of the semi-conscious vozhd.

Naturally, these deaths were only from the virus on paper. The state of their corpses told the truth. They were experiments, bloodbags, and those who the City’s Finest had decided to murder for sport. One of the guards commented on increasingly creative ways the Redwatch were using to dispatch their quarry. Another replied that they had to make up for the lack of sport in it somehow, and likened it to hunting in a petting zoo. The Redwatch recruited just the best people. The best.

Liam resisted the urge to relieve the city of four viruses that night, and focused on his task. There was very little in the way of clues as to what might have happened to Jan and Rosaline that fateful night. He did find small, personal items for them both. A very old playbill of Jan’s, and Rosie’s hairbrush. These would serve as useful tools for magical tracking when Robyn had the time.

The search of Chianna’s room yielded very little. The flawless bone surfaces had been smashed, ransacked and defaced. Much of the graffiti boasted that it was done at the hands of Tremere’s elite witch-hunters.

As he reflected on Chianna, it occurred to him that perhaps the best way to determine what had befallen two of her flock was to call up the shepherd herself and ask her. Pockets didn’t have her contact info, but she had Rick’s, and he’d know the best way of getting in touch.

Liam’s combat sessions with the two young werewolves were a success. Their impressive resilience and tolerance to pain gave Liam enough license to give them a proper opponent. At first they were afraid of hurting him, but a few good blows were enough to cure them of that. By the time he brought out the firearms, they weren’t holding back.

Jack wasn’t much of a fighter, but Alice truly had a gift for it. She outpaced her brother so much that she had her shift to Homid and spar with Robyn while he gave her brother more attention. He hoped they’d never see combat, but he was confident that they’d likely be ready for it by winter. Alice, for sure.

Liam’s mortal combat sessions did not go as well. Truth be told, he was a great fighter, an okay one-on-one instructor, but a lousy sensei. The evening classes he held for the mortal villagers started out small, and numbers quickly dwindled. His students struggled to learn the basics, much as he struggled to teach them to a class. When attendance was down to Robyn, Maggie and Alex, things were much easier to manage. He was able to teach them one-on-one, and spar the remainders off against each other. Robyn was an excellent student, owing mostly to her having prior experience. The kids’ struggles as students came from being distractions for one another.

Though he taught them well, he wasn’t blind to the fact that the classes were mostly an excuse for Alex and Maggie to hang out with each other. Maggie was being kept busy with the rearing of two Garou cubs, as well as her mother’s own earnest attempts to cement Maggie’s role in the pack. He was also not blind to the fact that the pair of them had lost a decade of their youth to the horrors of mind-controlling fascists, and he was happy to indulge them.

“Alright, one more time.”

Liam lay back flat with his head upon his pillow, his arm resting familiarly on the ruff of Caleb’s neck. The Sheppard sunk down into the mattress beside him, his hot breath and vibrant heartbeat the only sounds and signs of life in the room.

Liam closed his eyes and drew in a breath of his own, filling lungs as black as any coal miner’s. As his chest fell back once more he let himself go with it. Transference was unlike anything he had experienced before. Liam of all people was not attached to his shape and form – but prior to these most recent nights he had always been attached to a shape.

But no longer. Or at least no longer one that could be called his.

Caleb blinked, his ears perked at attention. As he shifted himself upright Liam’s arm fell away unmoving. The Sheppard nimbly stretched down to the floor only lightly disturbing the mattress in his passing, leaving a large warm void behind in the blankets.

The door was open. A television was on in Pockets’ room and Caleb could smell her inside as he padded by and quietly up the stairs. The doors to Robyn’s study were closed but there was evidence of her passage everywhere. Of particular concern a crumpled bag of potato chips had been kicked underneath the sofa and been forgotten. The aroma was mesmerising and Caleb went over to investigate at once.

<<After. Outside.>>

Caleb stared longingly at the unguarded buffet and whined softly, but after a moment he turned tail and headed towards the garage. This room stank of motor oil and gasoline and a dozen other curious smells at any point in time, but tonight a sweet wind was blowing in through the open bay and Caleb trotted out into the predawn camp.

The last embers of the previous night’s fire were still smouldering in the pit. There were no early risers this morning uncharacteristically, and Caleb had the village to himself as he headed for the open ground beyond the Shannon’s trailer where Alex would throw the ball for him when he brought it to her, and then he would get it and she would throw it again. Caleb wagged his tail. He liked Alex.

Sitting down on his rump he lifted a leg to scratch vigorously behind his ears then set about sniffing the breeze. Dawn was coming. The sky was already brightening in the east. Caleb turned to watch the rising glow in its palette of cheerful greys. He was accustomed and inured to the sight, a trivial incidence within the span of his boundless days, but the ghost behind his eyes was not. Liam stared at the brightening sky through the window of Caleb’s eyes as though the sun had risen just for him. How long had it been, he wondered? A century of waking nights – more if one considered his long sleep – and even then his last visions were of gunsmoke and mustard gas. How long had it been since he’d seen a blue sky?

