Post by The Mouth on Jul 4, 2014 11:27:54 GMT -8
Late April, 2013 Raleigh, North Carolina
“Dr. Reage, it is so good to meet you!” Jeffrey Hallison erupts, gripping the poor woman’s hand in his own enveloping paws. He completely misses the disgust the ripples over Dr. Reage like the flickering camouflage of a tropical reef creature with too many arms.
Reage offers a thin brittle smile with too many teeth in return. All she see is an overweight, heavy drinking, Big Pharma rep in his middle years - A go getter that plowed his ambition nose first into booze, his third wife, and child support payments. Someone who was handsome 50 pounds ago and had been promoted to his current position as Research Grant Director as a favor to his current wife.
Reage sees a man like this roughly every two months. She can tell which ones are moving on to greater things and those on their way down in about ten seconds. This man, she clearly believes by her body language, is someone she will only have to deal with once or twice as he tumbles down the hill of life’s disappointments.
It is funny really, that so many vampires let their true feelings show around mortals so much more readily than their own kind. Lower threat assessment is my guess.
“Mr. Hallison, thank you for coming,” comes Reage’s glittering and tight reply. “Our facilities are always welcome to do a tour for our grant applications.”
Jeffrey beams his 110 watt smile and tosses out his pro forma line. “Dr. Reages, I am genuinely excited about taking the tour and meeting Dr. Netchurch. But why must we meet so late in the day?”
“Oh, Dr. Netchurch and myself spend so much time working in the lab it is like a second home to us.” Reages is smooth, this is part of the script she has developed over the years for this kinds of interactions.
“Must not leave you with much of a night life; eh, Doctor? Pretty lady like you, should be out living it up! Hahahah!” The laugh is explosive and a little startling for Reages. “Never find a husband you can take home to momma in a place this.”
“Oh, I’m married to my work, and to demonstrate my commitment…” Reages tosses off the clumsy seduction attempt just as smoothly as anything else. Clearly not her first time with a man like Jeffrey Hallison. “Over here in this facility we are doing excellent work on the idea of printing bone marrow in an artificial matrix to see if we can create a natural, yet artificial source of blood as needed. Our early results show promise, and with proper backing we can see a product in the works sometime in the next decade…”
Reage drones on, clearly trying to emotionally connect this man who can direct millions into her research projects. An hour later and they gotten to Dr. Netchurch’s office. It was just after midnight and the slight walk had Jeffrey wiping sweat off his brow, and breathing hard. “And here we are Mr. Hallison. Shall we see Dr. Netchurch?”
She opens the door and ushers Jeffrey into a well lit room with shelves of books, note books, anatomy charts, specimen jars… The smell of antiseptic burned the nostrils and made the damp sweat smell of Jeffrey even more apparent.
Behind a mahogany desk sat a thin faced man, impeccable in tweed, his lab coat a crisp snowy white. He was writing something by hand, copying notes from one yellowing journal into another newer one. He did not look up at all when Reage and Jeffrey entered the room, his detachment matching the stainless steel shelves and white walls while the classic desk and clothes declared him from a different time.
“Reage.” Still not looking up, this use of her name brings the good Dr. Reage to eager attention, almost vibrating with need like a well trained hunting dog.
“Yes, Dr. Netchurch?” I can hear the real Reage in those three words. The one who has but one object in her world and that object sits dispassionately at a desk writing away.
“You may go.”
And in three words all the joy and light and everything human in Reage fold up like quantum origami.
“Yes, Dr. Netchurch.” She leaves, closing the door feather soft so as to not disturb the writing man; a gesture of love and devotion as loud as a marriage proposal on the Jumbotron.
Still not looking up, Jeffrey is ask, “Will your division of Pharmplex be adding to our funding?”
Jeffrey attempts to charm the man who is not doing things he is expecting someone who wants money to do. “Well, Dr. Netchurch, if you think you can have a deliverable product on the artificial blood in five years, that would be something we can behind as a partner, to the tune of 100 million. But that would involve exclusive licensing rights for at least ten years.”
Netchurch stops his writing and calmly sets down his pencil. Deiging to look upon Jeffrey who flinches and goes slightly waxy at the calm disdain Netchurch is projecting. “Ridiculous. We will need to license the product in house, and you will have the distribution rights.”
