• Published 26th Jan 2015
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Outsider's Game: Night King - Bluecho



MLP/Vampire: The Masquerade Crossover. A lost denizen of the World of Darkness wakes in a World of Light.

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12 - Fire And Fellowship

Ch. 12 - Fire And Fellowship


June 1958

“Sorry about this.”

Dougal dropped the rolled rug into the hole. It plopped at the bottom, a cold, bloodless hand spilling out of the end.

The vampire sighed, crossing himself. He took up the shovel and began piling dirt on top of the bundle. The hole was a grave repurposed from the previous night's creation rites. Enough “potential recruits” were assembled for all of them, but Vick decided he wanted to give them a chance. Asked if anyone wanted to leave. When one of them immediately spoke up, he was promptly freed and sent on his way (albeit with memory erased and made to wander in a daze).

The second one who asked for freedom, Dougal was presently burying. How enough nerve was worked up to ask for release after that, Dougal hadn't the faintest idea. For his part, Vick merely congratulated them on their courage, but stated they would still participate. Then Vick laughed.

Dougal sighed again. Another heap of soil landed in the grave. He watched dance shadows of tree branches overhead, cast by moonlight. For the thousandth time, he focused his attention on those shadows, and on moving the earth. It was easier that way.

“Almost done?”

Lance ambled forward, ducking under a low-hanging branch. He surveyed the unmarked grave, and then the other graves planted between the trees.

“Almost,” Dougal said. Another scoop of earth, in the hole.

“The body in there?”

“...sigh...yes...” Dougal paused, then started shoveling again. “Was this one supposed to be mine? Or was it the one that got away?”

“It doesn't matter,” Lance said. “One is dead, the other gone. You don't have to take responsibility for them either way.”

“Maybe you're right,” Dougal said, pushing the last mound of earth onto the grave. “And maybe it's better this way. Better than the alternative.”

“Why would him not being blooded be better?” Lance asked, tapping the hilt of his blade. “He could have become greater than he ever would in life.”

“He could also have lived longer,” Dougal said, planting the shovel in the ground. “You think he had much chance in the coming fight?”

“He was a coward,” Lance said, shaking his head. “So I suppose not. As it stands, he suffered a coward's fate.” He looked up at the moon through the leaves. “Anyway, let's go in.”

“Sure.” Dougal glanced at the moon as well, then took up the shovel and carried it on his shoulder. He followed.

The two Cainites traced their way through the twisted woods. All around them, trees groaned softly as the summer heat settled into chill night.

The winding path led them up to a hill overlooking the city. A dilapidated shack stood at the crest, a stolen pick-up parked haphazardly in front. A light was on in the window. Muffled voices came from inside.

“No! Don't touch me!”

The young woman backed away, arms held close to her chest. She shook violently.

Four slender arms spread out from the Tzimisce in front of her. “Come on, come on,” the woman with a crone's voice crooned, “I don't want to hurt you, deary.” She extended one of her hands, reaching out with long fingers. The pale flesh of her arm had ringlets sculpted into them, as if wearing jewelry that was fused into it. “We're just going to help you change your face. You won't be needing it anymore.”

The girl's frightened eyes darted around the room. They settled – not for the first time that night – on the man on the floor in the corner. She watched him shiver and groan, clutching at a head distending, clumps of hair coming loose with every grasp. A hideous individual stood over him, watching, with quiet interest, the transformation.

“Tsk, tsk, don't fret, deary,” the Tzimisce said, motioning towards herself. “He's getting all the changes he'll ever get all at once. Pity the poor soul.”

The Nosferatu standing glanced briefly at the Tzimisce, then turned back to his progeny.

“Now, you and I, we're different,” said the crone, stepping forward.

“S-stay back!” said the girl, retreating still further. “I don't want to be different! I don't want to be like you, or him, or anybody!” Her fangs were extended, but she only grit her teeth and shook. “I just want to go home!”

“Home? Oh, you're not going home,” said the Tzimisce sire, shaking her head. “You've changed too much already. That home won't fit you at all.” She brought two hands together and tapped fingers together. “Like a caterpillar came from his chrysalis, you're no longer what you were. You're something better now. Something...beautiful.” She looked at the fledgling, four eyes watching her intently. “Or you can be. You can be anything you want now, save what you were. But why would you want to be that?”

“Please...p-please,” said the girl, “I don't want this...” Scarlet tears began rolling down her face. “...I-I don't want...to be like him...”

