One Week Later
Centre Hospitalier de Chêne Rouge, Saguenay - Québec, Canada
12:30 A.M.
Zoé Sauvage had witnessed countless events across her two lifetimes.
She had once stood in solidarity with her oppressed loved ones, friends, and neighbors. Together, shoulder-to-shoulder, they had screamed and shouted in a thousand-strong chorus of defiance that echoed up into the skies as they stormed the towering stone walls of the Bastille.
She had once stumbled—disheveled, dazed, and confused—along the blood-soaked and decimated cobblestone streets of her homeland. The bodies of her countrymen and women were laid unceremoniously on street corners. The corpses were so dense on some streets that they were stacked six or seven high, arrayed like some hellish, artistic display. Some were disfigured, others dismembered, and most were intact, save for the myriad of seeping musket ball wounds stitched across their clothing and skin. Swarms of buzzards clouded the rank air above the piles. She could vividly recall the sight and smell of those bodies.
However, one thing in particular stood out in her memory. It was the most random thing, too.
One might think that spending two whole days and nights cowering in the ruins of a blacksmith's shop, sobbing in the fetal position beneath a heap of debris, would be her most memorable experience. Or perhaps it was the burning, scratchy sensation of inhaling still-warm flecks of soot and ash. Or the metallic and acidic taste of her own bile rising up in her throat as she was forced to chew small mouthfuls of raw, stringy rodent meat covered in fur. Surprisingly, she wasn't haunted by the roar of distant fires, hollow screams, and piercing shrieks at all times of the day and night. She had to fall asleep to those noises on more than one occasion.
So why was it this other thing that came back to her mind so often?
How could it not have been about the time when she had been so depressed and wretched after spending weeks scavenging through the rubble and debris of homes and stores, sleeping on the cold, hard ground? How could it not have been about when she tried taking her own life with a shard of broken glass? The sharp edge of death had bitten into the skin of her wrist, and had drawn a thin trail of blood. The only thing that had stopped her in that moment, was the same thing that had kept her warm in whatever dank hole or corner she managed to crawl into after working her hands and feet into bloody blisters while scavenging.
Anger.
Hatred.
The animating spirit of revenge itself had driven her forward, warming her body, mind, and soul when she was shivering in the frigid cold at her lowest point.
It was shortly thereafter, on the verge of death, that Zoé had been Embraced.
It was her salvation.
It was her damnation.
That same year, her Sire had taken her to seek revenge on those who had invaded her homeland and those within who had profited from or perpetrated the ensuing violence and destruction of her life. The events of that night were a murky haze saturated with blood and underpinned by death. It had been one of her fondest memories.
But still, it wasn’t the one she remembered the most. It wasn’t the one that came to mind unbiddenly when she hunted, fed, or fucked.
No, that special place in her mind was reserved for an altogether different memory.
One no less traumatic than the rest, perhaps, but it was odd to her in its insistence to replay itself in her mind's eye for seemingly no apparent reason.
The memory was of a rather tall individual dressed from head-to-toe in a plague doctor uniform. The mask was grotesque, fashioned into the shape of a bird’s beak that jutted out unnaturally from the person's face. The beak was long, curved, and painted a dull, matte black that seemed to absorb all light. Two round glass eyeholes stared out from the mask, opaque and unblinking, hiding the person's eyes and rendering their expressionless face even more menacing.
The rest of the clothes were equally disturbing. A wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over the person's masked face. A long, dark leather coat covered them from neck to ankle, its surface slick and shiny, reflecting what little faint morning light there was back in an almost wet sheen. The coat was tightly buttoned up to the throat with a high collar, and heavy leather gloves extended up the person's arms, disappearing under the sleeves of the coat. The person's sturdy leather knee-high boots made a dull, rhythmic thud on the cobblestones as they hopped off the back of the wagon and approached the nearest pile of corpses.
Without any preamble, the plague doctor reached into the pile and roughly dragged the pale corpse of a young woman in a soiled blue dress out into the open. Bent low under the woman's limp weight, they held her under the armpits and began dragging her backward onto the street. Moving the body caused one of her bent legs to awkwardly sprawl on the cobblestones, leaving behind a shoe caked in mud and blood.
