Baser Instincts

Completed one-shot storylines are archived here after their completion.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Inside waited a communications terminal and a small armory - ostensibly a miniature barracks designed to defend the helipad if need be, and providing space for local air control. Mary and Ming found themselves riding a long and glass-paneled elevator down along the height of a structure designed like a massive atrium. Medieval stones waited below, pierced with a modern interior fountain and a number of ferns and trees. The banisters they slid past had people reclining on them, and it'd be easy for Jameson to see that every color of the undead rainbow was represented here.

Most of them wore the same red-and-white jumper with the word 'STAFF' etched on the back, some carrying tablets and mothering earpieces. She'd see a few carrying towels and food trays or blood bags, disappearing off into the corridors that reached outwards at every level. A few more were talking to other vampires wearing regular clothes - touching shoulders and offering reassuring words. Seating areas below were used in various ways, from an employee sitting alone and having her lunch to what seemed like a doctor and her patient sharing words and coffee cups. As they reached the floor and the doors opened, they'd be able to catch the end of their conversation.

"... I've come to realize I simply didn't know! Thousands of years spent running, killing, stealing to survive - and I never realized we'd stepped into the light. I was afraid, when you first came to me. You would take me away from all I knew, and I was scared," the patient said, speaking in a thick Slavic accent.

The doctor spoke back with an American dialect. Modern Midwestern, with maybe tints of something older and rougher - like Sardinian or another root Romance dialect dating centuries back. "You had every right to be afraid, Ivar. You'd built a routine for yourself, and things were working out well enough. You were making money - illegally, of course - but you didn't have to suffer the consequences. You followed your instincts as a Cabal, preyed on mortals in every way your blood told you to - but you couldn't silence your conscience forever.

The people we're trying to help - they like to spread falsehoods. The Vienna Council isn't a cult, it's a collegiate effort by people like you and me, to try and step out of that darkness you were in. To rediscover the world we left behind, learn to live by its rules, instead of our own."

Ivar scoffed and looked down at his cup. "I thought that things wouldn't change once I'd come here. I thought meeting people wouldn't faze me."

The psychologist nodded. "A lot of displaced immortals make that assumption. They spend centuries working through proxies and think they've desensitized themselves to the human experience. Sometimes, for some people - it's true. These people need more serious help. For people like you or me, though? Forcing ourselves to go through mortal routines again restarts old processes. There's a scene in Dracula where the Count realizes he has to set a table for two for the first time in centuries. He has to remember how to select the right bread loaf, pick out the right wine for the occasion, when all he's had for as long as he can remember is blood. He starts anguishing over what witty banter he'll have to bring up to liven up the table..."

Ivar laughed and stopped, as if surprised by his own outburst. The doctor, on the other hand, beamed. "The fact that you can see the humor in this is a great sign, Ivar. A lot of older vampires think mortals take to this without even thinking about it, but that's not true at all. We all wonder if we've set up a decent table for our guests - mortal or vampire."

The Cabal looked thoughtful. "So the human experience is universal.
- That's exactly it. You can run away for a thousand years, put an army of proxies between yourself and the world, kill everyone who looks at you funny; that won't stop you from being human. From feeling human. All we are is people who get to live longer, Ivar - and life pulls no punches. The more you hide, the worse it gets. Once you're out here in the world, you get to roll with those punches. Trust me - that's easier than hiding."

Across the atrium also were pointy-eared Fae, as well as two Western dragons. One of them, a prim-looking whitish-grey elderly matron in a power suit, clicked her heels towards Mary and Ming.

"Miss Jameson, mister Ming - Justinia Davis, secretary for the Chairman. We spoke by email. Mister Holden told me to redirect you towards our training facilities - he would have preferred to meet you in his office, but his training staff was only available at this very moment. Mister Holden tends to get crabby if he goes a month without strength-focusing exercises..."

The other dragon, a male, shrugged. "Why not offer yourself as an opponent in the ring, miss Davis? You'd be pretty fearsome once on all fours...
- What, and burn the gym down? Have a care, Lewis; we're a nonprofit organization funded by some of our very earliest beneficiaries - not miracle workers."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Mary had not been around so many undead people in a long time, and in spite of her recent mellowing, her nerves were quite on edge as she proceeded through the complex. Ming was inscrutable as always, though, and she took comfort from his presence. She couldn't help but slow down slightly as they went by Ivar and his doctor, listening to their conversation despite herself. Was this what went on? Some of the fangs she had brought down before, had they perhaps ended up here, being rehabilitated? It was hard to say, and she didn't want to think too hard into it right then.

