Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Oct 1, 2012 8:31:58 GMT -8
Richter sat in the back seat of the cab quietly hating everything about everything. A few torn pages from some archaic yellowpages occupied the space next to him. A smoldering cigarette sat in the corner of his mouth and his leg hopped nervously as if it had a mind of its own.
“Fuckin’ chinks. Why does it always have to be these fuckin’ chinks?” he mutters quietly under his breath. The source of his ire wouldn’t have been entirely clear to the laymen: a rather plain building at the corner of a back street of the International District; Seattle’s answer to Chinatown. The sign above the door was faded and chipped and read ‘Eastern Remedies’ followed by a different name in their pictures that passed for a language.
“What was that?” the cabbie asks, looking back over his shoulder.
“It sound like I’m fuckin’ talking to you, kid? No. Shut the fuck up and do as you’re fuckin’ told,” Richter snaps back impatiently. He promptly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ’Its not his fault,’ he thinks quietly. He opens his eyes and looks deep into the cabbie’s. “Forget I just did that. It was terribly rude.”
The cabbie just nods slowly and turns to face forward.
Richter reaches over and pulls the yellow pages back into his field of vision, going over the names again. The various businesses had been lackluster at best and comical at worst. He seemed to recall a few bookstores before he left that hadn’t been just parlor tricks, but they seemed to have died off in his years of absence. Name after name had a long black mark from his sharpie through it. He takes another deep breath.
“Leave the meter running, I won’t be long,” he says before stepping out. The cabbie just nods and turns on the radio. Slow, measured steps lead Richter to the door, but his hand trembles as he reaches for the knob. ’There isn’t anything here, chief. There aren’t any Eastern devil’s here. They’ve probably misprinted their hours. Shit, they’re probably closed anyway. This place will be empty. There won’t be devils. There won’t be devils. There won’t be devils...’
For a moment, he thinks back to the six armed monstrosity that had torn apart the last vestige of a pack he’d been a member of. It had been fast and merciless and the flaming swords it wielded cut through his crew like slightly melty butter. He shudders and drops his palm against the cold chill of the metal door to steady it. For a moment, the gentle pressure he applies meets resistance, and he thinks that perhaps they aren't opened. But he is disappointed and slightly terrified when the door swings wide, revealing an interesting array of herbal and pungent items. The counter was cluttered with this and that, herbs and ground animal body parts or whatever the bastards used to make their dicks hard. Signs written in pictures rather than words; hash marks and scribbles to say something, and we were the barbarians. He grunts softly.
A single person occupied the shop, a youngish woman. She was rather plain, but the exotic cast of her features meant that she wouldn’t want for attention at any bar outside this confined reservation of Asiatic blood. The round cast and slightly coppery skin said she was likely Chinese, but from their southern areas.
Almost timidly, Richter unfocused his eyes to grasp at the colors swirling about her person. Relief floods into him when they are lively and bright. He quashes it quickly though; sometimes their auras said human when they were anything but. Caution was best here. He reaches to touch her mind, and true relief floods him when it opens like a flower to him without resistance. He stares at her in an unsettling way, tossing this memory aside and that, looking for anything shaming. Anything supernatural- anything to say this trip wasn’t just a terrifying waste of his time. The hasty, almost violent search reveals nothing of merit, and he silently chastises himself for even worrying.
The woman, her name was Chin, her mother a name he couldn’t pronounce and her grandmother was worse, raised her gaze at him questioningly and said quietly, “Hello. No smoking, please.”
He nods, looking a little sheepish, the cigarette an old habit. “I was just leaving, actually. Sorry to…”
And then he saw it. It felt like a high caliber gunshot penetrating his chest. A small clay tablet in the back behind her, behind the counter, covered in characters and a small image. One mark, no… two- those were used by his own crafts to form warding glyphs. They were a mark stolen by some ancient Hermetic mage in an effort to consume the Eastern crafts. That. Was. Real.
His lip curls slightly and he recoils a step. ‘Really? Fucking why?! Why here? Why not some stupid goth book store? Or some shitty white-owned new age place? Some tourist trap voodoo garbage slinger with a drugged out Rastafarian behind the counter? Why here?’ His eyes begin darting about the place and now seeing clear evidence of components and tools with purpose. One thing might have been coincidental, a few might have just been luck, but there was enough here to get a young mage up and running for certain.
