Los Angeles, United States

The halls of the Griffith Observatory sat empty and silent in the night. A gentle breeze blew from East to West. The night sky was blackened with no stars. The lights of downtown Los Angeles, and its many tall buildings illuminated the landscape from the bottom of the Hollywood sign all the way to the ocean.

Vespera looked out over the sea of lights. The light breeze was delightful on her enhanced figure. She could feel the atmospheric pressure dropping. It would rain tonight. She'd enjoy a nice night like this, except that she had to deal with a splitting migraine. They had been endemic ever since her escape from death. Not the one from the blade of the Rifle, but her ascension to a full-blooded vampire. The damn things reminded her of her own vulnerability. She was only immortal, not invincible. The wound to her side healed quickly, as expected. She was ashamed to have let a blade touch her, much less wound her so seriously. Any closer to her heart and she'd have been vanquished. She had to have blood brought to her, so she could heal. Which humiliated her in front of the other full-bloods. It was better to die than to look weak. She swore if she ever met that Rifle again she'd flay him alive and place his remains on a pike.

The entire Red Wind clan died in Russia. They played their part like unwitting fools. All according to the machinations of her master, the great Queen Serene Sanguis. It was she who had saved Vespera from certain death years ago. And so, she owed her life in servitude. Her Queen orchestrated and she executed. They killed the Red Wind's queen, enacted a hostile takeover, and then fed the entire clan, cultists and thrall alike, into the shredder. To wipe out an entire clan was callous, certainly; even traitorous. But they played their part in a grander plan.

Now it was Vespera's turn once again to fulfill her role. Despite her headache, she still heard the steps walking along the concrete path towards her. Three figures stopped behind her, a few feet away. They were in front of a spotlight that illuminated the observatory dome, but she could still make out their exact features with her enhanced vision. They wore intricate, expensive, suits. The one in the middle, more so than his counterparts. The two bruisers had complex tattoos on the exposed areas of their skin. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

"I told you to come alone." She said, irritably.

The middle man spoke. He was confident and cocksure. "No good, I am afraid. One does not walk into the heart of the beast without friends." He was Asian, Japanese specifically. He spoke with an exaggerated accent. She could tell it had been refined over time to sound just like his cousins over seas, but she saw through his façade. He was no more Japanese than a cheap mall katana in a pawn shop.

"I did not know the Yakuza was so keen to send its men to the slaughter." A veiled threat. Both of the tattooed gangmembers glanced at each other.

The faux-Japan frowned. "You told me your boss would be here." He countered.

"She has much more pressing matters to attend to than talking to dregs like you."

The man laughed deeply, "So then let us talk, dreg to dreg." He gestured to her.

She was insulted, mostly because she could easily kill this worm but was instructed not to. Only her masters breath stood between this gangster and a crushed spine.

She deflected. "You have come to accept my master's generous offer?" She spat the word as if it tasted sour.

He looked up at the night sky. "You may tell your master that we are not interested."

Vespera blinked anger. "The Queen was very clear. To accept is the only option."

The gangster placed a cigarette in his lips. One of his goons lit it. "So vampires are real." he made an exaggerated goofy smile. "Better to end one's life with death than to become a living corpse and leave no name behind." he quoted ancient Japanese literature. "I have no interest in your cult of undeath. I propose an alternative-"

Vespera rolled her eyes and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The Yakuza were left speechless, wondering what just happened. Vespera reappeared next to one of the goons, placed her hand on his shoulder and disappeared again.

She reappeared back in front of them, this time leaning on the concrete railing. Goon #2 had his hand in his suit, ready to draw his gun.

The body of goon #1 hit the concrete barrier with a sickening squish after falling from a hundred feet. His body bounced and tumbled down the side of the cliff. Vespera dragged a finger through the blood spatter. She placed it on her tongue, savoring it. She made sure they saw her fangs. She was quite proud of their brilliant shine. Goon #2 drew his gun and she did the same to him. Only this time no body hit the ground, leaving the middle man to wonder in fear.

Goon #1 did not taste good. She tasted the immediate sweetness of glucose, a testament to his recent meal rich in carbohydrates. Underneath, there was a metallic tang of iron, the lifeblood's essential component. She detected subtle notes of lactic acid, indicating recent physical exertion. Hints of adrenaline spiked the blood, an unmistakable marker of his fear and the body's fight-or-flight response in his last moments. Traces of caffeine suggested his attempts to stay alert. Chemicals from his proclivities lingered as well—amphetamines and traces of THC, altering the blood's natural viscosity and taste. Her heightened senses cataloged each element.

The remaining gangster was shaking now, confidence broken.

