//------------------------------// // 14 - Business As Usual // Story: Outsider's Game: Night King // by Bluecho //------------------------------// Ch. 14 - Business As Usual October 1958 “So, what do you lot want?” Dougal Dempsey coughed, looking away. He focused his gaze on the sparsely lit trees all around them. Ears perked at the whistling of wind through the warm orange leaves. They were more tuned to the sounds he hoped not to hear. Sounds of stamping feet and primal howls. Nora stared, wide-eyed, mouth open slightly. The figure's hood had two long cuts, reaching from the lip to half-way back. These cuts were then held closed by two sets of shoe lacing, strung through hand-punched holes. Obvious was their purpose, really, given the woman's set of large stag antlers that rose roughly a foot above her head. The figure's eyes, barely visible under the hood, drifted to the Tzimisce. “See somethin' you like, lassie?” “Mih!” Nora squeaked, jumping behind Dougal. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and she ducked down. Admittedly she didn't need to duck that low. She peeked warily around his arm. “...I-I'm sorry...” “He he,” the Gangrel chuckled, leaning a bit on the long walking stick in her hand. “I'm just jokin', lass. Havin' a wee laugh.” She turned to the other two. “But for serious, what are you doin' here? You lot of the Inquisition?” She looked down at Nora, then smiled. “I suppose not, unless they're hirin' wee babbies to hunt devil-worshippers.” “Hmm...” Nora whined. “We are not of the Inquisition,” Lance said, stepping forward. “How did you know we were Sabbat?” “A wee birdy told me you were comin',” the woman said. She chirped towards the sky, and a small Mockingbird flew down at her. It landed on her raised hand, and they began singing to each other. The woman's pursed lips emitted a tone to perfectly match the bird's. Nora watched from behind Dougal with mounting amazement. The woman raised her hand to the branches of her antlers, and the bird hopped onto them. She turned to the others again. “Anyway, you lot don't look like my kind. And since it was obvious to my friends you weren't alive, you had to have the curse as well. Moreover, only Sabbat would have the brass balls to come runnin' out here. This place is Garou country.” “Garou?” Dougal said, blinking. “Do you mean lupines?” He looked left and right rapidly. “Are they around?” “Oh, don't fret, boyo,” the woman said. She gestured behind her. “This spot isn't even really the woods yet. Five miles that way, though, is where the local wolves make their den. Always have, since before I first came through this area decades ago. Give them a wide berth and keep yer head down, and they'll leave you be. So don't look so much like a fretful mother hen. You'll embarrass your pack.” “That is actually what we have come here for,” Lance said. “We've heard from the local bishop that a priest without a pack was in this area. I take it that is you?” “Aye, I've presided o'er the rites a few times,” the woman said. “Haven't done since the last pack I met, down in Kentucky, what needed my skills. Why? You need a pack priest?” “We very much do,” Lance said, bowing at the hip. “We would be honored if you would join us.” “Would you now?” the woman said. She had the voice of an older woman, and indeed what could be seen of her face had the first signs of wrinkles. “And what does the rest of your pack think of this?” The other vampires said nothing. “Oh dear, it's just you lot, is it?” she said, tilting her head. “Seems to me you lot ought to be joinin' an established pack. Be easier than convincing a solitary Gangrel who hadn't served in the Jyhad for years to join you. A more recalcitrant outlander than I would have bit your heads clean off for troubling her. What are you doin' here, lookin' for me?” Dougal stepped forward. “Because we don't want to join another pack,” he said. “We'd rather retain our autonomy, including the freedom to choose what sort of Sabbat we want to be.” “Freedom is all important to the Sabbat, is it not?” Lance added. “We find the methods and preoccupations of our fellow Cainites to be not to our liking. Needlessly, pointlessly brutal, and unproductive.” He pointed towards the woman. “We have heard your own ways alienated you from other Sabbat in the same way, for being less deliberately wicked. On this, we have something in common.” The hooded woman tilted her head even farther, and the bird on her horns flapped wildly for a moment to keep its balance. “...do we now?” She passed her staff from one hand to the other. “Are you planning on cutting ties with the Sabbat?” “Absolutely not!” Lance said, standing firm. He frowned, brushing a dirty blond lock from his face. “Our goals and allegiance have not wavered. It's our methods that are our own.” He straightened up. “Now, are we to depart alone, or will you join us?” For a moment, the woman pondered this in silence. Tilting her head down until the hood obscured her eyes. Then she began...laughing. A