08 - Moving Forward
Ch. 8 - Moving Forward
Outside
“Did I miss anything?”
“No, little one, you did not miss overmuch. Your champion has been consolidating his new position in the world.”
“Meaning?”
“Business, mostly.”
“Boring! When are you going to do something, Mister Dougal? Do I have to start pulling your strings?”
“He will find something...interesting to do, I'm sure. We must simply be patient.”
“I don't want to be patient...and why are they just accepting him like this? I was expecting him to fight against this world's forces from night one. Him against the world!”
“Perhaps Mr. Dempsey is simply better with people than you thought.”
“...do they know what kind of man Mister Dougal is yet?”
“From what I've gleaned, he's still keeping parts of himself hidden. We all have ways of hiding ourselves. Either by outrunning the past – something I know very well – or by building up a shell around oneself...isn't that right, Lily?”
“...you don't play fair, WeeJee...where's Rosie?”
“Mr. Rose has wandered away, likely tending to any number of projects our kind get up to. I believe he stated – in iambic no less – something to the effect of stirring irons in fires hither and yon. I forget the exact rhyme. His champion has settled into the monotony only the content enjoy, so there's no reason for him to stick around.”
“Will any other new 'friends' show up, do you think?”
“Eventually. In the meantime, Little Miss, how about a walk?”
“I'll ride, thank you.”
February 1955
“Oh God...oh God...oh please...”
Dougal shivered, hands clutched to his head. Huddled in a pitiful ball, he hid beneath the desk in the main office. Tears ran from his eyes, snot from his nose. He shook all over, gritting his teeth and straining his ears for clues as to what was going on in the building.
He didn't much care for what he heard.
“Oh God, rats! Rats! Aaaaargh!”
The sound of a dozen squeaking, scurrying rodents could be heard just outside the office door, along with the thumps of running feet. A gun went off once...twice. Dougal flinched with each loud bang. A small, chilling cry went out among the rodents, followed by a scrap and thud.
Dougal, breathing heavily, turned and looked under the desk towards the door.
One of the workers – Dougal couldn't remember his name – was sprawled on the ground in the hallway, legs and lower torso in view. The man began crawling away with one arm, desperately clicking an empty pistol with the other.
Then the rats swarmed into view, before swarming over the crawling man.
“AAAAAAAAAH!” the man screamed, continuing his backward retreat out of view, if only for momentum of impulse. His feet remained just visible as they kicked wildly. “MY EYES! MY EYES!”
From the other end of the hall, the legs of the very tall intruder with the disfigured face limped into view. Its pants were splattered with blood and riddled with holes, but it walked regardless. It stooped over the man being savaged by rodents.
“N-nah...No! Nooooooo!” the man shouted. “N-ngghffa!”
The rats chased after as the man was dragged away. Loud thuds retreated further and further, banging against the walls.
“...aaaaaa...” Dougal whimpered, clutching his chest. Felt the pounding of his heart, heard it in his ears.
Bang. Bang.
Dougal flinched again, retreating precious inches back. He held his hands over his ears.
Bang. “Y-you...cock-sucking sons a'...b-bitches...”
Tony scrambled into the room, crouch-walking, stumbling. His main hand clutched a pistol, his off hand clutched the sucking wound in his stomach. He tripped to the ground, then tried desperately to haul himself up again. His gun wrist caught on the back of a chair, and Tony tried to pull himself up by it.
The very spindly creature lumbered into view.
One impulse told Dougal to cry out; warn Tony of the danger. Instead, Dougal clapped his hands in front of his mouth, eyes wide and streaming salty tears.
The Italian mobster apparently heard his pursuer, and allowed himself to flop to the ground. He twisted mid-fall, so he could train the gun on the monstrosity. “Sons of bitches!” he shouted, firing.
Muzzle flash, a spray of blood. The gangly figure jerked back briefly, then walked into the room. The grotesque, nightmarish flesh on its chest absorbed the impact without fanfare. Just another hole to add to the collection.
“Agh...” Tony grunted, twisting on his back. He jammed the trigger again, but found his piece empty. “Ack...the fuck you doin', playdough face? Don't you know whose operations you're fucking up?”
