Baser Instincts

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IamLEAM1983
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Baser Instincts

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May 23rd, 2027

The DJ had bolted out the door hours ago, the dry ice machines had run out of fuel for just as long, and Moscow had displayed its usual administrative reticence. Contrary to popular belief, Russia's summers could actually be fairly sweltering in the metropolitan area, and Fabrika 17's deserted concrete expanse had trapped the body heat of a few hundred vampires who'd made the mistake of picking the previous night to host a rave. The local officers had dazedly stuck police tape around and the federals had harassed gawkers away, but it took the Chairman's arrival for a supernaturally-endowed hand to grasp the entirety of the massive sound console's cabling and rip everything out in a single and deliberately careless yank. Sparks flew, speakers squawked and the insane tempo designed to appeal to supernaturally resilient dancers looking for an adrenaline fix died out. Forsythe Atticus Holden felt his headache recede and set aside his homicidal fantasies of going back in time and tracking down the fathers of both turntablism and audio console programming.

Anyone with a pair of fangs and below a hundred years of age would have felt themselves salivate at the carnage that surrounded the mouse. Dozens of corpses littered the concrete floor, some reduced to pulpy messes that were barely recognizable as human or anthro. Most of the fangs he could see were small and dainty, barely more than enabled human canines. That placed most victims in the stripling range - somewhere between a few months old as vampires, to maybe a single century. Forsythe, however, was too old to see this as anything more than wanton carnage. In some sick display of effort, the killer had managed to launch a few bisected bodies over the warehouse's support beams, gray intestinal tendrils and displaced spleens and livers being tossed here and there, along with the discarded lower halves. The younglings had put up a fight, at least - a few of them had their mouths smeared with something that felt too dark and reflective to be common blood, and several of the female corpses showed damaged fingernails.

They'd turned desperate, then. They'd stopped pleading and had tried to use their instincts to survive the night. Their killer hadn't allowed it.

Past the cordon, the concerned and bereaved faces of makers or striplings from the same maker were obvious to all. Common stereotypes placed makers as being dispassionate towards their progeny, but Forsythe knew phlegm was a growing rarity in the community. Openness had won out once the Vienna Accords had been ratified, and now centuries-old makers no longer had to pretend not to feel anything in order to survive. Old eyes ensconced in young faces wept, confusion and anger mingling the salt of their tears with blood. Somewhere outside and out of his field of view, a man wailed something in Russian, his voice carrying an immense amount of grief. The mortals that passed by looked shocked.

Vampires of the Ordo Dracul could cry as much as anyone else, but Forsythe didn't feel compelled to mourn these young folk. He hadn't known them, hadn't known their life stories or what had compelled or forced them to venture into unlife, to forsake the promise of a full and healthy mortal life for the uncertainties of immortality. All he knew was that history had been written over the last week. This was the third assault on an undead public gathering, done in the kind of overt brutality that reminded him all too well of his own people's crimes against mortalkind.

Amsterdam, London, and now Moscow. Whoever was responsible could either coordinate attacks quickly, or they had access to private shuttle pads and stayed on the move. This was the third day, and no manifesto had come up. Nobody had claimed responsibility for any of these attacks - but the public had already made its mind. He wasn't concerned by those who supported the grieving vampires of this world - he'd already Tweeted several would-be heartwarming platitudes in thanks to the posters of the most Retweeted condemnations - he had more energy to put towards the stamping-out of those who glorified those attacks.

Sighing, he opened his quilted tablet case and looked down at his timeline. Notifications were still popping up like wildfire, informing him of every single hateful screed that came into existence in the most popular Far Right and Alt-Right discussion forums around the globe. For once, Holden was glad that Alexander Ruthven had extinguished what little had been left of his human passions; a distant corner of his mind wanted to immediately draft a press release that would challenge those cowards who dared to spout hatred and bigotry behind the cover of a user name to do so out in the open. He shut the door on that vague impulse, now sensing the way in which his own predatory nature tended to rise up from deep within.

Oh, but he wasn't one for lunges or leaps and desperate biting attempts. He wasn't one for slaking his feral side over furniture or onlookers. As far as anyone in Moscow knew, the English mouse Vienna had spat out wasn't capable of anything more than pushing pencils. That would've been wrong, however. Forsythe was an old and experienced predator, not old enough to lose the living rush of it all, but certainly old enough to appreciate a carefully-planned strike. Ruthven had made him into someone who could stalk his prey for weeks or months, and who preferred the comfort of assumed friendship as his killing field. This, in and of itself, had been the old warlord's undoing. He'd hoped for a politically-inclined bruiser, and had instead fathered a beast bred and born for boardrooms and public appearances - his intellectual and professional superior in every way.

Some catches, however, required bait...

* * *

May 24th.