She sighed, "It has been made clear, Oyabun," the word for 'boss', "You will, with our help, subjugate the Los Angeles underground and consolidate its gangs. The Desperados, the 13st Street Kings, the Hooligans, ALL of them." She emphasized. "And you will be rewarded."

The boss adjusted his hat, nervously. "Yes, about the reward part..." He had a feeling that his "reward" so called, would be liquidation or enslavement.

"It will be great and you will be grateful. Execute this tasking OR you will suffer the same fate as your wives." Vespera threatened him, angrily. She remembered what she had done on their first meeting. Not her technically, a different vampire executed his family members on her orders, just to get him to get the Oyabun to come out of the shadows.

Vespera snapped her fingers and her own goons loomed out of the darkness. They materialized from the black like the ghosts they were. Two skeletons, not a strand of flesh upon them, flanked Vespera. Their demeanor was menacing, yet disciplined. Their souls were enslaved to the Queen and therefore her executor.

"You will have their help." She told the Yakuza boss, gesturing to the skeletons. "These two are at your disposal. They are capable assassins. They will also keep tabs on you, Oyabun." There was a hint of a threat in her last sentence.

The boss stood awkwardly. He really wanted to leave, but did not want to disrespect his new "benefactor", though in reality she was now his master.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

"Go!" She urged him and he scurried off like a frightened rat.

Vespera looked back out over the Los Angeles skyline. Her claws would sink deeply into this city.

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Smoke wafted out of the half-rolled down windows of the '98 Honda Civic. Despite the vehicles peeling paint, it sat on chrome rims worth more than the rest of the car. The vehicle had clearly lived far past its 150,000 mile designed usage limit. The dim halogen bulbs of the street lights mercifully did not illuminate the rusty trim.

"Shiet, cuh. You ain't tell me this shit would hit this hard." Said "Big Devon" Malone as he coughed after taking a pull from a thick joint, causing his rolls of fat to jiggle. Puffs of smoke rolled from his mouth. Next to him, his friend and fellow 13st Street King gangmember laughed at him. The 13st was called such because the founder was a suspected illiterate. Even the police assumed it was supposed to be the 13th Street, but those in the know knew better. The gang controlled the western docks of the city and the associated industrial parks. Big Devon and Sloan were guarding the gangs interests. It was necessary for them to establish presence to prevent any particularly enterprising rivals from getting any ideas. However, the docks were at the heart of the Kings territory. That's why, instead of standing on a street corner with their colors showing, the two gangsters were getting high off of their asses on the finest kush this side of Death valley.

"Ain't no thang, brotha. Sloan got you covered." he said, taking the joint from his friend and taking a long puff with no problem at all.

"I need munchies. I'm starvin'." Big Devon exclaimed. He keyed the ignition but the abused car failed to start; a common occurrence.

While trying to get the car started, both gangsters failed to notice a shadowy figure approaching their vehicle, a long machete in its hands.

"Fuckin' piece of shit." Devon slapped the steering wheel. "Hang on cuh." He got out of the car, the entire suspension creaked and leaned left as his significant mass left the drivers seat.

"Take your time, big guy." Sloan said, completely unconcerned. The strong narcotic flowed through his veins, rendering him unable to feel any sort of heightened emotion and making his eyes glassy.

Big Devon popped the hood. He was in the process of jiggling the battery wires uselessly when a finger tapped on his shoulder. The gangster turned around, spouting profanities before he knew who even walked up on him.

"You better step off, cuh. I will pop a cap on yo a-" He stopped suddenly, upon coming face to face with a police officer. He cooled off real quick, a mixture of fear and regret contorted his facial expressions.

"Woah there, buddy. I was just checking to see if you're alright." The lone patrol officer said. "You looked like you were having some car problems." He had been ready to be friendly, but now addressed Big Devon with an accusatory tone. "Sir, have you been smoking anything tonight."

Big Devon was not known for being smart. "Y'know what fuck you bitch! You seen my rap sheet?" He reached for his waistband.

The cop, immediately expecting a gun, stepped back quickly and drew his service pistol. "Drop it! Get on the ground now!" he shouted.

Sloan shouted from inside the car. "Yo what's going out der- Aye-yo!" he saw the cop and immediately threw away the joint. His THC riddled mind failed to process any coherent thoughts.

In a split second, Big Devon went for the revolver tucked into his waistband. A useless and fatal move. The cop pulled the trigger, but just before he could apply enough pressure to discharge the weapon, a blade was thrust through his chest. Blood splatter fell upon Devon. The police officer went limp, like a puppet with its strings cut. His arms dropped to his sides, the pistol clattering into the gutter. The life quickly drained from his eyes.

Big Devon was stunned and confused. He had his snubnose .38 in his hand. The blade withdrew and the officers dead body slumped onto the pavement. Like most things in his life, Devon had trouble processing what he was seeing. Some fool in a Halloween costume stood over the corpse.