“That is an interesting piece,” he points to the clay, walking forward, eyes honed sharp as razors now. “Right there with the writing? Fascinating… Sit their docile and obedient. Answer all my questions. Be a good girl now,” he says in a lulling, soothing tone.
She nods slowly, a slight smile still frozen to her lips.
“Who owns this place?” he asks quietly, pulling a notepad from his pocket and pen.
“Mr. Chang,” she says slowly. “He’s very good to us.”
Richter nods, not at all interested in how he treats his employees. “When does Mr. Chang usually come in?”
“Twice a month to go over the books and ensure product is in,” she answers.
“When are you expecting him next?” he asks, writing the information as she rambles it out.
“Next week, I think? Maybe the week after,” she shrugs slightly. “He keeps his own schedule.”
Richter nods, taking her chin gently between his fingers, his eyes boring into hers. “Show me something joyous you have experienced recently.”
Like an elastic snap, he is viewing the beauty of Seattle from the top of a Ferris wheel. She is bubbling with joy and a rather homely stranger is sitting next to her. He snaps back into the shop, she was still slightly smiling at him in an increasingly stupid way. He can’t help but hate her, and yet feel guilty for what came next. Always guilt with these humans.
“That day on the Ferris wheel, you sat next to me. We spent the whole day together. You have never been so happy. You trust me. You will always trust me,” he mutters in a slow and soothing way. “When Mr. Chang comes into this store next, you will do exactly as you usually do, but you will find an excuse to call this number and say ‘He is here’. Then you will hang up and forget doing so.”
He leans in slowly, “Do you understand?”
She nods slowly.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “When I stop speaking, you will close your eyes. When you open them, you will go about your business. You will forget I was ever here. You will be filled with a small joy, but not know why. You may open your eyes again when you hear the door chime.”
She nods again, her eyes slowly drifting closed. Richter watches her a moment before nodding himself and sliding the notepad into his pocket. He grumbles unhappily and walks out the door.
“Fuckin’ chinks. Why did it have to be them?” he asks to no one in particular as he lights a fresh cigarette and climbs back into his cab.
“Fuckin’ chinks. Why does it always have to be these fuckin’ chinks?” he mutters quietly under his breath. The source of his ire wouldn’t have been entirely clear to the laymen: a rather plain building at the corner of a back street of the International District; Seattle’s answer to Chinatown. The sign above the door was faded and chipped and read ‘Eastern Remedies’ followed by a different name in their pictures that passed for a language.
“What was that?” the cabbie asks, looking back over his shoulder.
“It sound like I’m fuckin’ talking to you, kid? No. Shut the fuck up and do as you’re fuckin’ told,” Richter snaps back impatiently. He promptly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ’Its not his fault,’ he thinks quietly. He opens his eyes and looks deep into the cabbie’s. “Forget I just did that. It was terribly rude.”
The cabbie just nods slowly and turns to face forward.
Richter reaches over and pulls the yellow pages back into his field of vision, going over the names again. The various businesses had been lackluster at best and comical at worst. He seemed to recall a few bookstores before he left that hadn’t been just parlor tricks, but they seemed to have died off in his years of absence. Name after name had a long black mark from his sharpie through it. He takes another deep breath.
“Leave the meter running, I won’t be long,” he says before stepping out. The cabbie just nods and turns on the radio. Slow, measured steps lead Richter to the door, but his hand trembles as he reaches for the knob. ’There isn’t anything here, chief. There aren’t any Eastern devil’s here. They’ve probably misprinted their hours. Shit, they’re probably closed anyway. This place will be empty. There won’t be devils. There won’t be devils. There won’t be devils...’
For a moment, he thinks back to the six armed monstrosity that had torn apart the last vestige of a pack he’d been a member of. It had been fast and merciless and the flaming swords it wielded cut through his crew like slightly melty butter. He shudders and drops his palm against the cold chill of the metal door to steady it. For a moment, the gentle pressure he applies meets resistance, and he thinks that perhaps they aren't opened. But he is disappointed and slightly terrified when the door swings wide, revealing an interesting array of herbal and pungent items. The counter was cluttered with this and that, herbs and ground animal body parts or whatever the bastards used to make their dicks hard. Signs written in pictures rather than words; hash marks and scribbles to say something, and we were the barbarians. He grunts softly.