The plague doctor rearranged their grip on the body, squatted, shifted, and then heaved the body onto the back of a horse-drawn cart. Then, they pushed and slid the corpse to join the growing pile in the cart. Smacking their gloves together, the plague doctor looked around once, then twice, before returning to their work.
Whoever it was hadn’t seen her.
Or maybe, just maybe, they had chosen to take their chance and pretend to miss the practically naked and visibly shaking peasant woman glaring at them from across the street.
It was such a small detail—not being seen. Who cared? Apparently, she did.
To this day, if Zoé closed her eyes and focused on those horrors she had borne witness to in her youth, she could still smell that indescribably putrid and gut-wrenching miasma of blood, feces, urine, and gunpowder that had hung low in the air like a blanket of fog. And she could still see that oblivious plague doctor.
But aside from her pointedly traumatic memories and experiences, thoughts of her old life in general had left her with a profound and unrelenting sense of self-loathing and discomfort. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they weren't her feelings. Not really. And that was what had been so messed up about the whole situation.
Her feelings hadn't come from some misguided guilt or trauma from being too weak and incompetent to provide her husband with a child, or even from her failure to rescue her loved ones from the unseeing jaws of revolution. She had come to accept the inevitability of those two events in particular, as time truly healed deep wounds. That wasn't to say time healed all wounds—it most certainly did not—but it healed most.
No. Her feelings came from the Beast. It detested her memories prior to being Embraced, finding them unpleasant, insulting, and an affront. How did she know this? How could she know this? Because the Beast, more often than not, manifested as a darker, higher form of consciousness that spread and corrupted like a nefarious, dormant cancer that could metastasize within seconds of a Kindred giving into their dark urges. Zoé was ashamed to admit that her Beast sometimes spoke to her through strange and distorted dreams, coupled with waves of overwhelming emotion. It often relentlessly tormented and criticized her for not seizing the chance to hunt and gorge herself in the wake of all that mayhem and turmoil. The Beast didn't seem to care that she had been just an average mortal back then. Now... now they were one and the same.
Zoé hated it. Hated losing control to something other than her own poor decisions. Those she could handle herself. But having to deal with another personality trying to take the wheel whenever it had a chance? It made her feel like a psychotic schizophrenic.
Besides, what else could she reason it away with at this point? There was nothing rational about her situation. Most of the other memories associated with the revolution were less than pleasant and often soured her mood. They didn't explain why she felt the way she did. How could they? The trauma she'd experienced resulted in her feeling revulsion at herself for not embracing the carnage and hunting. How did that make sense? It didn't. It normally shouldn't. But the emotions she felt when looking back on her trauma—they were as real as the snow swirling around her. And yet they were lying.
It's a strange thing—hating yourself for all the wrong reasons.
In any event, Zoé considered herself beyond redemption through any productive psychoanalysis. She felt that, in the end, she didn't even really need it. She had a direction. A compass, even.
A compass offered to her after the burning flames of revenge in her belly had quenched to smoldering embers. It had left her bereft of direction, hopelessly lost in a maze of her own making.
Then her Sire had swooped in and offered a simple solution, one that Zoé placed deep in her heart in the hopes of one day fixing it. Nowadays, looking back, it was all an oddly vivid blur, a numb scar. Something that had been poked, prodded, and reopened so many times that she was left feeling nothing. It was nice—the loss of pain through the surrendering of your soul. There was a peace and tranquility that came with the knowledge that your own death no longer scared you. Not even a little. There was no hatred, anguish, remorse, or lingering apprehension associated with the memories of her youth. She didn't know if it was healthy. She strongly doubted it. But at least she could say that she slept better most days now.
Odd, but true.
Plus, it was pointless to complain, to hate, or to regret.
There comes a point in one's life, and everyone has one, where their heart and soul become engorged with the beauty and travesty of life. There comes a time when you just can't absorb, learn, or live anymore like you once did. Taking revenge had brought Zoé to that very edge, even as a fledgling vampire.
Her Sire had saved Zoé from that pitfall, of course. Not immediately, not even in a single evening. But over time.