Few people ever called Marianna Jameson directly. Her secretary took the brunt of the PR work, when H&J's own PR goons didn't. Considering, the people who called her were usually boardroom members, friends, colleagues from Shield, or maybe Auntie Song. It made business talk curt and effective and left more space open for interpersonal exchanges. Time zones being what they were and human error being what it was, this one would reach Mary's phone just a minute or so before the beginning of one of her Hong Kong workdays. She'd miss it, but the voicemail that followed was fairly clear. The voice felt like it could've been one of those of the last few great dames of British theatre - somewhere between Maggie Smith and Helen Mirren.

"Mss Jameson, I am Justinia Davis, secretary to Forsythe Atticus Holden of the Vienna Council. I am to inform you that Sir has chartered a shuttle for you within the hour. He cites matters of international security, so any prior engagements you may have had are to be rescinded. The shuttle will take you to Austria, more specifically to our Köeningstrasse headquarters. Please pack for several days, and bring with you any objects or data storage devices which may be pertinent in the study of your own augmentations, as well as others from similar or complementary manufacturers. Sir would particularly like to hear of your former colleagues in Hong Kong's Special Response team."

There was a brief pause, followed by something that felt like a last-minute addendum. "Please skip breakfast, as well - what we have to show you is not for the squeamish."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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In the weeks and months following the downfall of IsoTech, Mary and her company had been very, very busy. A chance long awaited by many of them, Mary above all, had finally presented itself, the chance to wipe away the stain of Frank Lambert and his backers and start making right what had once gone wrong. Some pundits wondered out loud why a shipping company was so desperate to buy out a cybernetics and medicinal concern, but those who had a mind for history knew better. Jameson had several former SCRT officers on her payrolls, both as a means of genuine employment and as a way for all of them, individually and collective, to try and atone for the various misdeeds committed for Her Majesty's honor.

This was for them as much as for her, as much as it was for every victim of that night, and every other night where shit went wrong.

Besides, who better to improve upon exosuit and augmentation designs than those who had wielded them?

Needless to say, once the bidding wars died down and the pieces of IsoTech Mary wanted had been integrated into Hardy & Jameson, quality control became a way of life and a fundamental law of reality. The schematics and manufacturing data, while useful, were not as important as the patents that governed their use, and the contracts that had paid for them and would pay for them in the future. And once she personally controlled the patents, she could make several decisions, one after another. Overnight the most blatantly harmful mods and products were recalled, destroyed, never to see daylight again. Well, those that she could get her hands on, anyway. And with more legal leeway regarding the rest, she could put Lambert's former brain trusts to work developing them in more beneficial ways, with outside specialists overseeing their work. Perhaps some raw performance would be lost at the very highest levels, but if that meant the difference between a user losing their mind or the user keeping their head on straight under fire, that was what mattered.

Auntie Song and the Sin Seven weren't idle either. The Hundred Devils were angry, of course, at losing their corporate facade, and it fell to Song to cripple them before they could get their claws (or fangs!) into another CEO, another corporate structure. Other Triads joined them in the efforts, and with the Sons of the White Dragon providing spiritual cover (along with the occasional strategic bribe from Mary herself), the Devils were soon whittled sharply down, driven into the ocean to drown or struggle out toward the mainland. Literally, in some cases.

All in all, a very productive several months, although they were months in which she was largely absent from Hope. Not only with all that business, but Hardy & Jameson was still expanding in more mundane ways as she had once bragged to her students. Going into space was progressing apace, as the exosuit work necessitated contact with off-world expertise, and that in turn generated other opportunities. All this also meant that she couldn't follow the news like she usually would have, as well, which she was soon to regret.

As it happened, that day she was personally testing the latest results from the cyberware divisions, brand new augs that they promised performed better with less side effect. For the most part they seemed to do just that, which Mary was very well pleased with. Human testing of the new exosuits wasn't yet a thing, however, but they assured her the time was drawing very near.

And unfortunately she had already eaten breakfast by the time she got back to her office and reviewed the messages. The one from Vienna was alarming, and with a frown she brought up a news feed and scanned for relevant entries. What she saw had her cursing under her breath in Cantonese. Combined with what Davis had indicated, and she saw very well where Vienna was going with this: someone from the old squad was acting out, losing control. Their names and faces came to her mind's eye; many of them were already working for her and she could personally vouch for their movements and state of mind, some were dead or so crippled as to be no threat to anyone, but a few...

Her frown deepened as she recalled those names, faces, voices, who had rejected her offers of work and solace. And even fewer, those she could not track down at all.

With a deep sigh, she rang her secretary. "Ming, get packed," she said curtly when he appeared before her. "You and I have business in Vienna."

"About those killings?" he replied promptly. "I am surprised they did not reach out to you before." It was annoying that he knew what was going on before she did, but that was to be expected. Ming didn't have as much on his plate as she did, after all. But she waved him off, and made another call.