Liam stared until it became uncomfortable – until Caleb’s physical body would tolerate no more. Caleb whined. Finally he let go. Somewhere in the village Daisy barked and children were laughing.

<<Go. Play. I will see you tonight.>>

And just like that Liam felt himself stretching away, falling backwards into nothingness.

The sewers, Liam quickly discovered, were a complete mess. There wasn’t any one schematic of the entire system. Layers of revisions, new systems, and awkward junctions meant that any map of the entire system needed to be pieced together like a puzzle.

Pockets, to her credit, was a whiz with software, and Liam worked over her shoulder as they assembled the map of the sewers proper.

“The thing we’re lookin’ for here is gaps,” she said. “The warrens take up space, so anywhere there’s a void where there should be a structure, that’s where we should look.”

The explorations in person were far less fruitful. It was at Pockets’ suggestion that they use rats to look through the sewers. It meant they could drop it off with Liam in the passenger seat of the cruiser, and move everyone to safety while he reconnoitered as a rat.

Unfortunately, every entrance and possible backdoor into the warrens that Pockets could recall was found caved in so completely that not even a rat could squeeze through. The thoroughness of the job led Liam to believe that the demolition had likely involved a turncoat among the Nosferatu - whether it be one of the Camarilla’s or one of their own. Someone had provided the administration with information in order to seal their clanmates in.

Liam did, however, find a possible entrypoint near the end of their second week of scouting. It was in the deepest, oldest bowels of the system, in a series of tunnels which had been sealed off and disused for decades. There was a particular stretch of wall that wrapped around a known tunnel in the warrens. The curve was so tight, they would have had to build the walls thin. It would take the strength of his real form to dig through it, but he was confident that it would be safer than attempting to excavate one of the collapsed entry points. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he got in, but it was a start.

Jeremy had been a good rat. The rats in the streets were nothing like Jeremy. Street rats lived short, brutal lives. They ate what they could scavenge, and they ate what they could take from other rats. Sometimes, they’d eat the other rat, too. Introducing Kindred blood - especially Gangrel blood - to this environment was a volatile proposition.

The rats Liam had ghouled did their jobs. They scouted, and they reconnoitered, and occasionally they’d remember to report in. They performed adequately. However, as rats, they excelled. The strength and resilience of their newfound power allowed them to take more food, and eat more rats. Every time Liam checked in on them, they’d get bigger, and meaner. Some of them bit off more than they could chew, and met violent ends down in the bowels of the city. Liam was convinced one of them was starting to eat his cohorts.

Finally, two weeks after he’d started this project, when Liam arrived to feed them, only one rat remained. And it wanted his blood. It craved his blood so intensely, it had decided it was going to take it all for itself, right then and there. The creature attacked Liam so ferociously that he was forced to put it down.

The option remained for Liam to create more ghouls, and try again. However, the experience had shown him that ghouling a feral creature was far less a humane prospect than it was to ghoul a pampered and domesticated pet. To do so responsibly would require low numbers and short tenures.

The Russian Mob, led by Augusto, had been number one in the smuggling business for over a decade. Power struggles both from within his own organization and with the other gangs had proven him untouchable and utterly to be feared. No one dared cross him. Not even the Tong, who were number two with several hundred bullets. There may have been more of a competition, but the Tong very much considered the Atlantic shipping route to be small potatoes. They ruled the West Coast, and Augusto had been more than happy to concede ground in Vancouver.

Losing the city had been a humiliating blow to Augusto, and the Tong were taking their time reevaluating the power vacuum that remained in his wake. And reevaluating the strength of his empire. With any luck, tonight’s undertaking would remove any doubt from their minds about both conundrums.

The Bikers and the Swedes were both small money in the city, but both operations were within striking distance on foot in the same night. With no van to roll in on, a stealthy approach on foot seemed the best option.

The fake uniforms were a problem. Jacob and Hasan had blown the heist for the patches, and the only triumph of the evening was that they had managed to slip away without blowing the purpose of their mission. But the Witch-Hunters began patrolling the precinct afterward.

Augusto was more amused than upset by this turn of events. “It was worth the trouble,” he had confided to Liam when they were suiting up. “To see the expressions on those two when they had to tell him they’d fucked up such a simple goddamn operation. And when I laughed in their faces.”

The instructions were as follows: It had to look real, so if he or Augusto were hit, they’d need to act wounded; Keep moving when you’re in view of a camera, and take them out before they get a good long recording. They were assuredly being uploaded offsite, so seizing the tapes wouldn’t help. Plus, they wanted their bosses to know who hit them; No witnesses. If they bolt before they see you, let ‘em run. But if anyone got a good look at you, they had to die. Liam was most concerned about this rule. He didn’t much like the idea of shooting anyone who didn’t pose a real threat to begin with, let alone murdering someone in cold blood.