Soon they came upon the dragons, and the former cop bowed. "Secretary," she replied formally. Out of familiarity she thought of Archie when 'Mister Holden' came up, and her face was blank for a few moments. "Holden...?" What was the clank doing all the way out here?
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Justinia kept walking. "Forsythe Atticus Holden. Archibald Holden's uncle," she said, clarifying the matter. "He is not as old as most other influential members of the Blood of the Dragon, but being the stripling of Vlad Tepes comes in handy on occasion. The political acumen he acquired in his mortal years allowed him to give rise to our objectives of equality and accountability. There were older vampire signatories, of course, but few as socially adjusted as him, able to navigate the early days' admittedly hectic boardrooms and conferences - all the while surviving the last wave of known slaying attempts."

Lewis the dragon followed along. "I'm - um, I'm Hugh Lewis, the representative for Europe's dragon population. I work with mister Tanner, of Hope, on occasion. He was North America's signatory for the Western dragons."

Of course, Mary would've seen the video snippets and snapshots in her youth; slightly bemused members of the United Nations sitting in a semi-circle in front of a short table packed with all of what the world had ignored or denied for centuries on end. Four dragons, two Fae, six Wyldfae, one selkie - and an angel as well, if you believed the stories. The Karthian populace, ever logical, had been the last to cave in and admit that flying sentient lizards and superhuman immortals allergic to iron existed. The world spent decades peering through proposed evolutionary curves and genetic analyses, only to be forced to admit that only the world's humans could truly count themselves as indebted to Charles Darwin. For a sizable portion of the world, it seemed, life hadn't involved a slow uphill climb toward sentience, but rather a predetermined accession to it. Vampires weren't diseased or necessarily cursed, for instance, but seemed to live in a state that combined ideas from both theses. Generational damnation through mutation, in essence.

Predictably, nobody had been satisfied by that. Paleontologists protested, proponents of intelligent design refused to consider what was there to see, while mages tried to make it clear that after accepting via and the influence of the Art on modern society, making the jump to the world's Eldritch populations was the only sound course of action. Acceptance crawled forward for decades - until the present day.

The dragons led Mary and Ming towards another elevator, this one inducing a gut-wrenching feel as it all but dropped in freefall to the sub-basement levels of the tower, stopping gracefully at what the German label identified as the Trainings Anstalt - the training facilities. Immediately, Mary would be reminded of her SCRT training days, the first few months of which had involved strapping on an Exosuit only to spend it between four concrete walls.

The place looked a lot like any private gym would, boxing ring included; except for the fact that much of the implements were designed to offer adequate resistance to strength-endowed superhumans or supernaturals. The weights embedded in rails along the walls could add up to several tons of pressure once slid in place and locked with one of the machines; while the free-standing weights used carefully-applied weight-altering runes to approximate various combinations in the multiples of tons. These weren't just for Exo guys looking to casually rip off car doors; they were made to satisfy people whose strength had increased exponentially over thousands of years, people who probably had lost all sense or perception of their physical limits.

Still, right alongside this, you found oddities like a row of delicate wine glasses, see-through drawers containing Legal pads and graphite pencils, as well as recessed compartments containing everything a fastidious watchmaker would've needed. Someone was ignoring two vampires and their thoughtful and methodical rounds of Aikido - as if staying within human boundaries of strength and flexibility required every ounce of focus they had - and working on a painting at an easel. Similarly, Mary would realize this woman was very self-conscious in her gestures, perhaps afraid of breaking the brush's haft by applying too much pressure.

So unlike Mary's training, which would've focused on what to do with the sudden application of additional physical potential, the Council's clients had to rediscover the benefits of physical restraint. Another jumpsuit-clad worker stood next to the painting woman, the glint of pride in his eyes. As for the painter - a deceptively lithe-looking Asian woman - silent tears of exhilaration streamed down her face. The surrounding noise drowned out her voice, but Mary didn't need to understand Vietnamese to see the girl had just realized - after God knows how long - that she could paint again.

Still, the largest source of noise in the room came from a group of men in the ring. Two of them looked like fairly aged vampires of some diurnal stripe, while four more were indubitably mortal - if in very good shape. These four were currently grappling a burly anthro mouse, his russet fur clipped à la Souvarov along his upper jaw, his broad chest ensconced in an athletic tee-shirt, solid legs in red bermudas. His strength wasn't outwardly obvious, however, as his chest and limbs had the comfortable roundness of high-society Victorian living standards.