The figure loomed silently, taking a single extra step. Mandibles twitched.
“You...agh...you think the Family isn't going to know about thisss...ah...shit?” Tony scooted back, towards the desk. “You th-think they c-can't learn what went down? You know who we are, don't you?”
“...sssssss...” With an audibly creak, the shirtless, many-faced creature stood on top of the Italian and bent down. Long fingers grabbed hold of the mobster's shirt, pulling him in.
Tony swiped with the pistol, whipping the creature in the face. It impacted with a wet thud. He reached back and swung again.
With its free hand, the creature caught Tony's wrist, squeezing it. Squeezed it really hard.
“Ah!” Tony gasped. “Aaaaah!” He dropped the gun.
The creature let go. Tony's wrist came away disjointed and mangled, bending in unnatural ways. His skin looked like chewed gum, ending in a twitching hand.
“F-fuck...dammit!” Tony said, staring at his ruined arm. A tear formed in his eye. “F-f-fuck...you asshole!” He gritted his teeth, looked up at the creature. “If you kill me, they're going to learn everything! You hear me? Everything! You don't fuck with the Gio-”
Bony fingers clapped over the Italian's mouth. The palm pressed against his lips. Then they sank into it.
“Mphmm? MMMM!” Tony groaned, eyes growing wide as saucers.
“...sssss...why...you are...not...dying...” the creature said, mandibles clicking and waving in front of its mouth. It was too dark for Dougal to see what was in the pit behind those mandibles. Probably for the best. The spindly creature looked at Tony with a cold, clinical gaze.
The fingers pulled away. Tony's good hand slapped over his face, feeling the patch of unbroken skin where his mouth should have been. “MM! MMPHMMM!”
It cast a shadow as the creature twisted on its heels and grabbed Tony's leg. Rising up, the creature began to pull, dragging Tony away. “...not...dying...not...yet...”
“MMMMMMMMMMM!” Tony moaned, clawing at the ground frantically. He could find no good purchase, allowed only one good hand. His hair fell over his eyes. As he was pulled out the door and out of sight, he caught a glimpse of the hiding Dougal.
He looked at Dougal pleadingly, clutching the door frame. “Mmphm...” Then he was wrenched out of sight. “Mmmm!”
It was a full minute before Dougal could stop sobbing, eyes unblinking after that spot. His hands remained over his mouth, not daring let a single sound escape.
Somewhere nearby, more gunshots and screams could be heard. Along with the howls of animals.
Present
Briiing. Briiing. Brii-
A cold hand rose from the silenced alarm clock. A weary eye – pits black as the night – peeked from the covers and noted the time. Five forty five. The hand swung free over the edge of the bed.
He sighed. Felt the last vestiges of the sun dipping across the horizon line. Knew the sky would grow as dark as his room was at the moment.
Dougal Dempsey dragged himself out of bed.
First, the shower. Lukewarm water poured over him. As he cleaned himself, he looked down at his right leg. Saw the black tattoo applied just above the ankle.
Recalled the ritual used to make the tattoo permanent. Felt again the molten metal applied to the freshly inked skin.
Dougal shuddered. He washed on.
Done with the shower, he thumbed through the closet. It was miniscule, the closet, just like the apartment, though it served his needs just fine. As he pulled on the prepared shirt and slacks, he considered when it would be time to start looking for a bigger apartment. He dismissed the notion. There was already so much else to do. So many details deserving his attention.
Knock, knock. “Mr. Dempsey. She has arrived.”
Such as the honored guest. “Thank you, Seaward. I'll be right out.”
Fully decked in his suit and effects, Dougal opened the door, nodding to the guard posted outside his door. He turned to the stallion standing in the hallway. “Good evening, Seaward. How does my hair look?”
“Good evening, boss. Your hair is sticking up a little in the back.”
“Ah, thank you,” Dougal said, taking out a comb and brushing back his hair as best he was able. He always had to guess, though he'd gotten reasonably good at it. “Has the Princess waited long?”