“Then our commitment will only, uh, be, uh, 50 million.” Jeffrey loosens his necktie, and clears his throat, trying like hell to avoid Netchurch’s interest in Jeffrey has a medical subject.
“75. And we will give you first peek at our other potential item: a working drug regimen for treating schizophrenia. That will have a 200 million buy in.” Netchurch smiles thinly. “Sorry, I meant ‘200 million dollar grant approval.’ We both know that there is a great deal of money in that particular product. But it is at least ten years out, given trials and all.”
“200 million over ten years? That might be…” Jeffrey runs into direct eye contact with Netchurch and sputters down.
“No. 200 million a year. Projected of course.”
“We, uh, I’m not…”
“Not authorized to negotiate? Clearly they sent the wrong man to me.”
“No! No, I can…” Jeffrey can feel his third wife complaining how he lost this job, showing up to depositions for another divorce, the disgust in his children’s eyes...
“Good. Talk to our finance office in the morning, Mr. Hallison.”
“Actually, there is one more thing…” Jeffrey definitely is off his game at this point, distracted, trying to figure out how to sell his bosses on chasing a potentially profitable rabbit down a 2 billion dollar research hole.
“What could that be, Mr. Hallison? I have work to do.”
And in that moment, Jeffrey Hallison, aged 41 from Dubuque, Iowa, High School track star, Columbia graduate, father of Susan, Peter, and Henry, two time divorcee and thrice married employee of Pharmplex these last twenty years… Dies. And I murder him with no malice, no weapons, and no blood. I just… Take him off.
“I would like your notes on famlial characteristics along specific bloodlines, your toxicology papers on various narcotics and chemicals and their effects on kindred physiognomy and your acceptance of a few further notations of my own. Also, as a kindness, to pass along a message to Dr. Woodstock.” Gone was Jeffrey. Here was Francis, Brittish git extraordinaire.
Dr. Netchurch was not amused.
“I see. So, no funding?”
“Of course there is funding, but it is more of a one time deal. I’ve got info to trade; rumors to ply, secrets to bury. But I had to get a feel for the man behind the research and I get that feel best by how such a man shapes his environment. Tried getting in the front door…”
Hoo boy, he is looking serisouly annoyed. With his reputation for detachment I might be in trouble…
“YOU were the one who tried to break in last week?”
“Well, a wee bit. Mostly to test your security.” Modestly abashed is not a look I do well. Annnd now Dr. Netchurch knows that as well.
“Clearly you didn’t get past the front door. The cameras...”
“Saw what I wanted them to. Ah… Third shelf up, two in from the door. Look behind the books on…”
Without a word Netchurch gets up and walks to the shelf. Even his gate is clinical, smooth and precisely economical. He sees that I have backed every book on that shelf back a quarter of an inch so that I could fit my special prize behind them.
“Where is Waldo?”
“Yeah, I felt the irony might be appreciated. I now can see I’ve miscalculated a smidge.”
“Ah. And I see someone has circled Waldo in each page…”
“Got it from the thrift shop, mate. Some people are bloody arseholes.”
He inhales deeply, this controlled man. Which causes him to smell the perspiration I was exuding. “And what is that smell?”
“Sweat. Real sweat, with certain preservatives. Turns out the body odor control industry has a lot of papers on this stuff, including special sponges… Look, I went to a lot of trouble to sell Jeffrey Hallison.”
Netchurch slowly rolls up the Waldo book and white knuckle grips it back to his desk.
“How did you know I was…”
“Well, Doctor Netchurch, it is like this. I know that the local custom here is that once in a while everyone needs to make themselves physically known to the Prince. I also know that is where you do a little wheel and deal to get access to your drugs, money, and bodies. Kindred on punishment details from their sires, ghouls who have disappointed… The like.”
“So you waited until I went to gather subjects for my research, broke in, and planted that book?”
“Yup.”
The scientist came out ahead of the pride-wounded lick, and I could see it. Netchurch’s detachment also meant that when his interest was focused on something he really focused on it. Not that he wasn’t pissed, this neck of woods was going to be very hostile in very short order.
“Why not steal the research?”
“I couldn’t risk it, Doctor. You might not have had it physically available, it might be encrypted, and I had no idea where it was stored and in what medium. But I thought this little game might amuse you. Keeping Reage from trying to kill me is going to be bollocks.”
