firewatcher | [psl] 2015: I've been worrying I will become what I deserve

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[psl] 2015: I've been worrying I will become what I deserve

Palmer scrolled through the contacts list on her phone, finally finding the right one. A small, morbid smile sprang to her lips. She'd spoken to the owner of this number earlier tonight--like every night--but it had been a while since she'd last made a social call. What a reason to get back in touch.

Like old times, really, except not really at all.

She glanced back into the dining room. Amity still seemed to be sitting tight—not that she had any way of not doing that, being handcuffed to the chair, ha fucking ha, but at least she was eating, now. Well. For a given value of "eating."

Christ in heaven, this was her life, now.

Well, she already committed to this. No reason to hesitate. She hit the call button.

"Hi, Danielle," she said, not even bothering to disguise the weariness in her voice. "It's me."

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She thunked her head against the wall. On purpose. And then she pulled herself to her feet, turning around and taking a backroad in the direction of the Palmer house. She could make it before daybreak.

"It's not about how things might benefit them," she argued. "It's about venerating the system that they love so much. If you play by your own rules, you're a threat and need to be taken down. If you play inside of their rules, they have no justification. Which might not matter so much to the King, but all the 'untouchable' covenants are just itching for a reason to keep him checked right now. They'd call bullshit."

She hoped.

Actually, she wasn't entirely sure. But she didn't want to take chances with Amity's life. And she knew how aggressive Palmer could be.

"I'm going to regret asking this, but what exactly, were you planning to offer?"

"Are they ever going to think I'm not some kind of threat, Danielle? Realistically?" She raised an eyebrow on her end of the line. "They're not, because I am. You're one of the only people who knows exactly how much I've done to convince them of the fact that we do not fuck around over here. And, in any case... well, I've got no choice but to play by their fucking rules, now, do I? Don't worry about that."

She rolled her shoulders back in a stretch and went to go find her vest. "Here's the thing—there's no way I can not be involved here, in some way, because I'm kind of infamous, so I'm trying to control how this goes by preempting any unreasonable demands or anyone trying to fuck with her to get at me. Call it a controlled descent into hell."

Breathe in, breathe out. "For Amity to be safe, they're going to have to think they can exert some kind of control over me. They let Amity in, I call off open season on them and clean up their messes pro bono. Ain't like I haven't been keeping the Masquerade for years, after all."

She was angry. Danielle couldn't blame her. She was angry too. But Danielle didn't like the feeling that the anger was being directed at her. It always brought her right back to what happened with Andy. And she'd never exactly recovered from that.

Or forgiven herself for the mere act of existence.

"All I'm saying," she started again, carefully, "is that you have some advantages that you need to leverage. For Amity's sake. Let Shawn become her public guardian. He'll answer to you first. And he'll give her a level of respectability that will keep her safe. You still do what you need to do. But don't ignore the tools you have."

Yes, she'd just called Shawn a 'tool.'

She mentally went through her inventory list. Flamethrower would be fun, but was out for now; she wanted to question this motherfucker, after all. She did take the machete, though. Try sprouting claws without hands, asshole.

"Sure, fine, whatever. That's a thing, isn't, sponsoring—she always liked him all right. Doesn't look suspicious, since that's his job. Gives me a reason to talk to you lot. Yeah, works out." She shrugged. "So I call for someone to sponsor her and take responsibility for this horrible mistake that we're all very sorry about, and the Hound is more than happy to do so. Good narrative." Seemed like the kind of thing that would work, given her years of spinning plausible alternate interpretations of the truth for reporters.

Palmer shrugged to herself. "Just saying, I ain't expecting to get out of this scot-free." She gritted her teeth. "Always the idiots that cause the most trouble, somehow."

"Yeah, well, there's zero doubt in my mind that whoever was responsible for this is going to pay. Through the nose. And several other orifices." It was a comment that was a little blue for Danielle. But that was about how angry she felt.

It wasn't a joke.

She turned off of the last city street, into the quiet desert night. Her eyes absently scanned the area for signs of any kind of intruder. But there was only blackness for the moment.

"The second you show your face," she warned, "you're gonna have to assume that there's someone spying on you all the time. You're gonna need to sweep every room, every safehouse for listening devices. The Court Spymaster is...problematic. Old school Russian. KGB."

"Russian, huh?" How about that. "Have to get back into practice speaking again. Well, I've got a day to prep, anyway," Palmer said, loading the last of her guns. "Planning to make the most of the daylight hours. We'll be as prepared as we can be. Maybe give 'em a few surprises, too, if they get curious."

She stretched her neck from side to side, and ruffled poor Amity's hair as she walked past, toward the front door. "Anyway, you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes. I'm sure I'll see you soon, because you're a worrier, but I've got some wanton violence to inflict. This one's mine. Hope you won't begrudge me that."