“But it won't be like him, sweetie,” said the crone, waving her hand absentmindedly at the wretched creature on the ground. “It's not going to hurt, I promise. See?” She brought two hands to her face. They began kneading her skin like dough, rolling and pinching until the structure of her face was twisted more than it already had. When those fingers had excised bone and began sculpting them into miniature horns, she said, “See? See? Doesn't hurt a bit, no no.”

“Oh god!” the girl said, clapping a hand over her mouth. She backed up still further, followed close after by the advancing crone. In short order, she retreated into the back of the couch, and jumped a little in surprise. “Ah!” she said, looking frantically at what her bottom had hit. Then she focused back on the crone. “Ugh!”

“Now don't fret so much, deary,” said the Tzimisce sire to her childe. “Come here, and I'll teach you how to do it too. Oh!” Struck by an idea, she began playing with her face in earnest. Flattening the new horns, smoothing the cheeks, rebuilding the nose from scratch.

“Ah!” the childe screeched.

“What's going on in here?”

Lance and Dougal moved from the tiny entryway into the main room. They looked at the scene.

The crone didn't look like a crone anymore, at least not in the face. She looked, instead, like a mirror image of her childe...except for the extra set of eyes, of course. They were simply too valuable to lose. “See? See, deary? We're twins! Twins! Doesn't this give you ideas? You can look like anyone you want. How about we help you look like Marilyn Monroe? Wouldn't you like to look like her? Or how about Audrey Hepburn, since she matches your hair?” The Tzimisce stepped forward, extending a hand again. “I'll show you a Funny Face, eh?”

“N-no...no!” Finally, as the hand inched within a foot, the girl slapped it away. “No!”

Without warning, she bolted away from her sire. She ran for the exit, meaning to get around Dougal.

The Lasombra, wide eyed, stepped to the side and let the girl slip by. He craned his neck to watch her duck out the door, dripping blood tears on the floor as she went.

“Oh Dougie, why didn't you stop her?” said the Tzimisce, pouting.

Dougal found the effect disconcerting and surreal. “...well, maybe if you didn't scare her so much, contorting your face like a weirdo,” he said, “she wouldn't have run away.”

“Oh pish tosh, you don't know a thing,” she said, moving past Dougal into the tiny entry hall. “Come on, let's after her before she hurts herself.”

“We're after who now?”

Vick descended the stairs, a phone clutched in his hands and trailing cord upstairs. Barry followed after, leading more of the newly embraced fledglings along nervously.

“Dougal let my girl go,” said the crone, hands on the doorknob. “And right when I was just trying to teach her how to be a proper Tzimisce. Now I've got to go find where she's run off to.”

“No, you're not,” Vick said, holding up the phone receiver. As Dougal could see, the receiver had been broken in the center, as if crushed with potent strength. “We don't have the time. Mission's moved up, and we need to move now.”

“Why?” asked Lance looking up at the Ductus.

“Yeah, what's this about moving it up?” said the crone, wagging her finger. “It was supposed to be tomorrow night, right?”

“Was. Not anymore,” Vick said. He dropped the broken phone parts to the ground. “Just got word from the Bishop that our Archon is moving now, rather than tomorrow. Everybody grab your shit, because we're now on the clock.”

“But the girl...” said the crone.

“No time,” Vick said. “We'll find her later, once the Archon is dead. Move people, we don't have all night!”


Present

“It was a trap, of course.”

Dougal's hands played nervously with his pen. “When we found the Archon and his underlings, we sent the fledglings in first,” he said, “as is regrettably standard in the Sabbat. They didn't stand a chance, but they weren't supposed to. They ate enough lead to line a bomb shelter...”

“They...ate lead?” Luna asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Bomb shelter?” said Twilight Sparkle.

“...the weapons with which war is waged, in my world, are guns,” Dougal said. “Hollow metal cylinders that explosive powder is discharged in, sending small hunks of metal flying at high speeds towards the target.”

“Fascinating...” Twilight said, though her face took on a slight green hue. “And the bomb shelter? Why would one need to be lined with lead? And how often do bombs go off that...?”

“On second thought, I don't want to talk about the Bombs,” Dougal said, raising a hand to bid silence. “It alone is a story of my world you don't need to know.”

Twilight closed her mouth, staring at Dougal. The vampire was willing to talk about the gruesome nature of vampire existence. Why be silent on this topic?