Fortunately, for Liam, the issue never came up. The first hit went off without much of a hitch. The Bikers put up a decent fight. One of Augusto’s men was hit, but not seriously wounded. Six dead, three escaped. One of them had to be executed, though thankfully not by Liam. For his part, two of the escapees belonged to him. His Saiga was a fearsome beast indeed with the drum magazine attached (Anton had loaned him a couple spares for the operation). It was a simple matter of firing in their general direction to get them to break cover and bolt. They seized several bales of cocaine, heroin and hashish, and set a jolly bonfire to what they couldn’t carry out. Liam walked away with a brick of hash, a large bundle of cocaine, a new coach gun and a box of armor-piercing flechette rounds.

The Swedes weren’t made of sterner stuff. Three dead, five fled. No executions. Augusto wasn’t present for the raid, but his men proved just as capable without him. Liam hadn’t had to take a single life in the process - though many had been taken around him. His spoils from this round were even better. A long-range drone and a pair of claymore mines. The device was well beyond his ken, but he knew just the person to give it to. Another contraband bonfire, and they were done for the evening.

As the unmarked van returned Liam to his dropoff point, it picked up Augusto along the way. He was dressed as himself, and his suit was covered in blood. While the others had taken out the Swedes, Augusto had hopped across town and taken out the Tong’s brothel singlehandedly. He’d let the working girls go to spread the story of him slaughtering ten armed professionals, surviving a hail of gunfire and being run through with a ten inch knife. The underworld was full of fish stories like this about Augusto, but this one would have the backing of surveillance tapes.

When shaky, blurry eyewitness footage of the SWAT bonfires hit social media, it would be inevitable that the administration would be waking up to headlines of "VFPD Win in Double Docks Bust" and would have to take credit. No mention would be made of the brothel.

As Liam’s brand-new downtown haven was too small to squeeze into with all this swag, he left the spoils in the trunk of the cruiser on the edge of town. It was too late to go back to the compound, but his new haven was close by. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, but it was a safe place to stay.

Tomorrow would bring new problems with it. It would be two weeks to the day that Hank had come back from Montréal, and now there was the matter of what to do with him. Truth be told, Liam was looking forward to a night away from things. This was going to be hard on him, no matter what the others decided.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:25, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

During the weeks laying low, Liam had very little contact with the Gangrel. Finally, he received a message on his satphone.

comr to bar harbr

This was quickly followed by

*come
fuck

Apparently he wasn’t the only Gangrel not deft with technology. But it seemed as though an invitation had been extended. He'd need to tell Jacob when they saw each other again.

Corr released no updates on the villagers under his care until he was pressed. Liam would receive a verbose text in response.

Mr. O'Farrell,

Your continued attention and care for the victims of this senseless act of genocide is admirable. I assure you that they continue to receive the best standards of care that modern technology can provide.

However, I do not wish to entertain you with platitudes or false hope of their recovery. It is a miracle they are still alive. Their organs have been repurposed. They no longer perform the functions necessary for creating life, and are instead cogs in the deviant biological machinery responsible for turning human blood into the source of the Fugue. This procedure is not reversible. Were it possible for me to reach next of kin, I would counsel euthanasia.

They have, however, been a fascinating and insightful research opportunity into how the Fugue is made. Please let me know if you ever come upon a completed specimen.

Regards,
V. Corr, MD MS DMD

Liam's searches for a haven in the docks yielded terrible results. The Men's Shelter was a bust. He slept one night there, and his clothes stank so badly of mildew that he blew an easy hunt because the drunk smelled him coming. The storage locker yielded little fruit. The facility was busy at all hours. The hallways were narrow, and it would prove difficult to slip in and out unseen. Plus, the entire facility was covered in cameras. He could conceivably drop some things off here, but it would make a terrible place to sleep, and by no means a safe anonymous haven.

However, his surveys of the sewers was far more productive in his search for a haven. There were dozens of abandoned pump houses throughout the sewers, and although many of them were flooded, fetid, and made him smell of worse things than mildew. And then he found Monitoring Station 7. It was in part of the sewers built in the forties, with all that post-war infrastructure funding. It was solid, spacious, dry and best of all abandoned. It even had a break room.

It was difficult for anyone but a shapeshifter to get into. Most of the underground access had been walled off. There was a single manhole that provided surface access, but it was in the basement of a downtown bodega under an inch of brand new tile. It was, however, easily accessible from the storm drain system if you were a rat. And the storm drains ran all over the city.

The only visible problem would have been the tiny warding seal on the inside of the door, but fortunately for Liam it vanished the moment he opened it.