“About an hour, sir.” Knot Seaward was a unicorn of navy hair (highlighted with a sandy brown), and coat gray like stormy weather. He wore his little vest and topped his snout with wire-frame spectacles. Upon his flank was a seagull with a quill in its mouth.
Over the course of his confinement, Dougal researched many topics. Many, many topics. Among these was the subject of naming in pony civilization. According to his research, it had not occurred to the pony races, until their migration to Equestria over a thousand years before, that their penchant for naming their children in ways that perfectly fit their future endeavors was not, strictly speaking, normal. That in fact other species – donkeys, minotaurs, griffins, etc – were not so clairvoyant in their naming (not that they were above adopting the convention in their own guessing manner). This came, it would seem, as a genuine surprise, something ponies had never noticed they were doing.
That the phenomenon was magical was without question, just as it was with the Cutie Mark. But the exact mechanism behind this seeming species-wide pattern of coincidence still eluded them, as did what it all meant. Four hundred and fifty years ago, one theorist coined the phrase “name that rings true”, to describe one theory. That when parents throw around baby names, they will come up with one that just “clicks”; a name that resonated so well as to be almost unquestionable in both its obviousness and correctness. Even if such a name is missed or not put forth, the child may very well encounter a name or nickname that rang true to them, and adopt it retroactively.
Knot Seaward was the second son to a sailor, from a long line of sailors. The Seawards made it their business, and their common name reflected this (Dougal had a lot to read on the subject of such hereditary naming as a function of hereditary occupation). Unfortunately for Knot, the penchant for pony names to be puns had a triple, not double, meaning. His first trip to sea on his father's boat was, in his words, unpleasant. He acquired his Cutie Mark when spying a seagull landing on the deck of the boat, signaling their approach to shore and an end to his misery. From there, Knot made it his mission – some say his special talent – to be connected to the ocean while remaining as attached to the land as possible.
Which is how Dougal eventually found him. Struggling manager of a failing shipping firm, drowning his worries in apple booze. Luckily for him and Dougal, the business was worth so little that it was a trivial matter to buy it from the previous owner. At first Dougal assumed the stallion had been an incompetent. In reality, he had been embezzling for quite some time, cooking the books. The irony was not lost on Dougal.
It took quite a lot of talking with the police to convince them to go after the old owner, who disappeared shortly after the sale. He has yet to resurface.
“May I see today's progress report?” Dougal asked, setting off down the hall.
“Of course, Mr. Dempsey,” Seaward said, levitating a manilla folder to his boss. “All deliveries on time, all back expenses paid. Morale is higher than it's been in three years, and we're finally hiring new ponies.”
“Good cheer all around, then,” Dougal said, examining the reports. “All it took was a parasite being replaced with a vampire.”
“Quite.” Seaward gestured to the living room. “Here she is, sir.”
Dougal handed back the manilla folder, stepping into the sparsely decorated room. A window on the far wall was pitch black. Not that it wouldn't be pitch black during the day; Dougal had the whole apartment sealed with blackout paper. Sitting on the plain, serviceable couch was Princess Luna, flanked by two additional guards.
Luna stood up. “Dougal Dempsey,” she said.
“Princess, it is wonderful to see you,” said Dougal, bowing. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How is Baltimare treating you so far?”
“It has been pleasant,” Luna said, looking away. “I have had plenty of Sauerkraut, which I am told this town is famous for. Then again, the crab is apparently famous, at least among griffin residents.”
“I have heard both of these things,” said Dougal, nodding. “Though naturally...I have not tasted them.”
“No...” said Luna, narrowing her eyes. She walked to the adjoining kitchen – even more sparsely decorated – and opened the refrigerator. Luna pointed inside at the many hanging bags of precious red liquid. “You have been busy sampling the citizens of Baltimare.”
Dougal tilted his head forward slightly. “I see that your highness has taken the liberty of beginning her inspection of my abode.”
“I received word a few days ago, Dempsey,” Luna said, “that you have stopped cuing at the blood bank for your allowance.” She pointed again at the bags. “Where have you been getting this?”
Dougal clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Princess...would you like me to show you?”
“You...buy it?”