Palmer ended the call, flicked the switch that controlled the yard floodlights, and burst out the front door—and for the first time all night, grinned widely. There, in the bushes, the rustling of someone surprised to find they'd made what might be their last mistake.

"Nice fucking try," she said, and fired.

Danielle let out a noise, objecting to the abrupt end to the call. But Palmer had hung up on her.

No good could come of this.

Slinging her backpack on to her back and tightening the straps as far as she could, she took off at a dead sprint. They had a plan-shaped thing. The last thing she wanted was for Palmer to fly off the handle and blow away Amity's chances.

Never let it be said that Palmer in a rage was not efficient; by the time Danielle came into view, she was cuffing the luckless intruder, who was dead to the world and sporting a lot of holes in his torso but wasn't decaying yet—couldn't interrogate a pile of ash. She looked up at her cousin and shrugged. "He was lying in wait. Self-defense."

(Technically. NRS 200.120 said so, and if there was anything Palmer knew it was laws related to homicide.)

She raised her eyebrows. "Anyway, give me a hand carrying him, will you?"

A bizarre sense of relief flooded through Danielle when she saw Palmer out on the front lawn. She hadn't gone off half-cocked.

She'd let the half-cocked come to her. Or something.

"You are so lucky your neighbors have blackout windows," she said, dropping her backpack by the curb and hurrying over to grab the guy's legs.

Palmer grinned. "There's a reason back in the day we carved out a chunk of land this big for ourselves and got all these trees," she said. "And, yes, got involved with the neighborhood watch in order to make some 'helpful suggestions.'"

She hooked a foot around the slightly ajar door to open it. "Danger to himself as much as others," she said, hefting his shoulders upward. "They won't miss him one bit. You recognize this one at all?"

Danielle frowned. A lot of people came and went from court. There were more vampires than probably sustainable, sometimes. She peered at his--somewhat messed-up--face a moment, trying to remember.

"Maybe?" she said slowly. "Gangrel?"

He certainly smelled it.

Of course, after what Palmer had done to him, that was no real surprise.

"Definitely Gangrel," said Palmer. "Ask me about how I got to discover Amity's new talents. Or, rather, don't. Hey, darling," she said, as they passed the door to the dining room. "Feeling better?"

There was a groggy, miserable reply that seemed to contain a plaintive "Moooooooom."

"Oh, good, she can talk again. When she came home it was all yelling and snarling. I think he was hoping she'd eat me. Don't worry, I'll uncuff you in a sec, dear. Just gotta take care of one little thing first." She nodded to Danielle. "Let's take him to the basement. I'll need you to wake him up, when it's time."

She knew better to argue. And as for Palmer's manic cheeriness...well. She'd seen Shawn do similar things, when he was particularly agitated and unwilling to sit down and assess his feelings. And she knew better than to call her out on it. Not here. Not now.

Not tonight.

As they passed Amity, Danielle craned her neck to try to get a glimpse of her. The poor girl looked miserable. And had one exceedingly dead aura.

Damn it.

"Time for what?" she asked, turning her attention back to Palmer.

"The interrogation," Palmer said, shouldering open the basement door and flicking on the stair light with her elbow. "We need to know this guy's name, where he came from, what his motives were, if anyone's bankrolling him, if he was working with anyone, if there are any other imminent dangers. I'm about to make a bunch of extremely dangerous decisions, so I want as much intel as I can get."

"You aren't going to have long," Danielle pointed out. "Sun's coming up soon. It's really hard to keep a vampire who doesn't want to be awake awake." Thankfully, that meant Amity would be out like a light. And after the night she'd had, that was probably for the best.

She didn't need to hear what was going to happen.

"Well, I doubt it'll take me that long. I don't think this one will be a particularly tough nut to crack." Her boots made a steady thud, thud as she clunked down the stairs backwards. "Some of this is just for show, anyway. Convenient excuse to know way more than I should about how the vampires 'round these parts are set up."

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Half the basement was finished and decorated; the other half was deliberately left unfinished for messy work purposes. Palmer headed toward the unfinished half to set him down in one of the chairs scattered around.

"I'm going to go get Amity to bed—I'm putting her in your and Shawn's usual room for now," Palmer said. "Back soon; keep an eye on this guy, I guess."

Danielle nodded. The same nod she used whenever she was following orders. And she was efficient at that. Had been obeying every command of the Palmer family for decades. And when Palmer left to take care of Amity, Danielle knew exactly what to do. Brisk and business-like, she tied the hapless and idiotic vampire to the chair, using all the usual restraints. She knew where each one was kept and how to most effectively utilize each kind for any particular clan of vampire.

The same old routine.

Only it wasn't the same. It was personal. And every fiber of her being was screaming at her to make this bastard suffer.

But that was Palmer's job, wasn't it? As much as Danielle was angry she knew Palmer had ten times more of a right to be.

And she wouldn't be the dick who robbed her of revenge.