One of the men spoke while trying to lock the mouse in a chokehold. "Focus, sir. You're trying to get me off of you, not break my neck! Slayers or terrorists will attack you in groups - you're old and strong enough to be a serious problem for any lone attacker!"

The mouse had somewhat tenebrous features, the old Holden family bloodlessness taking a turn for the decidedly austere. His defined eyebrows did nothing to lighten his gaze, which seemed to recede inward for an instant. You'd have sworn his abdominals had never seen more than the occasional hiccup, and yet, with a sudden clenching of his facial features, his chest dipped inwards like a Olympic wrestler's and he swung the strangling trainer over his shoulders. Two more had been trying to upset his balance by repeatedly leaning into his legs, to practically no avail. The Chairman ended the simulated grapple by stopping his fist inches away from the first man, to then put one knee to the floor. With a grunt that had more to do with annoyance than physical exertion, he gripped the two other men's shirts and pulled upwards, making them dangle by their collars before tossing them away. They rolled away on the ring's mat, sporting a few bruises but otherwise unharmed.

Only one "assailant" was left, the faked arm-breaking attempt making it look as though the mouse's arm were a reinforced iron truss - impossible to bend or break. Holden simply stood there, giving the trainer a circumspect eyebrow raise.

"You do know this arm-hold of yours would never work, mister Russell...
- Mine wouldn't," countered the trainer, still keeping his pressure on, "but maybe I'm another vampire or an Exosuit user - or even that freak who's been killing striplings for fun. What would you do then?"

Forsythe sighed, his exasperation palpable. It was obvious he could've shattered Russell's arms by pulling them one of their sockets one after the other with his free hand, or otherwise used his trapped arm's torque to make this particular hold difficult to maintain without the attacker risking injury. Socially responsible self-defense, however, had limitations that most superhumans and all mortals didn't have to contend with...

Turning his head to Mary, Forsythe Holden called out for help in the most unenthused way she'd have ever heard. If every display of strength was a potential social or political statement for some powerful undead, it stood to reason that they were forced to stop at points where their reacting could have been construed as abusive or disproportional, and wait for the authorities to step in.

"Help," he said, as if the word were a bad joke, "I am being assaulted and cannot defend myself equitably. Further efforts on my part could injure this man, so I find myself in need of intercession..."

He sighed. "Gentlemen, I need additional focus, not a reminder on terms of engagement I put in place before you were ever born."

The first man stood up from the mouse's over-the-shoulder throw. "Have you been breaking your coffee mugs again, sir?
- Something of the sort," sighed the Chairman, who comically ignored Russell and his continued pressure. "I would call it a case of harbouring distracting and counterproductive homicidal intent towards the murderer of dozens of innocent striplings..."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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"Oh, right. Forsythe." How many Holdens were there, anyway? If she remembered rightly, this one was Arthur and Archie's uncle, as Davis had just explained. Well, now she could meet the set. "Pleased to meet you, Lewis," she told the presumably younger dragon. She suspected Lewis was to Davis, as Ming was to herself, although perhaps lacking in the more personal relationship details.

Down they went again, and into the training hall. Here again, fangs rediscovering themselves, learning they could indeed function as people once again. She smiled at the sight of the Asian painter, feeling an empathy in her chest that would have horrified her a few years ago. On the whole, though, the gym brought back memories of her own conditioning, not all of which were pleasant. She was glad when they came upon the Chairman himself, and the sight of him dealing with the "trainers" brought a grin to her lips that she did her best to hide.

When he zeroed in on her and asked for "help" though, it caught her off guard. Only for a second. "Eh? Oh, okay." Casually she hopped up and stepped into the ring, crossing over towards Russell. "Here, let me show you how-"

Then she grabbed his arm in just the same hold he was trying to get Holden into, dragged him back and forced him to the mat. "-that really works," she finished, grinning as she let off and stood up again, offering the man a hand up as she looked at Forsythe. "Pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Chairman Holden. The lighting in Hong Kong didn't do you justice."