Zoé slowly healed through long discussions with her Sire as they traveled the country. She learned that in unlife, questions like "How?" or "Why?" didn't always matter. They couldn't matter. Or the ground would collapse out from beneath her feet. She believed it and simply moved on. There was so much more to learn and do.
She was now Kindred, a Cainite, and dwelling on the past wouldn't change the reality of the past. It simply was. Questioning it would only lead to needless pain. Survival and strength were all that mattered now. Philosophizing on the vampiric condition was a repugnant indulgence reserved for insecure, self-deluded moralists who believed in self-actualization and nurturing their weak souls. She especially couldn't stand those self-righteous pricks who tried rationalizing away their curse. And even worse were those high society fools who whiled away the night searching for the beauty within their corrupted souls.
What benefit is there in achieving transcendence if you're not alive to enjoy it?
What does immortality truly mean if you are too feeble to live according to your own designs?
What is the significance of providing for your soul if you are unable to protect it?
The notion that some Kindred foolishly prioritized self-improvement over the pursuit of power and security enraged Zoé to the core of her being.
But that anger and disgust were always fleeting, reactionary even.
Once upon a time, she too was one of those poor fools. Perhaps, if she'd remained captivated by French Romanticism and its idealized views of the world and human nature, she would have remained that impressionable, foolish young woman lost in those delusions. Had she been the same naive individual, Zoé might have even rejected her Sire's lectures on Kindred society, the Traditions, and supernatural history; the old Zoé wouldn't have been able to stomach the bitter taste of skepticism or survive the poison of profound denial.
But when her Sire discovered her, Zoé was a changed woman. She had become a vengeful and disillusioned soul forged in the crucible of war and suffering, her spirit tempered in the fires of self-doubt and crippling condemnation, harvesting the bitter consequences of her failures, night after godforsaken night.
Those experiences gave her the opportunity to view her Sire’s lectures through a different lens. Albeit a cracked, fractured lens dipped in the blood of innocents and the wicked, left to decompose in the parched earth of lost potential. Despite its ruinous nature, the lens showed her an image of the world clearer than the most crystalline water and more real than the ground she stood upon. And why? Because Zoé saw reality through the eyes of someone who had already experienced the cruelty and horror of the mortal world, someone who'd learned to survive through grit, determination, and a willingness to do what was necessary. Through her Sire's teachings, Zoé understood that the Kindred world was just as brutal and unforgiving, if not more so, and that the Traditions were a means of ensuring their survival as a society.
Zoé swiftly realized the value in her Sire's teachings. They showed her the path to true power while also revealing the onerous truth of its existence: nothing in this world, even the warped immortality of Kindred, was permanent, and every moment had to be cherished.
She wanted more than to just survive in the eternal darkness; she wanted to thrive. Doing so meant she had to cling to every fleeting moment, relish every experience, make the most of her unlife, and annihilate anyone stupid enough to get in her way.
Zoé could still vividly recall her Sire's reaction when she'd shared her perspective.
Her Sire had pulled her close with a gentle hand and, with a sad smile, smoothed her hair. However, after that, her Sire hadn't spoken a single word for the rest of the evening, leaving Zoé confused and unsure of what to make of it all.
As Zoé reflected on that night, she came to realize how much she had taken her Sire's teachings for granted. Melancholy was the best yet most insubstantial way to encompass the lingering feeling of grief sitting heavily like a stone in Zoé's chest since her Sire's passing. She had been everything a Childe could want in a mentor, but it was only after Zoé was introduced to the political world of the Camarilla, Anarchs, and Sabbat that she realized just how special her Sire had been.
Most Childer were abandoned, whether due to negligence, rebellious natures, punishment, or even a mistake. It didn't matter. The streets were rife with lost and starving Kindred whose only options were to band together in search of safety and blood. They preyed on the homeless, the destitute, or even just an unlucky person who happened to be leaving a 24/7 liquor store in the dead of night.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Zoé often reminisced about those nights she'd spent alongside her Sire. Unlike most Childer, she didn't carry any hatred for her creator. If anything, she was grateful for having been turned. Life hadn't been kind to her. But because of that special relationship between them, Zoé often pondered if her Sire had sensed her own imminent death. For nearly a decade, she'd dedicated all her time to imparting her knowledge and legacy to Zoé, leaving Zoé to wonder if it was in deliberate preparation for her eventual passing.