shallow chuckle at first, then a more hearty cackle. She gripped her staff with both hands and leaned heavily on it, chortling. “Ha ha ha ha!” She shook her head, then looked up. “Oh, you kids! Never thought I'd see the night!” “...so, what is your answer?” Lance said, but he blinked as the woman just laughed further. “Oh ho ho! Look at you, boyo,” the woman said, pointing at him. “I take it you're the Ductus of this outfit, aye? The way you stand at attention like a proper soldier! And you!” “Me?” Dougal said, leaning back and frowning, perplexed. “Aye, you!” the woman said. “You've been a-checkin' every which way since you got here. And how you let that wee lass use you as a shield! You're a right gentleman, aren't you?” “Um...” Dougal looked at the ground, mouth agape. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Nora still attached to him like a stone wall. “And as for the wee lass herself...” The woman stepped around Dougal, standing beside the Tzimisce. “Ah!” Nora said, cringing. “And what are you, little one?” “...I-I...” Nora shrank. “M-my name is...N-Nora...I'm a...Tzimisce...” She looked away shyly. “Oh, don't fret little 'un,” the woman said. “Call me Siobhan.” She reached above her head and presented her finger to the bird on her antlers. It dutifully hopped one, riding it as the woman lowered it to eye level. “Do you know how to talk to animals? You can, you know.” Nora looked at the bird, meeting its eyes. She examined the bird's plumage. “...really?” Nora said, blinking. “Aye, lass,” Siobhan said. “Gangrel and Tzimisce have somethin' in common: the gift of speakin' to the beasts of the land an' sky.” She tilted her head, smiling sadly. “It's one of the pleasures I can enjoy, just like in the old days...” She shook her head. “Ah, but that was a long time ago,” Siobhan said. She gently took Nora's hand in her own and placed the bird into it. “Oh!” Nora said, eyes brightening as she came face to face with the bird. She studied it, not daring to move while she held its warm body. “Alright, alright,” Siobhan said, turning to the men. “I'll join your little group, then.” “Ah!” Lance said. He bowed at the waist. “Thank you!” “Yes, thank you,” Dougal said, taking the woman's hand and shaking it. “Oh, you are a fresh one,” Siobhan said, letting the shaking go on. She chuckled. “I suppose none of you lot have had a proper Vaulderie in quite some time? Oh that won't do.” She shook her head. “Tell you what, boys. What are your names?” “My name is Lance,” Lance said, bowing his head. “And I'm Dougal.” “Dougal, aye?” Siobhan said, studying him a second. “A good Irish name, that is. Well, you boys head off into town and pinch us a bowl. A sturdy bowl, what can hold the blood. It's been so long that I haven't a ritual bowl with me anymore.” “Uh...right!” Lance said, standing at attention. She turned back to Nora. “And while you do that, I'll be here teachin' the little one how to talk to the animals. How's that sounds?” Nora gasped, then smiled. “I'd love that.” Present “Sir, your hair looks a little...” “Hmm?” Dougal said, playing fingers over his obsidian hair. “Thought I combed everything out.” “In the back, sir,” said Knot Seaward, indicating with his ash-gray foreleg. “Thank you, Seaward,” Dougal said, retrieving the comb from his breast pocket and straightening the tangled locks. “The onerous curse of my lineage, unable to use a mirror. Makes cleaning up a royal pain.” “How does you...uh...lineage handle it?” Seaward asked. “If you don't mind me asking.” “Some handle it better than others,” Dougal said, pocketing his comb. “Most Lasombra – those that care for appearance – get people to tend to them.” “Peo...ple, sir?” Seaward said, then shook his head. “Maybe you ought to procure the service of a stylist, Mr. Dempsey.” “Hmm, I probably should,” Dougal said, taking a seat behind his desk. The office around them was sparsely decorated. Much of the possessions belonging to the warehouse's previous owner had been either seized by the authorities in their investigations or promptly sold. The office, with its little window overlooking the warehouse floor, once played host to shelves of cheap nick-nacks and novelty posters, as well as the odd calender sporting pictures of what Dougal could only surmise were attractive mares. There was also a higher than normal amount of garbage strewn about when Dougal first entered the room months ago. Fast food bags stuffed with paper cups, candy wrappers crinkled lazily, boxes of Chineighs take-out, etc. The company's former boss was not merely an embezzler, he was also a tacky slob. Almost all of these things were disposed of. Dougal personally spent an entire night filling garbage bags, relocating various objects out of the way, and then meticulously cleaning the entire room. Even now, after so many cleaning products and time, the room still retained the faint odor of stale soy sauce. Dougal couldn't enhance his sense of smell while in the room without being distracted by it, and