Devon shouted at the skeleton. "Shiet, holmes! You're gonna get us both clapped for that one." He exclaimed, not realizing the danger he was in. The two stared each other down. Devon wasn't sure what to do. Sloan fumbled with his seatbelt and got out of the busted car, an automatic glock with an extended mag in his hand. He looked down at the dead cop. He tapped Devon on the shoulder.

"Ay-yo, we need to be gettin' outta here. They probably about to light up this block. N'ah I'm sayin'?" Sloan urged him.

Devon was busy ogling the skeleton. "Look at that." He could see right through the costumes ribcage like there was nothing there. Sloan looked around nervously. He wanted to leave.

"Where'd you get a costume like that, big dawg?" Devon asked the skeleton. It didn't answer. Instead, it took a step forward and raised its machete.

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Salvo Island

Perelli drew in a deep breath. His chest hurt from the movement, but it was necessary to stretch while injuries healed. He had had to undergo multiple intense surgeries after the fight on Kotlin Island. The doctors had x-rayed him only to find his ribs mostly shattered and unsalvageable, and one lung perforated. The lung was a simple fix, atleast as simple as a highly invasive surgery could be. The more complex problem was the ribs. Most had to be removed because they could not be healed. He had been worried for awhile. As miraculous as the Vanguard's medicine was, it could not regrow bones. It could replace them, however. Sixty percent of his sternum and ribcage was replaced with titanium-boron alloy.

In theory, he would be stronger once it fully healed, but he had to get there first. For now, he was on limited duty. He was not even supposed to engage in cardio exercises, for fear that the alloy bond with the remaining bones could break before it fully set. The slow healing process was maddening. That was why he spent the extra time at the range, perfecting his marksmanship. He tried using his HR-15, which he was advised not to do, for the recoil of the weapon could upset the mending. He had to admit defeat after only one round because the pain caused him to seize up for several minutes. Instead, he practiced with his pistol, the 9mm having a much tamer effect on his body. He missed his old 1911 chambered in .45 ACP, but found the smaller caliber of the Vanguard sidearm more versatile. He didn't like how plasticky most firearms were these days, however.

He was scoring his paper target with a grin when he noticed Kinger approaching.

"What can I do you for, R2C?" he asked. He was in a good mood and his usual stoicism was lessened.

"I have good news for you." She seemed frustrated and grumpy. But he didn't know her that well, so maybe that was just how she always was.

"You don't sound like you have good news." He said.

She dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. "Word from the Lieutenant. You're being promoted."

That shocked him. He had passed up the opportunity for a promotion when he joined the Freikorps. He expected it would be some time before he requalified for Rifle First-Class after the transition. That was probably why Kinger was frustrated. She was senior to him, so she probably felt robbed.

"Don't get too excited." She said sarcastically, noting his muted response. "We're short-handed and we have an op coming up. El-tee wants to give you a squad. Once you're cleared for full, that is."

Perelli nodded. "And there's the catch." he thought. "What about you?" he asked.

"Well, I'm you're subordinate now." She said. Perelli noticed no apprehension or sarcasm in her response. Kinger was a hard person to get a read on. She was all business, much like him, but she also wasn't very emotive. If there was any animosity about his promotion over her, he wanted to cut right through it.

"Are you disappointed I got promoted over you?" He asked, tentatively.

Kinger shrugged. "No. I'm not ready for a leadership role. Walker agrees. And we need squad leaders, so you're it."

So she's just always like that, Perelli determined.

"Squad?" he asked her.

"You'll have Delta. And we'll be augmented by a Kilo-class frame." She told him.

Perelli wasn't sure if he liked that news. He didn't trust the killer robots, even if they were useful. He crossed his arms, but flinched and let his arms dangle after the weight caused a burst of pain in his chest.

"Might be awhile before I'm ready to go back into the field." he admitted, rubbing the sensitive spot.

"Need a vacation before you're ready, Rifle?" Kinger jabbed at him. Truthfully, he wanted back into the field. He hated sitting island-side doing nothing.

"Hey, I was ready long before you first saw light of day, R2C." He objected.

"Yes, yes, and I'm sure the trenches of whatever war you fought in were the most important in all of human history. Just like everyone else's." She said.

"Hmph, I'd certainly say so. The war to end all wars was no joke."

"And what war followed that one, pray tell?" She teased.

Perelli shrugged, dismissively. "Some nonsense in Europe and Asia. Hardly consequential."

She got back on track. "Regardless, El-tee wants you onboard for the next mission. Even if it's just an advisory role. He'll brief you himself at quarters tomorrow."

Perelli folded his target. "What exotic locale are we visiting next?"

"Los Angeles."