The night her Sire died was the night Zoé changed. Again.
For the next two years, she tore through cities and countryside in search of the culprit, only to come up empty-handed. The experience was as humbling as it was humiliating, and Zoé often found it difficult to think about some of the things she'd done on those frenzied nights. But what hurt her the most was the lingering sense of having failed to honor her Sire's memory. The trail of bloodshed and destruction she'd left behind... it wasn't what her Sire would have wanted.
It wasn't long after her rampage that she came to a decision. She realized that she couldn't stay in the same country where her Sire had passed away; it felt wrong. She began making plans to leave that very night.
Zoé’s true journey began when she decided to take the next ship bound across the Atlantic to the New World. It was a grueling journey, to say the least. She had to quietly feed and sleep in cramped wooden boxes in the ship's lower hold, all the while avoiding the ship's day duty rotations on a roughly nine-week trans-Atlantic voyage... disguised as a man.
It took her years to recover from that experience.
To Zoé, mortals were nothing but filthy, ill-mannered, and foul-smelling cretins only worth their weight in blood. She couldn't fathom how she had managed to live among them for over thirty-two years.
The voyage turned particularly gruesome one fateful night, as Zoé came dangerously close to violating the Masquerade and triggering a ship-wide witch hunt.
The exact specifics were hazy, but she recalled having been forced to go without feeding for too long because the First Mate had suddenly conducted an inspection of the lower decks. Eventually, try as hard as she might, Zoé couldn't restrain the Beast as it viciously clawed and tore at her mind, begging to free itself from the claustrophobic confines of the ship. It wanted to run free, to hunt, to kill every living thing on board and gorge itself until it couldn’t move.
She couldn't remember much of anything after those intense emotions took over.
She did, however, remember waking to the exquisite taste of dried blood staining her lips.
A galley boy’s withered, pale corpse was slumped against the wall beside her.
It was her first night since the Embrace that she'd lost control like that.
She hated the Beast. She hated that when push came to shove, she wasn't in control. That there was something inside her that actively rebelled against her and lived only to consume. And yet, it was also her. They were one and the same. Unfortunately, it didn’t make her feel any better.
She eventually settled on faking the galley boy's death, leaving evidence of loose and missing teeth to imply scurvy, and hoped the bite marks and torn skin on the throat would be blamed on rats. She couldn't do much about how pale the corpse was, though. Maybe they'd blame the boy for working below decks day and night without sun exposure. Thankfully, deaths weren't unusual on such voyages, and she'd made it to the New World intact without stirring any Inquisition hives.
And despite all of that...
Despite enduring war, starvation, hopelessness, and nationwide uprisings—both in life and in death—she couldn't understand how she'd been persuaded to take a mission in this frozen hellhole. To make matters worse, she'd allowed herself to be persuaded into it by him, no less.
"Fuck him, fuck them all. What's wrong with me?" Zoé harshly criticized herself, already regretting her decision.
But if she were truthful with herself, this wasn't the first time, nor likely the last, where she'd jeopardized her unlife for that man—that conceited, self-assured dickhead!
And what did she get out of it?
A stunning high-rise back in the city? …Sure.
As many exorbitant, utterly illicit cigars as she desired? ...Yes.
Gorgeous sports cars, the latest clothes, unlimited blood dolls, and exclusive hunting rights in the city? …Yes, yes, mostly, and yes.
"Goddamnit." Zoé felt a headache coming on. Tilting her head, she rubbed the bridge of her nose while emitting a soft growl of exasperation. "Fine... pull it together," she conceded, acknowledging that her unlife was basically paradise. But it hadn't always been like that, had it? Absolutely not. She'd earned every fucking ounce of that blood, and then some.
So why, in the name of Caine, did she feel indebted to that asshole? All he did was smoke and drink blood wine like the Camarilla was about to institute Prohibition. And then there were those two blonde tramps who always clung to his shirt!
"As if the bastard needs protection at all times; give me a break," she fumed.