Princess Luna looked with bewilderment around the room. The place was sterile, and decked with medical supplies and a comfy chair. Bottles of antiseptic were placed in bulk on a counter, as were containers of fresh, unopened fluid bags and needles. A picture of a mare and her friends in scrubs adorned the counter as well. In one corner, an industrial refrigerator hummed away, preserving its liquid gold.
There were two doors into the room. The first led into the office of Dougal's shipping business proper. The other led outside, where a sign stood advertising “Bits For Blood”.
“Princess,” Dougal said, leaning against the wall, “I found it...non-optimal to be dipping into Equestria's existing stores of blood, just to feed me. That is normally reserved for medical purposes, naturally.”
“Yes, but I was informed that there is almost always a surplus of blood,” Luna said, staring at the chair.
“Nonetheless, I do not like to exist on welfare,” said Dougal. “I grew up during what we call the Great Depression. The recession to end all recessions, and even the wealthiest in any community were hardly well-off. Back then, living off handouts was common.” Dougal frowned. “That doesn't mean we had to like it. Many men had their pride, and though it is a sin, I cannot simply let go of it myself. When it comes to my sustenance, if given the choice, I would happily pay for it.” Dougal smiled. “Frankly, it's a breath of fresh air, in light of decades of necessitated predation.”
“But...b-but...how?” Luna looked at Dougal. “How have you not been arrested? We have laws against the sale of pony blood...don't we?” She turned to a guard waiting in the corner, who looked confused a moment and then shrugged.
“Oh, I certainly met resistance on that front, for a bit,” Dougal said, walking towards the fridge. “A license to draw blood, in exchange for money? The city office was quite solid on this matter...until I informed them I was a vampire.
“That apparently got their attention, as they sent an agent to meet me. To verify my story. Had no one informed the city medical community that I was here? Well, that at least cleared that up. Well...that and a letter from Princess Celestia.”
“My sister...she didn't...” Luna's eyes bugged out.
“She didn't tell you? Strange.” Dougal scratched his head, then shrugged. He opened the fridge, picking through bags, looking for one with an earlier draw date. “Anyway, I am now allowed to pay ponies for their blood, in bits. So long, of course, as the blood drawing process is performed by a trained professional, and adheres to health and safety standards.” He wandered to the counter, picking up the framed photo. “Nurse Healing Hooves does much of the work, and oversees our intern Cherry Heart. She's a peach, if you forgive the fruit pun. Ask Seaward if you need to get in touch with either.” He poked a straw into the bag. “If you don't mind, your highness, I haven't had a chance to feed tonight.”
“I...ugh...” Luna stared at the picture, trying not to look at the vampire at his grisly feast. “Where do you keep finding these folks, Dougal Dempsey? These ponies who are willing to work with you, or the ones who willingly sell you their blood?”
“Hmm?” Dougal sipped the red liquid – cold, but he was used to this by now – so happily that he almost missed the question. He gulped, licking the straw and the inside of his mouth to prevent spillage, even of a drop. “Oh, there are plenty of people around, willing to serve anyone if the price is right. It's all about finding the ones who most need the help, and providing it.”
“And all they have to do is serve a predator, right?” Luna mused.
“Predator though I am or was, I am one thing specifically in this world, your highness.” Dougal held up his index finger. “A businessman. When Princess Celestia agreed to loan me money, it was a trust she put in me to use it wisely. I have done so, investing that money into this venture, with every plan to make it profitable and repay my debt. And just as a merchant sells what others need in return for something he values, I am engaged in a trade of something they value for something I need.”
Luna looked sadly at the comfy chair, which no doubt found many ponies in to give their lifeblood for this creature. “Still doesn't seem right at all...aren't you afraid that this will cut into the blood donated for medical purposes? You are paying them, after all.”
Dougal shook his head. “There is a flaw in that thinking, your highness: what makes you think the people I buy blood from were ever going to donate it otherwise?
“Why give blood for free? Because of altruism. I'm not exactly an objectivist, so I have no acrimony towards altruism. One who donates their blood for medical services does it because they believe they should, and have the means to do so.