Unobtrusive, Ming had followed along, his attention on Russell in case the man tried anything macho and stupid against his employer.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Of course, there would have been opportunities for the other trainers to step in, but their boss had lapsed back into official business. There'd be other times to pick from the replica firearms and boffer mêlée weaponry racks that surrounded the ring. If anything, that suggested the Vienna Council tried to coach those who benefited from its help in the art of subduing modern assailants safely. After all, neutralizing gunmen meant keeping onlookers safe as much as your own self. As for Russell and the as-of-yet unnamed shoulder-throw recipient, they simply stepped aside and gathered the remainder of their training implements. Ming didn't need to worry, this was just an ordinary workday for these men.

Forsythe ignored Jameson for just a few seconds - long enough to snatch a towel from the side of the ring and mop at his face and neck. He'd evidently been at it for a few hours before her arrival. "Ah, apologies - good morning, miss Jameson. Hong Kong did few people justice on that day - neither yourself or your law-abiding undead who were forced to watch as others besmirched their efforts. Still, all accounts point to things having greatly improved since then."

He gave the gym a quick and encompassing glance. "You would be our first Transhuman, if our records are correct. I understand our facilities are similar to what Hong Kong's constabulary made available to you - an obvious sign that cyborgs are people endowed with at least one foot in the realm of the superhuman. We've made outreach efforts towards militarized Transhuman units across the globe, but only grassroots advocacy groups have responded to our summons. The general public sees how people such as yourself share the same moral imperatives as we do - but many among your former coworkers do not."

He bent down and recovered a squeeze bottle from a pouch strapped to the ring's closest corner, the liquid within a pale red. The label identified it as a retail product, not something Mary would've seen before, not being a vampire herself. The HemoPlus Nutrient System looked to be Gatorade for vampires, with "30% Extra Red Blood Cells and Electrolytes", judging by the label. In any case, it didn't smell like blood, giving credence to this being a lab-assembled product. A few deep gulps later, Forsythe's eyes didn't quite look as recessed as before.

He jerked his chin towards an alcove in the back, which was partially occluded with a wall of acid-etched glass. "One moment - I need to change before we head to my office."

As it turned out, he really did need a single moment - he turned to a white, red and russet blur, his footsteps sounding like some tinny rifle's discharges in the echoing space. Maybe it was because they were surrounded with vampires and people used to them, but nobody seemed to mind as a second blur - uniformly brown in tone, now - repeated the same rifle-esque rattling noise a few seconds later. In the amount of time Mary would've needed to jump out of the ring, Forsythe had seemingly stopped long enough under running water to rid himself of any unpleasant smells, dried himself and applied cologne, and had gotten dressed. He now stood before her wearing what felt like a modern tailor's idea of a late eighteen-hundreds' three-piece, modern lapels and shirt collar paired with a paisley-patterned modern tie and a decidedly antique-looking set of front pockets. The jacket was longer than usual, like a compromise between yesterday's frocks and today's fashionable Friday-night jackets.

Still, something in his attitude made it clear he hadn't done that to show off, as the Vienna Council did encourage the natural and socially acceptable use of one's abilities. If Forsythe could save them time by sparing Mary the time needed for him to dress up at a mortal's pace, then it was all the better.

"I would have greeted you up there in the first place, but my team's assessment of the perpetrator's tactics left me in dire need of some release. I do believe he or she was once close to you, as what I have seen in Moscow reminded me of your team's tactics."

He sighed as he hopped off the ring, the sound containing as much anger as it did weariness. "Similar - but bloodier. Cruder. Without finesse, tactical awareness, or foreknowledge of valued targets. These striplings were butchered, miss Jameson."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Thinking about that day brought a scowl to her face, although the memory of Forsythe's visit and attempts to make amends was a slightly brighter spot on the whole charade. "They have improved, yes," she replied. "My company and I have gone to great lengths to make amends, as you can surely imagine." Glancing around, she nodded in agreement but didn't comment; she'd already noted the similarities previously. "I never considered myself superhuman, honestly," she went on with a shrug. "If I had, I probably wouldn't be where I am today."

And then he brought up her former coworkers, but before she could reply the mouse was racing away. "Wha-?"

And then he was back. Well then.

"That didn't seem like it released much," she said, rolling her eyes as she followed along. "Don't you have anyone sturdier to train with?" Glancing at the mouse again, she was reminded of someone back in Hope. "Have you ever met Jericho Liddane, Chairman? I'm sure you two would get along rather well." An aging Berzerker who had himself under control and was a successful member of society at large probably wouldn't have much to gain from visiting the Council, but surely his story could serve as inspiration for others.