He never sent those high-class skanks out on crucial Camarilla business... does that mean he trusts me more? She felt deflated and then berated herself for being so emotionally vulnerable and influenced when he wasn't around. "This is the last time," she pridefully swore. Zoé's world-class temper simmered beneath her composed supermodel exterior. She knew that once this was over, she would need to go hunting to release her pent-up frustration.
This whoever-the-fuck Montreal Prince and his hunting edicts could go fellate a holy water soaked stake.
Zoé scanned the area with her gold-flecked green eyes, coldly glancing around for what felt like the dozenth time.
The exchange was taking place on the outskirts of a populated city, in the middle of an open parking lot behind a semi-modern hospital undergoing some minor renovations. Heavy construction machinery and hastily stockpiled working tools nearby evidenced the ongoing work. To the north, the hospital bordered a heavily-trafficked river, while businesses and residences encircled it in every other direction.
A precarious and highly volatile situation, almost like an immovable powder keg innocently waiting for a careless spark and a fuse.
The night was bitterly cold and windy, punctuated with a steady sprinkling of snow. While extreme weather didn't usually affect most Kindred, it would certainly draw attention to see a casually dressed, auburn-haired supermodel standing alone in the middle of a snow-covered parking lot outside a building undergoing exterior renovations.
So, Zoé made a deliberate choice to bundle up with her winter attire, covering herself as much as possible to avoid drawing unwanted attention. To that end, she chose a personal favorite outfit from her extensive wardrobe: a full-length black sheepskin coat with a luxurious gray-black shearling trim and lining, complete with a hood. Her hands were adorned with black sheepskin gloves that had decorative top stitching, a tonal buckled strap around the wrists, and black-dyed shearling peeking out. To keep her feet warm and provide traction on the snowy ground, she wore calf-high black leather boots with a beige rubber sole. Zoé completed the look with horn-shaped glasses featuring a black full-rim frame and upturned lenses.
The outfit was exorbitantly expensive. But, its muted and neutral color palette had an elegant simplicity that wouldn't draw attention at a passing glance, especially not in these harsh weather conditions.
Zoé's senses suddenly picked up on three approaching auras, one among them distinctly standing out.
"Seems like Sever's Emissary, but..." she mumbled, trying to assess the potency of the dominant leading aura.
Three indistinct figures emerged from the shadows, making their way across the parking lot towards Zoé. The lead figure was broad-shouldered yet moved with a fluid grace, flanked by two imposing, tall silhouettes. Each step they took seemed measured and deliberate. They were draped in black winter gear that clung to their forms, with heavy, insulated coats and matching cargo pants that rustled faintly with each movement. The hoods of their coats were pulled low, casting their faces into deep shadow.
The lead figure's presence was commanding, exuding an air of quiet authority. The two at his sides matched the leader’s movements seamlessly, like well-trained bodyguards. Which is exactly what they probably were. The black fabric of their attire absorbed the sparse light, rendering them almost spectral against the backdrop of the dimly lit parking lot.
But, despite their nondescript appearance, there was an unmistakable aura of menace that surrounded them. The subtle tension in the air heightened as they closed the distance. Zoé could feel the weight of their approach, each step echoing slightly against the cold, hard pavement. The snowy wind carried the faint scent of their presence, a mix of leather, steel, and an underlying hint of something distinctly unnatural.
Zoé's senses were on high alert.
The lead figure stopped a few paces away, his companions halting in perfect unison. With a deliberate motion, he pulled back the hood of his overcoat, revealing a man whose presence was immediately commanding. His features were sharp and chiseled, framed by a meticulously groomed beard that added an air of rugged sophistication. His dark eyes held a depth that hinted at both intelligence and danger. She didn't like that one bit.
The man wore a substantial gray overcoat that draped over his broad shoulders. Black gloves covered his hands, the leather creaking softly as he flexed his fingers. Underneath the coat, he wore jeans that were neither too tight nor too loose. Zoé's eyes narrowed. It was like every aspect of his appearance was carefully curated to project a sense of understated power. He didn’t need ostentation to make an impression; his mere presence was enough to command attention. The subtle tension in the air grew thicker as he fixed his gaze on Zoé.