"Auntie? Ming and I are leaving. The office can handle my end of things up here, do you need anything before we go?" A pause. "Are you sure? ...okay, well, wish us luck. Oh, and reach out to our contacts in Vienna, see about getting my heavy kit smuggled in. ...yes, you heard me, it might get hairy over there and I don't wanna be caught with my panties down. ...and what's that supposed to mean?!"

They hung up after a few more pleasantries. "As if I'd leave without clean underwear," she grumbled to herself. "I'm not that much of a slut. Well, not anymore..." Knowing Ming would pack for both of them, she made some tea, set her computer to compiling the data requested by Vienna, and composed an email for Miss Justinia:

Message received, preparing now. Will have all documentation ready. Any chance of getting a pass through customs?
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Re: Baser Instincts

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A response came less than a minute later.

Miss Jameson,

Customs have already been cleared, as per mister Holden's instructions. You are to land at our private helipad. Lodgings will be provided in the hostel we offer to applicants awaiting process.

Be forewarned - the Castle provides amenities to immortals and supernaturals seeking to gird their strength and improve their self-control. Some of our applicants are former truants and have only just carried out their sentence. Others are former ferals and are being socialized. They still may be impulsive. Do not allow anyone to belittle you, but please excuse what could amount to a novice's outbursts. Most will attempt to be as courteous to you as possible, but idiocy still marks some of us regardless of our age. Should anything arise, our staff will protect you and yours.

Regards,
J. Davis.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Oh great. Truants and ferals? Any one of them would sniff her out in a second, and then what would happen? What sort of wasp nest was she being asked to walk into, anyway?

Thanks. On our way.

She hit send, and glanced up. "We're ready," Ming said as he poked his head in.

"Good." The tablet beeped, and she unplugged it and stood up. It was a closed system, no wireless or remote access capability, trading convenience for security. "As am I." She looked down at her clothes, simple black slacks and a form-fitting long sleeved shirt. This would have to do, she supposed. "Let's not keep them waiting, Ming. Up and at 'em!" She was determined to show them how they did things in Hong Kong, and with Ming in tow she proceeded straight for the roof. "Have our scanners picked up their shuttle yet?"

"Indeed, direct course for the building's landing pad."

"Hmf. Prompt little bastards. Easier for us then." Up the stairs, and up and up, and then out on the roof to await the Viennese transport.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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What soon came down after banking over Victoria Harbour was the same model of shuttle used by Hardy & Jameson, if only graced with different accoutrements. The Vienna Council had long-since co-opted the Red Cross' red-on-white pattern, its logo quickly growing visible on the side panels. A white dove was cradled in red hands that possessed slightly pointed fingertips, a coy reference to the organism's main beneficiaries. Still, even if the Council focused on supernatural welfare, it had always openly valued peace and progress between mortals and immortals.

The pilot's cockpit soon opened, and out of it hopped a young woman of Middle Eastern descent, her hair cut short in a slightly tomboyish cut. As she stepped closer, a pleasant smile on her face, a few minute details in her movements would identify her as a vampire of Carmilla descent: strength and a mite of unconscious sensuality mingling together. It'd be difficult to peg her actual age.

"Hello, miss Jameson," she said, as her craft's engines died. "I'm Leila Amari. I'll be your pilot for today."

In what felt like an extra step designed to reassure potential bigots or people who were still on the fence, she displayed a little holographic badge. She'd apparently completed her shuttle certification ten years ago, had driven F18 jets under Egypt's banner twenty years prior, and had gone on record as flying most of the biplanes Saudi Arabia's early-nineteen-twenties caliphates had purchased.

She was certainly qualified, and whoever managed to steer clear of Saudi Arabia's repressive customs to fly planes as a woman in the twenties had to be considered as one of the progressive types.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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"Thank you," Mary replied, biting back the desire to state she could pilot herself anywhere she wanted. A quick scrutiny of the offered badge indicated this one was probably a bit more experienced than she was, though. Reassuring.

"This is Ming, my secretary," and she indicated the shorter Asian man, who bowed gravely. A couple other lackeys brought their luggage out, and busied themselves loading it up. "You've been flying most of your life, then?" She guessed Leila was from the turn of the last century, when flying was just taking off. Heh, taking off, she thought, smirking to herself. "I've a taste for the skies myself, though I'm better with choppers than planes." She had no doubt Leila knew perfectly well who she was already, though.

The lackeys finished up, bowed, and scuttled away again. Mary bowed back, and looked to their pilot. "Ready when you are."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Leila returned to the shuttle's cockpit, carrying one of the smaller pieces from Mary's luggage. "Mostly, yes," she confirmed. "I was turned at twenty-five. Pissed-off families, an arranged marriage being called off..."