by deeper, undefinable stenches lingering beneath the threshold of normal scent. Now the room was clean and orderly, as well as sparse. His desk, some chairs, a filing cabinet. He'd set out a spot in one corner for a bookshelf. As it was, the space only contained a fold-able table stacked with a few books and a few machine parts. On the other side of the room was the only other remnant of the office's prior owner besides the smell. A cardboard box, sat against the wall and pushed aside its neighboring filing cabinet. One night early in Dougal's ownership of the shipping business, when all the employees had gone home and only he and the guards remained, he began itemizing the former owner's junk. Surprising, there was a viable market for kitsch, and Dougal soon sold off most of the stallion's collection. The cardboard box in the corner contained what was left. Items that could hardly even approach being “antiques”, and that despite his best efforts Dougal was unable to find buyers for. He couldn't even guess what half of them were, let alone who could want them. So there they sat, taking up space in his office, for no other reason than because Dougal didn't consider it sporting to inflict such poor taste on the ponies in his employ. That and because the storage rooms in the building were for shippable items that afforded the company value, not value-less items that were nonetheless not technically garbage. Dougal caught himself staring at the box again. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should hire a stylist. Thing is, I have no where to go most nights. It's not like the staff are eager to meet me, and my social life is nonexistent.” “Bright Spot has a birthday coming up, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward supplied. “Some of the staff wanted to throw a party.” “Right, allow it,” Dougal said, tapping the desk absentmindedly. “Make a note to hire a caterer.” “Of course,” Seaward said, “but I was actually suggesting you make an appearance.” Dougal rubbed his head, cocking an eyebrow. “I get the impression they see you, sir, as this enigmatic dark master,” Seaward said. He smiled faintly. “It makes them...uneasy, if you don't mind me saying.” The vampire sighed. “I suppose. Then again, I AM their dark, enigmatic master. And it's not like my presence will make them any less uneasy. I have that effect on the living.” “I haven't noticed, sir,” Seaward said, looking down at a clip board. Flipping through the pages, he said, “There is also the Summer Sun Celebration coming up in two weeks.” “The...Summer Sun Celebration?” “A yearly event commemorating the defeat of Nightmare Moon, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward said. “Everypony gathers together to watch the sunrise, and in certain towns Celestia herself is part of the ceremony.” “Well, you'll forgive me if I elect not to attend the raising of the sun,” Dougal said. He paused, eyes drifting to the middle distance. “It celebrates the defeat of Nightmare Moon?” “That's the reason it was started in the first place. Most ponies celebrate it like any holiday, not thinking too hard about it.” “Hmm...” Dougal tapped the desk with a finger. Tap, tap, tap. “Remind me to draft a letter to Princess Luna.” “Sir?” “I have a feeling our lunar diarch finds the Celebration as...uncomfortable as I do.” Dougal shuffled a stack of papers. “Keep my schedule open during that period.” “Yes sir,” Seaward said, levitating a pen and scribbling notes. “Good.” Dougal examined the papers handed to him earlier. “Everything seems to be in order here. All deliveries on time. Any pressing business?” “Ah,” Seaward said, flipping pages over. “Early this morning, a message came from the Baltimare Public School System PTA. It's a notice that you – sir – are banned from school grounds effective immediately.” Seaward slipped the note out and handed it to his boss. “Apparently they circled a petition, and got fifty signatures.” Dougal frowned, pouring over the letter. He cocked his head to the side. “They think that I am a threat to the children of Baltimare?” “It would appear so, sir.” Seaward stared at the letter uneasily. “Shall I contact Civil Suit?” “...no, a lawyer is unnecessary,” Dougal said, dropping the letter. “I'm not going to contest this decision. Why would I? I have no interest in children.