Zoé felt the weight of his scrutiny, her own resolve hardening in response.
The two figures flanking him remained shrouded in their hoods, their silence amplifying the leader’s imposing aura. Not that she cared.
The cold wind whispered around them.
Zoé had a bitter taste in her mouth as she regarded the man before her. In her cynical, undead heart, she knew he was an asshole, and his decision to bring backup to a pre-arranged, good-faith exchange only reinforced that feeling.
‘Fucking politics,’ she thought, loathing being caught in the middle of this nonsense. It was always a dick-measuring contest between Princes, and powerful Elders like herself were reduced to errand boys running their boss's measurements across state lines.
Zoé's nose must have involuntarily wrinkled because the Emissary responded with a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he spread out his gloved hands. "Apologies, Ms. Sauvage," he began.
Zoé silently cursed, 'Of course, he knows my given name.'
"But allow me to assure you," he gestured to the two men behind him, "-that these gentlemen are only here to guarantee my safety. Nothing more, nothing less. These are turbulent times, after all."
Zoé found his composed demeanor and patronizing tone incredibly irritating. "You rehearsed that on the car ride over?" she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
"We walked, actually," he replied, clasping his hands in front of himself. "See, I'm rather fond of this weather. There's something about falling snow that's..." He paused to inhale deeply, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, letting the snowflakes brush against his skin. Exhaling slowly, he wore an almost wistful smile as he lowered his head. "-soothing, don't you think?" he asked, opening his eyes.
“No.” Zoé’s response was as biting as the chilling wind.
The Emissary’s relaxed demeanor suddenly stiffened. “Not even a little?” he tried to regain the flow of the conversation.
Zoé scowled, her eyes narrowing with displeasure.
He quickly waved it off and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his overcoat. "No matter," he said. "I just couldn't help but take a moment to appreciate the little things. After all, where else can we find the meaning of eternal life?" His eyes bore into Zoé's as he spoke, testing her.
Zoé rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Thanks, doc; same time next week?”
The Emissary’s expression hardened, clearly displeased with Zoé’s dismissive response to his profound musings. “Onto business then," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Hunter Whitaker, the Emissary to Baron Sever." His friendly smile had disappeared, replaced by a menacing neutrality. "A pleasure." His gentle brown eyes now gleamed with a sharp edge.
Zoé gave a curt nod, her expression alternating between irritation and aloofness.
"Allow me to be brief,” he spoke in a less-than-diplomatic tone. “-do you have it?"
"Depends,” Zoé said, crossing her arms beneath her chest, revealing a hint of porcelain bust beneath her coat.
“On...?” he drawled, briefly glancing downwards.
Zoé clicked her tongue in disapproval. "That."
Silence.
"Ms. Sauvage-"
"You have five seconds,” she firmly cut him off.
His mouth briefly twitched into a frown, but he quickly regained his composure and snapped his fingers. In response, the shadowy figure to his right stepped forward, presented him with an object, then retreated. The Emissary raised a hand, displaying a gray USB between his fingers. "A list of known S.I. operatives working out of Montreal with suspected connections to the New York City blood trade," he explained, eyes trained on Zoé. "Also included is a list of their suspected contacts in your local law enforcement, media, essential services, etcetera."
Zoé raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Impressive," she commented, genuinely taken aback by the potential value of the USB drive.
He shrugged. "I was told it's a gesture of goodwill. You have..." The Emissary's phone interrupted him with its generic ringtone, the sound quickly swallowed by the open night air and wind.
‘Well, shit,’ Zoé cursed, her face pinching into an unhappy expression as her mind went into overdrive.
A direct line to an Emissary's burner phone? During a supposedly clandestine, high-stakes political exchange between two opposing factions? What could possibly go wrong?
Zoé hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not to circulate her vitae, and ultimately decided against it. She wanted to conserve her true strength and rely on the small arsenal she had on her person instead. However, she made sure to keep a watchful eye on the situation.
The Emissary visibly tensed as his phone rang, though he quickly regained his composure. Pocketing the USB drive, he retrieved an old flip phone from his pocket without even glancing at Zoé. He answered the call with a curt "Whit-" before his voice suddenly disappeared.