“So, Dempsey, you are saying your pack sacrificed their youngest members,” Luna said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Dougal said. “None that we brought along survived that first charge.” Dougal juggled the pen between his fingers. He noted Twilight Sparkle watching the display. “Once the fledglings died for a war they neither knew nor cared about until that night, we ran in. I stuck to the roofs, trying to flank from the shadows. The defenders, however, likely expected us – the Sabbat loves its Shovelhead charges. They retreated into a warehouse, and Vick ordered we follow.”


June 1958

“Where the hell did they go?”

Dougal peered in from a sky light, looking down at his assembled pack. The warehouse floor was pitch black, save for dimly lit patches of overhead moonlight. Cainite hunted Kindred among the stacks and stacks of crates. But from his vantage on high, Dougal couldn't see any Kindred.

“Hey Dougie!” Vick cried towards the ceiling, searching until he found Dougal. “Do you see any-?”

Wham. The front doors of the warehouse shut hard.

“What the fuck? Who the hell closed the doors?”

“Sure as hell wasn't me.”

Dougal stepped away from the sky light, creeping over the roof. He drew shadows from around him, obscuring him. When he reached the ledge, he peered over.

Two large, burly Nosferatu busied themselves chaining the doors closed. Perhaps a hundred feet of clinking metal crossed over the steel doors. Suddenly, a smaller Nosferatu appeared from thin air and began jamming wooden boards between the steel and the ground. The larger ones began seizing huge wooden beams in a similar fashion.

The Lasombra blinked, sizing up the probably-not-new arrivals. He retreated, making his way back towards the sky light.

He was halfway there when he heard several simultaneous explosions below him. The force rocked the roof, causing Dougal to fall over.

Shit, shit, shit, Dougal thought, whipping his head around. Finally looking at the shadowed floor, he increased his pace towards the now-shattered sky light. An orange glow filtered out the hole.

Looking down, Dougal saw a raging inferno of Alighierian proportions. Crates once standing tall were now decimated from the inside, their timber blown in every direction and covering the ground. It had all become as firewood.

A sudden urge struck Dougal, feeling the heat, hearing the roar and crackle and pop, smelling the smoke, and seeing the flames dance before his eyes. It was an urge – a clawing, savage fear – to run. Fire. Fire! Dougal Dempsey cringed and contorted his face in horror, feeling the talons of the Beast scraping into his spine.

His legs prepared to kick off, sending him to a mad dash. Anywhere but here. Anything but the fire. He felt that crimson fear, and would obey.

“Aah! Fuck! Someone find a way out, now!”

Dougal's eyes, adjusted to the terrible flame, spied Vick on the floor. He was beating on his arm, trying to put out an flame. One of the lenses on his round sunglasses were blown out, the other cracked. His fangs were digging visibly into his lower lip, drawing blood. “Nnnnagh! Get your asses in gear, you...fff...fucks!”

In another corner, Barry – face contorted in terror – leapt up from the floor towards a high window. His fingers latched to the edge and he hauled himself up. He flung a beefy fist glass-ward, shattering it. He looked out.

Bang.

Barry lurched backwards, an arc of blood erupting from his head. Completely limp, he hurtled down, landing with a crash into a burning wood pile. Glass shards rained down upon him, twinkling orange in the light.

“Fuck! Snipers!” Vick shouted in alarm, looking at the window. He looked down at the immolated heap. “Fuck! Barry!”

Dougal spotted the crone along the rubble. Or at least her four-armed form, stuck beneath a rapidly burning mass of wooden shrapnel poking from her torso. He didn't see her head anywhere.

Lance was at the front doors, hacking uselessly at the solid, reinforced steel. “Hah!” he exclaimed with a hearty swing, but only succeeded in snapping his saber in half against the impregnable edifice. Lance looked at the broken weapon for several seconds.

Vick, meanwhile, ran through the burning building, looking for survivors.

“...ssss...ssss...ssssir...rr...”

The Nosferatu – for he had no name, at least none that he ever told the pack – lay pinned beneath an entire stack of burning boxes. His large, bug eyes were widened in horror. His mangled hand outstretched towards his Ductus. The Nosferatu was mouthing something, but his voice was too weak or too damaged to render more than a paltry few sounds. Admittedly, they were more than Dougal had ever heard him say. But as the fire grew greater, the sound of burning drowned out the ugly son of a bitch's voice.

As Vick frantically clawed at the pile, trying to dislodged the burning refuse, Lance wandered into the center of the warehouse. He stood beneath a sparse patch of cool moonlight, barely visible in a sea of blazing heat. He looked down at the floor, covering his face, but standing upright. He had re-sheathed his sword, and waited for the fire to take him.