“It is not, however, always possible to be charitable. The ponies that come in that door do not do it because they believe they are doing anything noble. I'm required to state up front exactly what the blood is used for: me.” Dougal held up the blood bag for emphasis. “They come in here because they need money. Everyone needs money, soon or later, and everyone can use just a little more. The mare supporting three kids on her own, the stallion working to pay off a debt. An aspiring colt, saving up for that trip to another country...the beleagured children, saddled with their parents' medical expenses...”
Luna cocked an eyebrow, watching Dougal frown and look into the middle distance. He seemed...very far away.
“...there is always a need for a little more,” Dougal continued, “especially if things go wrong. But there's only two ways to get money: taking it illicitly, and selling something. In the case of the latter, that 'something' takes many forms. Food, product, labor, service, entertainment, time, space. Our very bodies. So long as someone else values it, it can be leveraged to afford a person the resources they need to get what they want. And as stunningly ideal as Equestria is – I find myself liking it the more I learn about it – it cannot escape from that fact. Societies and economies, communities and careers, are built on that system.
“What I have done is allow the common pony to leverage value from something they never could before: their blood. Directly.” Dougal placed the straw into his mouth and sucked. His throat was awash in that delicious, metallic juice. His tongue tingled. He smacked his lips. “...others may find it repugnant. The ones who come to me find it...profitable.”
“Doesn't that lessen the value of life, though?” Luna asked, eying the bag as Dougal dumped it in the medical waste container. “You make it out to be a commodity to be bought and sold. Is that a good thing?”
“We buy and sell many things, that we really ought to value more, Princess.” Dougal brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Time is one such thing. In order to get more of it at all, we must spend so much. Sometimes we throw away the time we have for value, time we could have spent in other ways...like with our family, or on matters of faith.” Dougal fished out his rosary and crucifix, holding the silver cross to the light. “What I have lost is considerable. Since becoming a vampire, the only thing I have in abundance is Time.”
That, he thought to himself, and the Power of the Blood, of course.
February 1955
“Think there are any more left?”
“Maybe in the...”
As the voices passed right by and then faded, Dougal ran out the office door. He checked either direction, and saw two figures disappear around a corner.
Saw also the splatters of blood leading the same direction, like some bleeding mass dragged along the ground. It smelled awful.
Hand over his face – as much to keep from puking as to remain quiet – Dougal set off in the other direction. His ears were peeled for any noise, though he heard plenty of his own beating heart. His feet stomped over the tiled floor, dodging increasingly large pools of vital fluids.
Then he found the work room. Dougal gulped, trying to avert his eyes from the carnage.
Crouch-walking, Dougal picked his way over the abandoned battleground. Under a table, around a stack boxes, tip-toeing between scattered and spent rifle shells, over a beaten bo- OH HOW LOVELY THE CEILING IS. LOOK AT THE CEILING, HOW FINE THOSE TILES ARE. THEY'LL NEED TO REPLACE THE ONES PUNCHED WITH BULLET HOLES.
Dougal shivered, passing over a mound that certainly was not the corpse of one of his workers. The ones he'd directed for the last several months. He pinched his nose, to guard himself form the overwhelming, sickening stench of blood. Could practically taste the iron in his mouth. As he found the busted-in door, Dougal noticed how one of the puddles had been...licked at. Extensively.
He gulped, running out with nary a backward glance.
“Oh! Where do you think you're going, mouse?”
Standing outside the door was that leather-clad thug. His front was absolutely soaked with red spots, as were his hands. The machine gun was slung on his back, and was replaced in his hand with a bent lead pipe. He had a slight beard, a mullet, and thick black sunglasses.
The man was smiling, displaying sharp incisors.
Dougal's heart sank. “Gah!” he squeaked, bolting toward an intersection of two alleys that bordered the building. He tried for one direction.
Blurring from out of Dougal's peripheral vision, the man cut him off. Planting his feet right in front of Dougal, he laughed. “No, no, no, little mouse.”
“Hah!” Dougal gasped, skidding and flailing his arms. Unable to stop himself, he collided against the thug's chest.
The man pulled Dougal up – without visible effort – and looked him in the eyes. “You're not going this way,” he said, voice as gravel. His breath stank of death.