Mary was stalling, she knew perfectly well. Surely any sensitive talk could wait until they reached his office, though.
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Re: Baser Instincts

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A rare smile graced the underside of the Chairman's moustache. "I typically don't hear of our independent success stories, miss Jameson. If I were to personally congratulate every single undead who took to public life without attracting undue attention, I would not see the end of it before the end of the current century. I'm sure mister Liddane is a commendable and upstanding man."

He then gestured over his shoulder. "You've met my Heavy Load training staff; you simply did not arrive in time to see them at work. Habjörn Thorsten and Christof Romuald are close to a thousand years old each - Thorsten is of Newfoundland Viking extraction and Christof once was a Knight Templar tasked with protecting a group of pilgrims during the People's Crusade of 1096. A rather... disastrous endeavour, if you've followed the lessons of History. Still, both of them have learned to take what was perceived as a blight or curse in their days, and turn it into a boon. Mister Romuald had surprised many a would-be slayer with his displays of piety and his compassionate stance. Not all of us resent the Creator for what became of our lives."

They entered the elevator and Forsythe selected his office's floor, just below the Castle. Still, other lights came on as others had called the elevator at earlier levels. They first stopped at the upper basement, which was labelled the Bureau for Pan-European Nosferatu Relations. Evidently, the North American moniker of "Freaks" had never caught on here, being perhaps judged politically insensitive.

Mary wouldn't see much of the floor proper, except that it was drenched in neon and halogen lighting, the two visible walls broken at regular intervals by Pedway-esque screens that displayed daytime scenery, the ambling undead all sporting various degrees of grotesquerie. All looked businesslike, however, carrying files to and fro, or looking like IT technicians coming to or going from whatever stack of server blades was theirs to manage. In walked a dark figure, clad from head to toe in a classic plague doctor's attire, the white beaked mask nodding politely towards Mary and Ming.

"Chairman," said the plague doctor, his voice soft but muffled, "it's good to see you. We've received our monthly data packet from the Grimley Circus in America. They're currently stationed in Wisconsin for the month. Details on Alekos Vlastos and Phineas Sharpe are being added to their profiles as we speak."

The mouse nodded. "Doctor Crane... How is our profiling coming along?
- Sharpe is much easier for us to narrow down, thanks to the lack of any dampening curse. The man is indeed of Fae extraction, and all records indicate he never stepped forth once the Accords were signed. His illegal status has been noted and forwarded to the adequate letter agencies in America. The Bureau offices between Georgia, both Carolinas, Texas, New Mexico and Louisiana have all begun a search based on our provided parameters. As for Vlastos; our intelligence is unreliable at best. We have it all recorded on several redundant hard drives, but our agents' memories all seem to have failed them."

The mouse grunted in annoyance. "This voids most of their findings. We might as well work based on word-of-mouth and good faith alone, for all the good it would do us...
- Unfortunately, yes," agreed Crane, his head and torso dipping a bit to compensate for the lack of any outward facial expressions.

Forsythe extended a hand between Mary and Crane. "Doctor, this is Marianna Jameson of Hong Kong. She is to assist us with the Moscow incident. Miss Jameson, this is doctor Henry Crane, formerly of the Royal Medical Society of England.
- Charmed," replied Crane, extending a hand ensconced in thick black leather. "I was one of England's earliest epidemiologists. Pardon the attire, miss Jameson - matters of public health prevent me from exposing myself in public. I've adapted this old thing to accommodate a modern pressure suit under the coat."

The Chairman filled in the details as if they made for decent small talk. "Mister Crane once believed he'd isolated a virulent strain of cholera, in the high Middle Ages. His maker's blood had instead turned into a rather unique infection vector, mimicking the Black Plague."

It was hard to tell, but Crane didn't look particularly miffed by Forsythe's blunt delivery. "I was a slow turner," he explained, "the rare case of someone becoming a vampire over a period of months, instead of hours. The associated symptoms have never completely died down. Rest assured, however - being outwardly sterile is a great concern of mine. It's been centuries since I've transmitted more than the common cold to a mortal."

A slightly rueful smirk hid behind the mouse's whiskers. "Mister Crane rejects our fabled origins, and firmly believes us to be sick, or otherwise afflicted with some mutation. He believes he could cure us, if given time."