“Yes. It might. She would not be pleased at your deception.”
“Anyhow, I can trade about three years of observations on the scene, local, ground level, with a trained mind and eye on the happenings of Seattle. Bloodlines, behaviors, expressions, some pretty nutty stuff. Trade my notes and a phone number for a guy named Richter, Anarch Baron in Tacoma. He is more mystic than science but he knows the lingo.” I pull of the jacket and tie, leaving the soaked napkins I was dabbing my face with. Netchurch is still not sitting down, so I might have to pull out fast…
“Seattle.”
“Yup.”
“Field notes?”
“Yup.”
“And your message to Woodstock?”
“That he is an idiot for not considering the genetics of the Blood. There is something akin to DNA in Kindred vitae, and it is volatile - See the Caitiff and their unique expressions. But there had to have been a first vampire, beyond some of the myths I have heard told. Everything stems back to that first one; Gangrel take other forms because that is their expression potential. The rest of us draw on what ever that first one had as our expression potential, meaning the bat and the wolf are hard coded into our own ‘Kindred DNA’. I haven’t found it yet, but I am sure it is there. The Tremere access it with their magic-science, don’t ask me how. I haven’t had the time to research it.”
“Interesting hypothesis. But how do you know of Woodstock? He is not widely published.” That steely gaze is back.
“I. Uh, might have done some reading while I was here. I mean, you are THE expert.”
The flattery and five quid would get me a latte at Starbucks, I could see that much. “All right ‘Francis’. Share your notes with me and if I deem them worthy I will give you what you ask and 24 hours to leave this Domain. I do hear such interesting things about Seattle.” Netchurch sits back down at his desk, and looks at me expectantly.
“Right. The notes. I also included what I exploited to get past your security…”
By rights he should have ratted me to the local Sheriff right then and there. But I had tripped his need to know secrets after conning my way into the room. Netchurch was mad, got that. Can’t come back to Raleigh for a century or so… But he agreed to take my letters, so that is a win.
Seriously, some guy did this to me and they would never find his various thumb sized pieces spread across three states. Goes to show, Malkavians are serious insane.
Malkavians
By Ben Vaughan
“Dr. Reage, it is so good to meet you!” Jeffrey Hallison erupts, gripping the poor woman’s hand in his own enveloping paws. He completely misses the disgust the ripples over Dr. Reage like the flickering camouflage of a tropical reef creature with too many arms.
Reage offers a thin brittle smile with too many teeth in return. All she see is an overweight, heavy drinking, Big Pharma rep in his middle years - A go getter that plowed his ambition nose first into booze, his third wife, and child support payments. Someone who was handsome 50 pounds ago and had been promoted to his current position as Research Grant Director as a favor to his current wife.
Reage sees a man like this roughly every two months. She can tell which ones are moving on to greater things and those on their way down in about ten seconds. This man, she clearly believes by her body language, is someone she will only have to deal with once or twice as he tumbles down the hill of life’s disappointments.
It is funny really, that so many vampires let their true feelings show around mortals so much more readily than their own kind. Lower threat assessment is my guess.
“Mr. Hallison, thank you for coming,” comes Reage’s glittering and tight reply. “Our facilities are always welcome to do a tour for our grant applications.”
Jeffrey beams his 110 watt smile and tosses out his pro forma line. “Dr. Reages, I am genuinely excited about taking the tour and meeting Dr. Netchurch. But why must we meet so late in the day?”
“Oh, Dr. Netchurch and myself spend so much time working in the lab it is like a second home to us.” Reages is smooth, this is part of the script she has developed over the years for this kinds of interactions.
“Must not leave you with much of a night life; eh, Doctor? Pretty lady like you, should be out living it up! Hahahah!” The laugh is explosive and a little startling for Reages. “Never find a husband you can take home to momma in a place this.”
“Oh, I’m married to my work, and to demonstrate my commitment…” Reages tosses off the clumsy seduction attempt just as smoothly as anything else. Clearly not her first time with a man like Jeffrey Hallison. “Over here in this facility we are doing excellent work on the idea of printing bone marrow in an artificial matrix to see if we can create a natural, yet artificial source of blood as needed. Our early results show promise, and with proper backing we can see a product in the works sometime in the next decade…”
Reage drones on, clearly trying to emotionally connect this man who can direct millions into her research projects. An hour later and they gotten to Dr. Netchurch’s office. It was just after midnight and the slight walk had Jeffrey wiping sweat off his brow, and breathing hard. “And here we are Mr. Hallison. Shall we see Dr. Netchurch?”