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Might this adversely affect your reputation, Mr. Dempsey?” “Oh, my reputation can hardly sink any lower,” Dougal said. “These ponies are just scared. Why wouldn't they be? A bloodsucking undead in their midst? Anyone would be. They're scared, and they're scared in a vague way beyond their control. This ban is meant more to ease their minds. Make them feel they are in control again, that I am subject to the powers of municipal authority they have hooves in.” He shook his head. “They believe they've somehow accomplished something. Believe they've achieved a victory. Now that they have that, they'll forget their fear soon enough. All I have to do is keep quiet. Combating an edict that means nothing to me will only serve to drag things out.” “...if you say so, sir.” Seaward shrugged. “Oh, we should probably still contact Civil Suit,” Dougal considered, looking at the wall. He stroked his chin. “Not to have anything done, but just to keep a record. Make sure everything is legitimate. But it's certainly a low priority.” He shuffled his papers again. “How are we on the research team?” “We've been circulating news through the local colleges,” said Seaward, flipping through the papers again. “A few science students have got back to us. The University of Baltimare is willing to add us to the intern program, as soon as we procure the lab space and funds.” “Funds, yes...” Dougal weaved his hands together. “We'll need investors for that. One shipping company, even if it's getting bigger, just won't cut it.” He shut his eyes, thinking. “...perhaps I am going to have to start meeting with people after all.” Passing a hand over his breast pocket, his traced the bulge of the comb. “Yes, I think I really do need a stylist...” “Good morning, Dahlia!” The unicorn mare approached the counter, savoring the scent of roasted coffee beans. She smiled at the barista. “Hey Connie,” she said, brushing back her black mane with purple-maroon highlights, “can I get the usual?” “One mocha venti half-frap double shot expresso with mint, coming right up,” said the barista, taking up a cup. “Hey Connie, anything new on the bulletin board?” said Dahlia, pointing just to the side of the coffee counter. “Not that I remember...” The mare mixing coffee looked at the ceiling suddenly, saying, “Oh, there was this one guy who came along earlier, right as I was starting my shift. Posted some stuff.” “Thanks!” said Dahlia, grinning. She wandered over to the campus bulletin. It was a sizable edifice of cork board and haphazardly posted papers. Most of the sheets advertized the usual: announcements for university events, furniture on sale, notices of academic studies of various sorts, and of course regular advertisement fliers. All clumped in a row by the corner, three new sheets were affixed that Dahlia knew hadn't been there the day before. The first was a notice for an internship, looking for engineering students. Dahlia got two lines in before losing interest. Science and Technology were not her major. The second notice made her look twice. “We Buy Blood,” the notice said. Dahlia blinked, though she didn't look away for a few seconds. Was this a scam? Was it even legal? Could she use the money that badly? Then she remembered what it was going to cost her for that morning's coffee. Dahlia shook her head, looking away. “Maybe some other time,” she muttered. Finally, she looked at the third new notice. “Looking for hair stylist.” “Ooh!” Dahlia said, eyes lighting up. She seized the page in a maroon aura, ripping it from the board. “I'm keeping you!” “Hey Dahlia!” Connie called. “Your usual is ready!” “Coming!” Dahlia said without looking. She began walking towards the counter again. “Hey Connie, guess what I found...” If she had looked closer, she might have noticed all the new fliers were printed on the same size paper, printed in the same font, and carried the same contact information. “Commissioner!” The mustached police-pony turned to the young officer. “What do you got for me?” “Another disappearance, sir,” the uniformed mare said, saluting. She handed in the leafs of paper. “Not just one this time, though. An entire family of four, gone without a trace.” Studying the pages, the commissioner said, “any connection to the previous ones?” “None that we can surmise at present, sir,” said the officer. The old stallion sighed. Picking up the pages, he rose from his desk. Wandering over to the window, he looked out on the sunny Manehattan skyline. Wily, tired eyes peered from behind thick glasses. “What's this world coming to? Ah well...anypony been to their house yet?” “Yes, Commissioner,” said the mare. “We think the back door lock was unlocked using some kind of magic.” “What kind of magic?” “That's the thing, sir. It's not like anything the officers could identify.” “I'll send a specialist over there.” The commissioner looked down at the pictures of the missing persons. “If it's kidnapping, I want to know for...hmm?” “What is it, sir?” The stallion flipped back and forth through the pages, studying the photos. He wandered back to his desk and took up other manila folders. Began studying the portraits of other missing persons reported in the last month. “Hmm...uh, that'll be all, officer.” When the mare left, the commissioner called over to his secretary. “Delilah! Take a letter!” “Your highness! W-what can we do for you?” Princess Twilight Sparkle stepped into the Canterlot University anthropology department. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. Her eyes wandered to the many items on display. “I was wondering if you- IS THAT A DRAGON SKULL?” She dashed over to a huge skull in the corner. So large was it that it dominated the examination table it was placed on. “Ah, yes, it is!” The surprised anthropology professor wandered over, adjusting his glasses with a push of a hoof. “This fossil was dug up from a site down in the badlands, two hundred years ago. We've got it on loan from the Canterlot Museum of Natural History.” “Wow!” Twilight said, looking the bones up and down with wide, sparkling eyes. “Isn't this an adult dragon skull? I ask because I've seen a couple adult dragons, and the scale seems right.” “Ooh, you've seen adult dragons, Princess?” said the professor. Then he coughed, shaking his head. “I mean yes, we think so. We brought the Skull over as a part of a series of lectures about dragon biology.” “I should have brought Spike,” Twilight whispered under her breath, eyes locked in fascination on the skull. “Wait, or maybe I shouldn't have. Would Spike be offended? Or would he be interested in learning more about his own...” Twilight shook her head violently. “Sorry, but this isn't why I came.” She turned to the stallion. “Professor, about why I'm here. Can I ask you a few questions?” “Certainly!” the stallion said, smiling. His messy, curly hear bounced as he nodded. “It's an honor to help a Princess, especially one so interested in learning.” “Oh you have no idea,” Twilight muttered, making a mental note to take the professor's contact information. And to peruse the University library. “Anyway, what can you tell me about vampires?” “Vampires?” the professor said, scratching his head. “Hmm...not exactly my area of expertise, but I've studied them in passing.” He tapped his chin. “I do know that there have been no recorded cases of pony vampirism in...oh, about a hundred years. The library has more information on them. I recommend a series of monograms on the subject published a few years ago. Skimmed them I did, researching an unrelated topic.” Out came Twilight's notepad. “Oh that would be lovely.” When the professor had told her of the author and academic journey, she continued. “The University wouldn't happen to have samples of vampire remains, would it?” “Remains? Well...” The stallion looked deeper into the room, towards row upon row of cases. Thousands of drawers and shelves of jars. “If we do, this is the place to find them. This room is where we keep all the anatomical samples. Bones, preserved tissues, that sort of thing. I'll take a look at the registry, and see if we've got anything squirreled away. Though from what I remember, vamponies turn to dust soon after destruction. If we have anything, it's probably ashes.” He turned to the Princess. “If I may ask, why the sudden interest in the undead?” “Well if it's the undead, it's another matter entirely, I suppose,” Twilight said, giggling a bit to herself and looking sideways nervously. “But as for vampires specifically, have you heard of the news recently...?” “Ah, those rumors of a strange, bloodsucking creature,” said the professor. “I'm certain that it's not...” Twilight blinked. “...oh, they aren't rumors, are they?” said the stallion, his previously jocularity dissolving. “There really is a vampire in our midst?” “Yep,” said Twilight, “a foreign strain, at that. I've had the chance to meet him. He's...quite a reasonable fellow. And very fascinating.” “A foreign strain, eh?” muttered the professor, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Fascinating! Any observable differences you've noticed?” “Well for one he was originally of a different species,” Twilight said. “Not a pony. Or of any species native to Equestria. Second, he's not a mindless beast. That's actually another thing I wanted to ask about. You wouldn't happen to know if there were any records of intelligent vamponies?” “Not that I know of,” said the stallion. “You'd need to scour some books for that.” “That's what I was planning to do anyway,” Twilight said with a sigh. “Problem is a lot of the sources I've looked into thus far are mired in legend and hearsay. Not a lot of scholarly sources on the matter where I come from. I mean, Princess Luna used to hunt them, but that was a thousand years ago. She didn't know of any cases of intelligent vamponies. What I really want is other primary sources. First-hand accounts. Maybe even someone else who knew of them.” “For that last part, and I mean no offense, but good luck,” said the stallion. “As I mentioned, it's been about a hundred years since anypony has heard of vampires. Old vampony hunters might know, but the last of those is probably dead by now...” Creak. Dougal's eyes opened. Day's oppressive weight bore down on his back, but he was alert. Creak. Footsteps. Intruder. As he saw a shaft of (artificial) light fall over him, Dougal sat up. “Who goes there?” he said, shielding his heavy lids with his arm. Squinting, he peeked over his arm. A pony's silhouette was in the doorway. A voice cried out. “In the name of Celestia and the sun, I have come to slay you, foul demon of Tartarus!”