Crane lifted a moderating hand. "I believe, rather, that unlife is a heavy burden for some to bear. Some of us would rather return to a mortal's lifespan and cut through the millennial drudgery of undeath. I merely wish to respect that choice, and those who would make it. Given that vampirism comes with an R-naught and recognizable patterns of infection, I am convinced the key to making this possible lies in our own biochemistry."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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For some reason, Mary expected the doctor's name was 'Jonathan', and was mildly surprised when it wasn't. "Hello," she replied, shaking his gloved hand. "I've a stronger immune system than most, but I appreciate your concern nonetheless." Listening to the talk, she was intrigued by the idea of actually 'curing' vampirism. "If you did succeed in finding a cure, would an individual vampire's special talents likewise be taken away? If not, they might simply die, their mortal body suddenly unable to deal with that much raw strength or speed. I've seen it in rare cases of exosuit rejection, or with an improperly calibrated suit; it's why every new exo-squad member is carefully monitored the first time they wear their suit, and why you can't share them once yours has been adjusted for you."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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"I'm pleased to see that you've kept abreast of temporary augmentation technologies," noted Crane. "The Chairman has asked me to review a few obsolete and black market implant solutions, as our culprit would have been unlikely to maintain or obtain legally sanctioned hardware. Your implanted hardware ports would likely have been removed, had you been found a willing accomplice in the events in Hong Kong. If you've brought your current specifications, as was asked, you could greatly assist me in my research."

He then returned to the object of curing vampirism. "As for my own goals; I understandably share your concern. If lividity and blood thirst are removed, then all traces of supernatural enhancement must follow suit as well. Insofar, my only worthwhile option would be extensive genetic therapy involving the insertion of healthy mortal DNA within a vampire's own genes. Combined with specialized viral proteins carrying a reverse transcriptase base, there might be a way to effectively bring all enhancements to a dormant state. Switch them off, as it were."

He sighed. "What makes this difficult is the uniqueness of most bloodlines. We are all related if the common lore is to be believed, but the basal nucleotide sequences for a member of the Cabal is starkly different from even another diurnal species, such as the Berserkers. A single and uniform genetic treatment would be unattainable, necessitating the creation of seven or eight distinct protocols..."

The beaked mask leaned sideways. "To make matters worse, miss Jameson, it does appear as though the fringes of each bloodline are hosts to a hotbed of mutations - abortive bloodlines rising and falling over the span of a few mortal generations. What starts as mere variations on a theme could unfortunately end with even more fully-formed bloodlines to contend with... It sometimes feels as though I am working with a thinking virus, a directed plague capable of all conceivable forms of agency - all in order to survive, thrive and spread."

The Chairman nodded. "There are ethical hurdles as well. Doctor Crane's treatment could be hypothetically stolen and tampered with, the dampening process omitted and offering the highest bidders the chance to keep their powers while abandoning all of their weaknesses. We have reason to believe Paradise interests are monitoring the doctor's research closely, judging by our amount of recorded minor network intrusions."

Even with his mask, it was obvious that Crane was worried. "A vampire freed of all urges and all forms of blood thirst, and yet free to deploy his gifts... The name vampire would scarcely apply in this case - we would be dealing with a biologically augmented individual. The very end of the Common Man."

The elevator chimed, and its doors open, Crane taking one step out. "A catastrophe, to be sure. I will relay my findings to the Chairman's office, miss Jameson. I will be on standby for any further questions you may have regarding our investigation into the Moscow event."
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Re: Baser Instincts

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Biological augmentation... Mary's head spun as she considered the consequences. Vampirism as a whole would spread like wildfire, if Crane's research proliferated that way. SCRTs would pop up everywhere, seeking to curb and control the tide of unhindered fangs. End of the Common Man, indeed; vampires, augs and other supernaturals would soon dominate, and she wondered at how delicate the balance was that kept them all in check.

When the elevator door closed and they were on their way again, she gave Forsythe a troubled look. "I... I'm not sure what to make of his life's work," she said. "You're right, it could be very easily stolen and widely abused. Most of us were human, once upon a time, but human greed infects us all." She shook her head, and lowered her voice. "Sometimes I think I should have had my implant ports removed. Not many know this, but it was my tip-off that lead to the events of that night, my sources that showed us what was going on. And I knew what I was doing when I passed it on to specific higher-ranking officers."

A shiver worked it way down her spine. "Well, I thought I did, anyway... Officially I was absolved of all responsibility, as you know, it wasn't my decision to go forward with the op. But sometimes it still bothers me."
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