She opens the door and ushers Jeffrey into a well lit room with shelves of books, note books, anatomy charts, specimen jars… The smell of antiseptic burned the nostrils and made the damp sweat smell of Jeffrey even more apparent.
Behind a mahogany desk sat a thin faced man, impeccable in tweed, his lab coat a crisp snowy white. He was writing something by hand, copying notes from one yellowing journal into another newer one. He did not look up at all when Reage and Jeffrey entered the room, his detachment matching the stainless steel shelves and white walls while the classic desk and clothes declared him from a different time.
“Reage.” Still not looking up, this use of her name brings the good Dr. Reage to eager attention, almost vibrating with need like a well trained hunting dog.
“Yes, Dr. Netchurch?” I can hear the real Reage in those three words. The one who has but one object in her world and that object sits dispassionately at a desk writing away.
“You may go.”
And in three words all the joy and light and everything human in Reage fold up like quantum origami.
“Yes, Dr. Netchurch.” She leaves, closing the door feather soft so as to not disturb the writing man; a gesture of love and devotion as loud as a marriage proposal on the Jumbotron.
Still not looking up, Jeffrey is ask, “Will your division of Pharmplex be adding to our funding?”
Jeffrey attempts to charm the man who is not doing things he is expecting someone who wants money to do. “Well, Dr. Netchurch, if you think you can have a deliverable product on the artificial blood in five years, that would be something we can behind as a partner, to the tune of 100 million. But that would involve exclusive licensing rights for at least ten years.”
Netchurch stops his writing and calmly sets down his pencil. Deiging to look upon Jeffrey who flinches and goes slightly waxy at the calm disdain Netchurch is projecting. “Ridiculous. We will need to license the product in house, and you will have the distribution rights.”
“Then our commitment will only, uh, be, uh, 50 million.” Jeffrey loosens his necktie, and clears his throat, trying like hell to avoid Netchurch’s interest in Jeffrey has a medical subject.
“75. And we will give you first peek at our other potential item: a working drug regimen for treating schizophrenia. That will have a 200 million buy in.” Netchurch smiles thinly. “Sorry, I meant ‘200 million dollar grant approval.’ We both know that there is a great deal of money in that particular product. But it is at least ten years out, given trials and all.”
“200 million over ten years? That might be…” Jeffrey runs into direct eye contact with Netchurch and sputters down.
“No. 200 million a year. Projected of course.”
“We, uh, I’m not…”
“Not authorized to negotiate? Clearly they sent the wrong man to me.”
“No! No, I can…” Jeffrey can feel his third wife complaining how he lost this job, showing up to depositions for another divorce, the disgust in his children’s eyes...
“Good. Talk to our finance office in the morning, Mr. Hallison.”
“Actually, there is one more thing…” Jeffrey definitely is off his game at this point, distracted, trying to figure out how to sell his bosses on chasing a potentially profitable rabbit down a 2 billion dollar research hole.
“What could that be, Mr. Hallison? I have work to do.”
And in that moment, Jeffrey Hallison, aged 41 from Dubuque, Iowa, High School track star, Columbia graduate, father of Susan, Peter, and Henry, two time divorcee and thrice married employee of Pharmplex these last twenty years… Dies. And I murder him with no malice, no weapons, and no blood. I just… Take him off.
“I would like your notes on famlial characteristics along specific bloodlines, your toxicology papers on various narcotics and chemicals and their effects on kindred physiognomy and your acceptance of a few further notations of my own. Also, as a kindness, to pass along a message to Dr. Woodstock.” Gone was Jeffrey. Here was Francis, Brittish git extraordinaire.
Dr. Netchurch was not amused.
“I see. So, no funding?”
“Of course there is funding, but it is more of a one time deal. I’ve got info to trade; rumors to ply, secrets to bury. But I had to get a feel for the man behind the research and I get that feel best by how such a man shapes his environment. Tried getting in the front door…”
Hoo boy, he is looking serisouly annoyed. With his reputation for detachment I might be in trouble…
“YOU were the one who tried to break in last week?”