Dougal didn't really know what he did. It was a feat he'd never done before, nor did he quite see it done by other Lasombra, like Vick or his sire.

He reached his hand down, as far as it could go. From the shadow of his sleeves and the shadows coiled around himself, a hand stretched down further. A dark hand, obsidian black, stretched down, attached to an arm that bridged the seemingly insurmountable distance. Just barely, the abyssal fingers wrapped around Lance's arm and tugged.

“Wha-?” Lance said, looking at his seized limb.

Gritting his teeth, Dougal pulled, willing the black appendage towards him with his prize in hand.

“Ah! Dougal!” Lance said, feet dangling as he was hoisted through the air. He looked down at the burning rubble expanding away from him. Through the cloud of smoke, he was born up.

When the Ventrue came in reach, Dougal seized him by the shoulders with his hands – his hands of meat – and pulled him through the sky light. “Ugh!” he grunted, tossing Lance to the ground.

Lance sprawled on the ground, rubbing his sides. “Ugh...Dougal?” He made to get up.

“Stay down,” Dougal said. “There are snipers.” He crawled back to the sky light, and studied the scene again. The fires were getting higher. He could feel the warmth through the metal roof.

Crouching walking, Lance wandered to the edge of the building and looked out. He could see another set of snipers in the alley opposite the one Barry was shot from. He walked back. “Can you save any of the others?” he whispered.

Dougal stared down at the warehouse floor. Vick was dragging the burning Nosferatu, but quickly abandoned him as the flames began to lick his own hands. The Ductus started shouting, but the roar of the fire was built to such a degree that he could not be heard.

He looked up at Dougal.

Dougal looked down at him. In his blood he felt an urge – an urge he swallowed from the bottom of a ceremonial cup – to help that man. Dougal also felt the urge – deeper and more primal – to flee the burning hell.

He agreed more with the Beast, for once. Dougal shrank from the edge of the broken sky light. “No,” he whispered flatly, “they're all gone. There's no saving any of them.” He shook his head.

Perchance he heard angry, desperate screams, but he shut them out. Dougal felt a little bad. Then, he heard a crack and a crash from below. The creaking of charred wood. Then he felt nothing, as if the connection had never existed.

“Damn.” Lance balled his fist. “We need to strike back at them. Now, while we have a chance.”

“...Lance,” Dougal said, blinking, “Lance, that's suicidal. There's too many of them. We need to get out of here.”

“I can't run.”

“You have legs, right?” Dougal said, looking at Lance's scorched slacks. “We can and should run.”

“No, Dougal,” Lance said. He looked the Lasombra in the eyes. “I. Can't. Run. It would be cowardice of the highest order to flee from battle.”

“It's not a battle anymore, Lance,” Dougal said, struggling to keep his voice low. “We've been decimated. The Camarilla won. We'll just be slaughtered if we attack them now. We don't stand a chance.”

“I know. I know full well...that I'll die fighting them.” Lance gripped the saber hilt and pulled out the shortened, hobbled blade. “But I can't retreat. I just can't.”

“Yes you can!” Dougal said, whispering as loudly as he could. His voice was breathy and strained.

“Dougal...dammit, Dougal.” Lance looked at the ground, the roof beneath his boots. “You don't understand. You're...”

“I'm what, Lance?” Dougal asked. “What don't I understand?”

“You're too...human,” Lance said. He looked over at Dougal. “I've seen you, how you act. You cling to your humanity. I won't judge you for that. But that's not the path I walk. I'm a soldier. To run away now...would be a dishonor I can't bear.” Lance looked towards the edge of the roof, crouch walking towards it.

Dougal planted a hand on Lance's shoulder. The Ventrue paused. “Lance, I won't say I understand. But now's not the time. There will be other battles. Other chances to get them. But Vick...but Vick and the others won't be avenged if you or I throw our lives...our unlives away on a fruitless attack.”

Lance stood there, squatting. He hesitated.

“You're the oldest of us now, Lance,” Dougal said. “You have to be Ductus of the pack. And the pack needs to be rebuilt. I can't do that alone.”

Somewhere in the distance, sirens were blaring. Drawing closer. Far below, dozens of stamping feet scuffled and stomped. They fled, scattering in all directions. The fire roared beneath them, smoke billowed from the shattered sky light.

“Hear that, Lance?” Dougal said. “They're the ones fleeing. Now it's not a retreat. It's a regrouping.”

Lance looked over his shoulder.

Dougal put on a fake grin, beads of blood sweat rolling down his face. He let the uneasy expression drop, frowning.