Zoé's eyebrows furrowed as she realized that she couldn't hear the conversation despite straining her extremely sensitive hearing. She couldn't hear anything at all. Her eyes widened imperceptibly in surprise. 'I can't hear the snow or the wind against his clothing. Or even around him,' her eyes flicked to the two bodyguards, and her expression fell. ‘Thought so... Obfuscation, with… traces of Oblivion. Lasombra? This is so beyond fucked, godamnit all.'
Zoé's supernatural senses allowed her to perceive objects up to thirty meters away as if they were right in front of her. So, when she noticed that the two bodyguards' slim figures appeared slightly distorted, as if shadowy mirages coruscated around their limbs, she realized that the pair were using their vitae to manipulate the surrounding darkness and obscure the area around the Emissary. These two "bruisers" weren't Embraced yesterday.
‘The one on the right looks more in control with fluid shadows and a relaxed posture. Kill him first; two rounds to center mass should lock him down for a second, then go for the throat or head in two shots or less; recovery gives me five seconds to take out the other one... but switch targets no matter what, and... Same thing if he stays ten meters out, knife if closer. As for the Emissary... most likely Brujah. He leans into the philosopher king schtick. Avoid close quarters or igniting his blood rage with body shots; aim for the head or joints to limit mobility. Done and done,' Zoé's expression turned grim as she mapped out a rough backup plan in case things went sideways. And something told her that things were about to very much go sideways.
Zoé turned her attention back to the silent phone call and observed the Emissary as he paced back and forth, his blurry figure betraying agitation despite the dark fog surrounding him. Suddenly, he stopped and turned away, snapping the phone shut and stuffing it back into his coat. He then stared off at the scaffolding erected against one of the hospital's walls, seemingly lost in thought. The obfuscation bubble dissipated.
Zoé's fists clenched tightly at her sides, causing her leather gloves to audibly creak beneath the strain.
"The deal's off," The Emissary stated in a flat tone, without elaborating or even turning to acknowledge Zoé. He then began walking towards the employee's back entrance of the building.
Zoé could feel the bodyguards' hidden eyes boring into her from within the shadows of their hoodies.
The Emissary placed his hand on the door handle and paused, his expression carved from stone. Zoé recognized the look all too well: it was the familiar mask of detachment that came with their line of business. This expression wasn’t just a passing emotion but a deeply ingrained defense mechanism. Over the centuries, Zoé had seen it countless times, and each occurrence chipped away at her understanding of what little humanity a Kindred could cling to.
This look was a carefully constructed facade, a shield against the chaos and brutality of their existence. It allowed them to perform unspeakable acts without flinching, to betray and be betrayed without remorse. The Emissary's stony demeanor wasn’t just a reflection of his current state of mind; it was a testament to years, perhaps centuries, of surviving in a world where showing vulnerability could mean a swift end. It was a method of compartmentalization, a way to suppress the echoes of a long-lost humanity and to carry on despite the ever-present moral decay that threatened to consume them.
Zoé could almost see the gears turning behind his cold eyes, the mental fortifications being raised to keep out the guilt and regret that could otherwise cripple him. This detachment was complete bullshit, a lie they told themselves to keep from breaking, but it was effective bullshit. The emptiness in his eyes was a reminder that in their world, survival often meant the death of one's soul long before the body followed. It allowed them to function, to navigate the treacherous waters of Kindred politics and power struggles without losing their minds to the darkness that threatened to engulf them.
It was a look that conveyed everything Zoé needed to know, and in that instant, she knew exactly where this was headed before The Emissary could speak a single word.
"A pleasure... Ms. Sauvage," The Emissary tipped his head to Zoé before addressing one of the men he had arrived with. "Make it quick," he softly ordered, then met Zoé's fiery glare with his own before turning his back.
The door opened with a screech of protest and slammed shut with a loud metallic clang.
Strands of Zoé's auburn hair escaped the confines of her hoodie as the frigid wind whipped at her clothes.
Three predators gazed at each other in silence, encircled by whirling snow, cutting wind, and deep darkness.