“Well, a wee bit. Mostly to test your security.” Modestly abashed is not a look I do well. Annnd now Dr. Netchurch knows that as well.
“Clearly you didn’t get past the front door. The cameras...”
“Saw what I wanted them to. Ah… Third shelf up, two in from the door. Look behind the books on…”
Without a word Netchurch gets up and walks to the shelf. Even his gate is clinical, smooth and precisely economical. He sees that I have backed every book on that shelf back a quarter of an inch so that I could fit my special prize behind them.
“Where is Waldo?”
“Yeah, I felt the irony might be appreciated. I now can see I’ve miscalculated a smidge.”
“Ah. And I see someone has circled Waldo in each page…”
“Got it from the thrift shop, mate. Some people are bloody arseholes.”
He inhales deeply, this controlled man. Which causes him to smell the perspiration I was exuding. “And what is that smell?”
“Sweat. Real sweat, with certain preservatives. Turns out the body odor control industry has a lot of papers on this stuff, including special sponges… Look, I went to a lot of trouble to sell Jeffrey Hallison.”
Netchurch slowly rolls up the Waldo book and white knuckle grips it back to his desk.
“How did you know I was…”
“Well, Doctor Netchurch, it is like this. I know that the local custom here is that once in a while everyone needs to make themselves physically known to the Prince. I also know that is where you do a little wheel and deal to get access to your drugs, money, and bodies. Kindred on punishment details from their sires, ghouls who have disappointed… The like.”
“So you waited until I went to gather subjects for my research, broke in, and planted that book?”
“Yup.”
The scientist came out ahead of the pride-wounded lick, and I could see it. Netchurch’s detachment also meant that when his interest was focused on something he really focused on it. Not that he wasn’t pissed, this neck of woods was going to be very hostile in very short order.
“Why not steal the research?”
“I couldn’t risk it, Doctor. You might not have had it physically available, it might be encrypted, and I had no idea where it was stored and in what medium. But I thought this little game might amuse you. Keeping Reage from trying to kill me is going to be bollocks.”
“Yes. It might. She would not be pleased at your deception.”
“Anyhow, I can trade about three years of observations on the scene, local, ground level, with a trained mind and eye on the happenings of Seattle. Bloodlines, behaviors, expressions, some pretty nutty stuff. Trade my notes and a phone number for a guy named Richter, Anarch Baron in Tacoma. He is more mystic than science but he knows the lingo.” I pull of the jacket and tie, leaving the soaked napkins I was dabbing my face with. Netchurch is still not sitting down, so I might have to pull out fast…
“Seattle.”
“Yup.”
“Field notes?”
“Yup.”
“And your message to Woodstock?”
“That he is an idiot for not considering the genetics of the Blood. There is something akin to DNA in Kindred vitae, and it is volatile - See the Caitiff and their unique expressions. But there had to have been a first vampire, beyond some of the myths I have heard told. Everything stems back to that first one; Gangrel take other forms because that is their expression potential. The rest of us draw on what ever that first one had as our expression potential, meaning the bat and the wolf are hard coded into our own ‘Kindred DNA’. I haven’t found it yet, but I am sure it is there. The Tremere access it with their magic-science, don’t ask me how. I haven’t had the time to research it.”
“Interesting hypothesis. But how do you know of Woodstock? He is not widely published.” That steely gaze is back.
“I. Uh, might have done some reading while I was here. I mean, you are THE expert.”
The flattery and five quid would get me a latte at Starbucks, I could see that much. “All right ‘Francis’. Share your notes with me and if I deem them worthy I will give you what you ask and 24 hours to leave this Domain. I do hear such interesting things about Seattle.” Netchurch sits back down at his desk, and looks at me expectantly.
“Right. The notes. I also included what I exploited to get past your security…”
By rights he should have ratted me to the local Sheriff right then and there. But I had tripped his need to know secrets after conning my way into the room. Netchurch was mad, got that. Can’t come back to Raleigh for a century or so… But he agreed to take my letters, so that is a win.
Seriously, some guy did this to me and they would never find his various thumb sized pieces spread across three states. Goes to show, Malkavians are serious insane.
Malkavians
By Ben Vaughan