A single person occupied the shop, a youngish woman. She was rather plain, but the exotic cast of her features meant that she wouldn’t want for attention at any bar outside this confined reservation of Asiatic blood. The round cast and slightly coppery skin said she was likely Chinese, but from their southern areas.
Almost timidly, Richter unfocused his eyes to grasp at the colors swirling about her person. Relief floods into him when they are lively and bright. He quashes it quickly though; sometimes their auras said human when they were anything but. Caution was best here. He reaches to touch her mind, and true relief floods him when it opens like a flower to him without resistance. He stares at her in an unsettling way, tossing this memory aside and that, looking for anything shaming. Anything supernatural- anything to say this trip wasn’t just a terrifying waste of his time. The hasty, almost violent search reveals nothing of merit, and he silently chastises himself for even worrying.
The woman, her name was Chin, her mother a name he couldn’t pronounce and her grandmother was worse, raised her gaze at him questioningly and said quietly, “Hello. No smoking, please.”
He nods, looking a little sheepish, the cigarette an old habit. “I was just leaving, actually. Sorry to…”
And then he saw it. It felt like a high caliber gunshot penetrating his chest. A small clay tablet in the back behind her, behind the counter, covered in characters and a small image. One mark, no… two- those were used by his own crafts to form warding glyphs. They were a mark stolen by some ancient Hermetic mage in an effort to consume the Eastern crafts. That. Was. Real.
His lip curls slightly and he recoils a step. ‘Really? Fucking why?! Why here? Why not some stupid goth book store? Or some shitty white-owned new age place? Some tourist trap voodoo garbage slinger with a drugged out Rastafarian behind the counter? Why here?’ His eyes begin darting about the place and now seeing clear evidence of components and tools with purpose. One thing might have been coincidental, a few might have just been luck, but there was enough here to get a young mage up and running for certain.
“That is an interesting piece,” he points to the clay, walking forward, eyes honed sharp as razors now. “Right there with the writing? Fascinating… Sit their docile and obedient. Answer all my questions. Be a good girl now,” he says in a lulling, soothing tone.
She nods slowly, a slight smile still frozen to her lips.
“Who owns this place?” he asks quietly, pulling a notepad from his pocket and pen.
“Mr. Chang,” she says slowly. “He’s very good to us.”
Richter nods, not at all interested in how he treats his employees. “When does Mr. Chang usually come in?”
“Twice a month to go over the books and ensure product is in,” she answers.
“When are you expecting him next?” he asks, writing the information as she rambles it out.
“Next week, I think? Maybe the week after,” she shrugs slightly. “He keeps his own schedule.”
Richter nods, taking her chin gently between his fingers, his eyes boring into hers. “Show me something joyous you have experienced recently.”
Like an elastic snap, he is viewing the beauty of Seattle from the top of a Ferris wheel. She is bubbling with joy and a rather homely stranger is sitting next to her. He snaps back into the shop, she was still slightly smiling at him in an increasingly stupid way. He can’t help but hate her, and yet feel guilty for what came next. Always guilt with these humans.
“That day on the Ferris wheel, you sat next to me. We spent the whole day together. You have never been so happy. You trust me. You will always trust me,” he mutters in a slow and soothing way. “When Mr. Chang comes into this store next, you will do exactly as you usually do, but you will find an excuse to call this number and say ‘He is here’. Then you will hang up and forget doing so.”
He leans in slowly, “Do you understand?”
She nods slowly.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “When I stop speaking, you will close your eyes. When you open them, you will go about your business. You will forget I was ever here. You will be filled with a small joy, but not know why. You may open your eyes again when you hear the door chime.”
She nods again, her eyes slowly drifting closed. Richter watches her a moment before nodding himself and sliding the notepad into his pocket. He grumbles unhappily and walks out the door.
“Fuckin’ chinks. Why did it have to be them?” he asks to no one in particular as he lights a fresh cigarette and climbs back into his cab.