Palmer returned down the stairs more subdued; Amity was in bed (not without some small protest, which was understandable; the blackout room was also somewhat unsettling to stay in unless you were used to it), which mean that she had to do far less pretending.

"Good work," she said, nodding to Danielle. "You know more about all the weird stuff vampires can do than I do—is there any way they'll be able to tell you were present for this? We're really going to have to work to keep our connection on the down low."

"I can't exactly erase his memory," Danielle replied. Nor would she, for that matter. The Ventrue art always unsettled her. A lot. She never said anything about it, but her skin always crawled a little when she saw one of the Coles at work.

Deep breath. In and out.

"If we play this carefully, he'll never know I was here," she continued. She was a Mekhet, after all. She had a few tricks of her own. "And if I stand behind him and gauge his aura, I can get a pretty good sense of whether he's lying or telling the truth."

She paused. "They may well ask me to do that tomorrow. Which would be lucky. We won't be as lucky if they ask the Spymaster."

"Right, yeah. Use your best judgment, then—you're the expert." Palmer shrugged. "Thumbs up for 'true', thumbs down for 'false,' stand back far enough that he can't tell you're here, I guess. Or that you in particular are here. And, well—the Spymaster would have to know to ask the right questions."

She rolled up her sleeves. "Anyway, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. This one—this one's a lot easier. Oh, and grab a stake—" She gestured to a pile on a table. "We might need it. Now, though, time for this guy to wake up."

Visions of a hot bath danced in Danielle's head as she rolled up the grimy sleeve of her button-down, reaching up to slash her wrist against a jagged nail coming out from the bottom of a step. It was easier--and less painful--to use her teeth. But she'd never once let her face change in front of Palmer. And she wasn't about to start tonight.

She walked up behind the Gangrel, pressing her wrist into his mouth, forcing her blood down his throat. It would wake him up. And probably renew his sense of will, for a little while. But Palmer would beat that out of him.

Once she was sure she'd given him enough, she stepped back, falling into the shadow of the stairs. She willed her wrist to heal. And decided first thing tomorrow night, she'd have to get something to eat.

But she'd worry about that later.

Game face on. Palmer drew a knife in one hand and got in the guy's face for when he woke up—he was already stirring as Danielle hurried back to the shadows.

When he came to, he pulled back in alarm for a moment, and then snapped forward, fangs bared—she didn't flinch as he came within inches of her face, and instead pulled one hand back to slap him across the face. "Right. Don't do that again," she said, standing up from her half-crouch and passing the knife between her hands with an elegant twirl.

She started to pace back and forth in front of him. "I hope that you can appreciate that you're in a lot of trouble. I'm going to need you to answer some questions for me, in return for all the trouble you've caused me. If I'm satisfied with how helpful you've been, you might get to see another sunset." She stopped her pacing, abruptly, turning to face him. "Do I make myself clear?"

He appeared to have finally become aware of his surroundings, a look of horror dawning on his face. "Oh, shit," he said, finally.

Palmer nodded. "That's right. Now: what's your name? Answer honestly; I'll know if you're lying. Liars lose bits of their appendages."

The vampire's eyebrows knitted together. "Barclay Wallace," he said.

Danielle had to keep from scoffing. She'd have known that for a lie, even without auspex. She'd met Barclay Wallace, dealt with him and his messes more than once during her tenure as Deputy.

Also, she knew he was dead.

She shook her head, giving Palmer a thumbs down. She even rolled her eyes a little.

Palmer scoffed, and fixed the guy with a withering stare. "Wrong answer," she said, and with a swift motion cut off the top of his right ear in a jagged diagonal line, eliciting a yelp of pain and a brief spray of blood that ran slick down his neck. "I go for the eyes next. What's your name?"

"Jones!" he said, very quickly, in-between vestigial gasps. "Uriel Jones."

She didn't even need to look at Danielle for that one—that was clearly true. This wasn't her first interrogation. "Thank you," she said. "That's much better. Now. What gave you the damn fool idea to vampire my daughter. Two to four sentences, please, no essays."

"You killed my sire!" Jones burst out. "Barclay Wallace was my sire. Besides, it's an embarrassment how long you ki—mortals," he corrected his word choice, at Palmer's narrowed eyes, "have been a thorn in the side of this city's Kindred. The King would reward anyone who dealt with you handsomely."

Palmer raised an eyebrow, and frowned deeply. "Really. Did he tell you that?"

Jones looked off to the side. "No..."

Danielle winced visibly at the ear. Not so much because she didn't think he deserved it--he deserved it. Mostly, just because she knew what it felt like to lose an ear.

And it stung.

She watched as Palmer continued with Jones, nodding slightly with a thumbs up as he told the truth. This guy was only a few steps away from pissing blood.

"Please, please," Jones whimpered "I could have killed her. But I didn't. She's still alive. You don't have to do this."

But yes. Yes, Palmer did need to do this.

[psl] 2015: I've been worrying I will become what I deserve

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