He threw Dougal back, and the latter slammed hard to the concrete ground. “Agh!” Dougal cried, scrambling to his feet. His eyes were locked on the thug...or whatever he was.
“Well, what are you doing, mousie?” said the man. He raised his pipe and struck sideways at the wall. Chunks of brick came away under the impact, chunks and dust. The lead sparked, and bent further. “Run!” He struck the wall again, even more dust flying away. “Run! Ha ha!”
Trembling all over, Dougal turned and ran. Ran as fast as his feet could carry him. He stumbled once, then scrambled up to run some more.
Behind him, the laughing and bashing faded in the distance. “Run! Run mouse, run! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Dougal could not bear to look back.
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It's getting good! (Specifically reffering to the flashbacks here.)
That guy calling Dempsey a mouse immediately made me think of the movie Mouse Hunt, for some odd reason
holy hell, i just realize that Dougal work for the Giovanni... it's not going to end well for the group who attack them ( I assume they are Sabbath)
5777837 well he was working for the Italian mob and in World of Darkness 90%+ of mob leaders work for clan Giovanni
5778004 Not necessarily. Many do, but they hardly corner the market on organized crime.
White Wolf released a book called World Of Darkness: Mafia sometime in the early 2000s that handled members of the (Sicilian) mafia in the World of Darkness. It outright stated it was working a more romantic image of the mafia, as opposed to the one in Real Life that is a crumbling shell of its former self. In the oWoD, the mafia as we know it still exists as a force in organized crime, though it has to compete with the Russian Mafiya, the Asian Triads and Tongs, the South American Cartels, and of course the Giovanni, who are a distinct group. It also handles how the mafia connects and/or interacts with the various other supernatural creatures. One of its suggested plots is having the local mafia don call upon the supernaturals within his ranks and have them work as a group, not knowing that the various types hate each other and would have a lot of drama in the course of doing their duty to the family.
5778004 Although, that doesn't mean various mob bosses aren't under the thumb of one vampire or another. It's usually a Ventrue or Brujah or even Lasombra...the latter which can cause tension between a Lasombra's loyalty to the family versus loyalty to the sect, whether that is Sabbat or Camarilla antitribu.
5778695 my mistake probably just misunderstood my ST when he described them also another player was giving his opinion and he exaggerates groups to the extreme, I still internally facepalm when he talks about how he believes the Mechanicus works in 40k.
5778724 Honestly, like all things in the Storyteller system, the Storyteller has the final say on what is true in their game. That said, I personally find it sort of limiting to have one group be entirely in charge of one thing, or to have something be true of all instances in a group (other than obvious things, like clan weaknesses). The Ravnos as a clan were held back for years by the image White Wolf had for them as just being vampire Gypsies. Then again, for a while there White Wolf was generally culturally insensitive to Romani peoples. Just check out a book called World of Darkness: Gypsy. Actually don't because it's racist and horrible, and later books denied everything said in it. Anyway, the Ravnos were made much more varied and potentially interesting by making their seat of power be in India, and the Romani ones are just an offshoot the west saw most often. It made them potentially have greater depth...
...which is why it's so puzzling that White Wolf established all this as it was busy killing off a vast majority of the Ravnos, as a result of the Reckoning. White Wolf has made a number of questionable decisions over the years, and the 20th Anniversary Edition's habit of being canon agnostic was probably the best way to go overall.
5778752 my St actually owns the gypsy book (and almost every other Vampire book) and the only thing he really enjoys out of it is the magic they can do
5778775 Yeah, the magic they get from racial purity.
Personally I'm not against Romani people having magic, just that it's tied to their blood. A Romani Sorcerer using Path magic passed down through the family is much simpler - and less racist - than making them magic just because. Either that, or make them shapechanger or changeling kin. We have enough powered peoples running around as it is.
5778803 I'm sorry is it wrong that when I saw changeling kin I was thinking MLP changelings not Changeling the Dreaming's Fae changelings
5778839 Well, look what site we're on.
5778870 Can I just say Redcaps are awesome and terrifying.