The Ventrue looked away, then sheathed his broken blade. “Fine. We're regrouping back at the shack.” He rose to his full height. “But this isn't over. The Archon is going to die.”

Dougal Dempsey smiled. “Of course. But we'll need more people first.”


Present

“You just...left him to die?”

Luna stared uncomfortably at Dougal. “Is that not heartless?”

“Heartless? For a monster like Vick?” Dougal said, raising an eyebrow. “...it was very cold of me, I suppose.” The vampire laced his fingers together. “I didn't like Vick much. He was as heartless as they came.”

“Does that justify leaving him to die?” Luna said.

“...no, it probably doesn't,” Dougal said. His hand crept to his pocket, fingering the rosary. “Forgiveness is...of paramount importance to my faith. Revenge...” Dougal looked away. “...revenge is certainly a sin. Although, one could also argue that I was doing the world a favor.”

“A favor...?” Luna said. She paused, considering. “You perhaps mean that, as great monsters as Vick and your fellow pack members were, the world was better off with their demise?”

“Exactly.”

“...I can certainly see your reasoning,” Luna said, gazing into her water glass. “Perhaps I may even empathize. That there are...evils in this world...better off destroyed. But regardless, that is not how things are done here in Equestria.”

“Oh?” Dougal said. “How so?”

“Most of the gravest villains of this world,” Luna said, “Tirak, Discord, Queen Chrysalis...Nightmare Moon...are usually sealed away, where they cannot do harm to ponykind, or anyone else.”

“...interesting...” Dougal said. “And how well did that turn out?”

“Uh...”

“Well...” Twilight said, hissing nervously through her teeth. “...Tirak came back...and Discord...and Queen Chrysalis...and, uh, Nightmare...Moon...” She glanced guiltily towards Luna.

“Hmm...” said Dougal, tapping a finger against the wooden crate. “...seems the standard operating procedure is not without its flaws.”

“But we reformed Discord!” Twilight chimed in, sitting up slightly. “And the evil influence on Luna was dispelled! So it's not all bad.”

“And this...Tirak? And Queen Chrysalis?”

“...um...resealed,” said Twilight. “...and caught, respectively.*”

“After she was allowed to roam free a while,” Luna said.

“Well yes, there's that...”

“And there's no guarantee that the prison will hold the Changelings...” Luna continued.

“...uh...yeah...”

Dougal's eyebrow rose. “...and this...King Sombra?”

“He was locked away for a thousand years...” Twilight said.

“Until he returned,” said Luna.

“And now he's blown up!”

“He's dead then?” said Dougal.

“Um...I suppose...” Twilight said, sweat running down her brow.

“Did you kill him?”

“Well there was the Crystal Heart and the love magic...” Twilight drifted off. “It's an entire thing. The point is that we tried to stop him and he got blown up...We certainly didn't mean to kill him, as such...”

“It just turned out that way,” Dougal supplied.

“Yep,” Twilight said, popping her lips and looking to the ceiling.

“Then I suppose in this instance we're not so different,” Dougal said. “You opted to use a level of force to defeat a grave threat, that turned out to be lethal. I chose not to intervene in a foolish monster meeting his end in fire. By our actions and inactions, the innocent populous lost two monsters.”

“Be that as it may, did you use this chance to leave the Sabbat?” Luna asked. “Did you use this opportunity to leave this...Jyhad...and pledge your unlife to goodness, such as you could being a vampire?”

“...there's the rub, isn't it?” Dougal said. “I probably should have. I probably should have left Lance to die as well, and retire to solitude. I should have turned my back on Crusades, and Clan Lasombra, and the Sword of Caine. I should have fled the war, and had done with all of it.

“I shouldn't have waited until recently to do what I should have done then.”

“Recently?” Luna asked.

Dougal leaned back, weaving his fingers together again, in front of his chest. “Princess Luna, on the night we first met, I told you I had, before coming to Equestria, been hounded by vampires who wanted me dead.”

“You did?” Twilight said, ears perking up.

“That's right, you did,” Luna said.

“These vampires who wanted me dead were not Kindred,” said Dougal. “They were very much Caine's childer. I was being hunted because, not too long ago, I did what I should have done. I ran. I cut the remaining ties I had with the sect. I broke the greatest rule the Sword of Caine had.

“I betrayed the Sabbat.”

Author's Note:

* This chapter takes place before the events of Fiendship is Magic: Chrysalis.

Not that I take the canon written in Fiendship Is Magic all that seriously.