She shrugged lightly. "My brother tried to kill me to avenge the family's honour. Hard to kill something that can't die. I fell in with a progressive caliph who had a lot of admiration for the way society was changing across Europe. That - and a thing for planes. I had to tell him that the Wright brothers probably wouldn't have cared for his best horses - they were engineers, not nomads like us."

The cockpit closed and the passengers seated, she pressurized the habitat and made sure the gyroscope systems would make the extreme arc of the planned trajectory bearable. As with other shuttles designed with Karthian tech, outside noise was soon reduced to a vague hum.

"I'm part of a breed of vampires that lives or dies based on its passions. The norm involves artists and creators, and I've seen a lot of them burn themselves out. They become the same as those leeches you saw, all those years ago. My maker used to say I was lucky - flight isn't something that gets boring. As long as I'll have that wonder, that bliss once I'm airborne?"

Even if she was focused on her task, Leila smiled. "I'll stay sane as long as that's true. The Vienna Council protects all those like me - people for whom undeath was a form of liberation. Any vampire who harms a mortal - and any mortal who harms one of my people - needs to catch hell for disturbing that sense of freedom."

Focused silence settled in for a few minutes, and satisfaction slowly bloomed on the woman's face. "We've reached our apoapsis," she said. "If you're wondering what I mean when I'm talking about bliss..."

She opened the baywindow, letting nanomesh plexiglas be exposed. They'd left the upper troposphere, Hong Kong being reduced to a vague mesh of coloured spots far below, almost lovingly embraced by the harbour's blue waters and the Atlantic beyond. The edges of the atmosphere were an ethereal white, the blackness of space being only broken by the blazing disc of the sun and the moon's pale glow. So far above all forms of visual pollution, stars glinted in the cold void in the millions.

"There's Rhode Island coming over the horizon," she noted, pointing across an Atlantic Ocean that seemed oddly small and insignificant from so high above. "And there's Germany and Austria below us... Off to the left you've got India and the Ganges - and if I shift our apo by a few degrees, we'll be eating croissants in Paris within a few minutes."

She looked back to Mary and Ming, grinning.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Mary grinned back, understanding all too well how Leila felt. Flight was a passion she could share, and to have this in common was a small thing, but a reassuring thing.

Ming was more interested in the stars above them, though. "The stars make me think," he noted. "I should not look at them often, or I will lose all perspective of who I am." He shook those thoughts away with a shake of his head, though. "I am glad you survived your brother's wrath; honor killings are a barbaric and sexist practice that are well deserving of their place on history's trash heap."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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"I agree now," added Amari, "but I was drinking the Kool-Aid, back then. It took my maker's stories about the Islamic Golden Age for me to crawl out of my own damn shame. Being shown how the same religion that wanted to kill me once would've supported me? That was a gut punch. Learning that there's two kinds of Islam, two kinds of faith - one that makes you hate, another one that makes you want to bond with others and realize yourself."

A brief pause. "Just as there's two kinds of undeath, regardless of your maker's race. There's people who realize how lucky they are - and there's everyone else."

She closed the panels and focused on their descent, the shuttle absorbing the crushing G-forces effortlessly, letting the pilot and passenger to experience that same vague rattling. If you stopped to listen, you could barely hear the roar of superheated air as they descended, then followed by the distant shriek of turbines negating their downwards motion. Eventually, the panels were reopened, exposing Vienna's Medieval layout of concentric circular boroughs, vague trace lines in the metropolis suggesting where battlements had once stood. The Koeningstrasse came into view, appearing the polar opposite of Hong Kong's constant and breathless race for new buildings. Old stone pierced with new windows, stolid centennial brownstones and stone-hewn towers coexisting next to modern skyscrapers.

The "Castle", as it had been called, was one of the tallest towers in Vienna, the top floors of some antique castle's peak grafted to an ultramodern lower half, ceiling-to-floor baywindows seemingly merging with stone, turning into fluted and arched apertures, the Council's banner flying high on metal poles set on the battlements. The helipad was bolted to the side of the tower, supported in such a way as to make it clear it could handle weights much greater than a single measly shuttle's. A secured catwalk connected it to the battlements, a small set of steps leading down to the tower's outer platform. At this altitude, the summer winds did little to welcome Mary and Ming, howling around the structure as they did and carrying the expected chill.

Speech being more or less useless at this point, Leila motioned for the pair to keep low and hurry for the double doors waiting across the tower's top.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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"You've been here before, Ming, haven't you?" Mary asked of her man.

"To Vienna, yes. Not here here."

The shuttle landed, and their pilot gestured for them to disembark. Hoping their luggage would be handled, the two of them hurried across before the winds could get to them, and through the double-doors they went. "Into the viper's den," Mary said to herself.
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