By Peloquin (ka.vanadis@karlskrona.mail.telia.com)
Maybe....maybe this time...
Slowly, trembling, with sweat trickling down his face, he pulled the trigger.
A minute later he sat by the kitchen table, crying. Why? Why wouldn't it end? For what perverted reason wasn't he allowed to die? Why?
He stood there, the mop in his hands, cleaning up the mess. Strange thing that. His brains were all over the floor, but he had remained consciousness all the way through it. (Oh, gods...) He shut his eyes, blocking out the memory of the searing pain.
He was born in what is today known as the Caucasus mountains, on a cold winter day some two thousand years before the birth of Christ. The very moment he had fallen from that icy cliff in his twenty-second year he had known, somehow, that he would not die. And he hadn't. Not for the following four millennia either.
He went out to buy some groceries, (he didn't need to eat, but he grew far too weak when he didn't) and for some reason took the path through an alley he knew he should have kept away from.
It only took a minute, and then he was surrounded by them.
'Y'all should've stayed at home, sweetie...:
Five men, he couldn't see their gang colors in the dark, but this was Bloods turf, so he supposed it was them. Man, he wasn't in the mood for this crap...
"Okay, go ahead, rob me, shoot me, whatever..." The would-be muggers looked uncertainly at each other; this was not the usual reaction.
"Well...well, maybe we don' wantcha money...maybe we want to kill you instead..."
Great. It was gonna be one of those days.
"Yeah, yeah, just hurry up will ya, I ain't got all day." The leader looked bewildered at his gangmates.
"You makin' fun of us, man? Coz we don' like wise-asses around here..." He pulled out a long piece of lead piping, the end he held it in was wrapped around with a red rag, as a handhold. Bloods, just like he thought. But, there was something wrong with one of them; he was pale, paler than ordinary. In fact, he was as pale as a...
He turned his sight inwards. Ah. He was one of those. The gang member stared back at him.
"What you starin' at, muthafuckah?"
"Nothing."
Damn. Wrong words. "Oh, I'm nothin' am I? Huh?"
"No, you're Brujah, aren't you?"
The young vampire (he couldn't be more than a neonate, not with that attitude) glanced warily at his friends. "You hear this guy? He call me a "Broojaa"...well, I ain't no Broojaa, I'm a Blood!" Oh, for crying out loud! "Look, are you guys gonna kill me or what? Because I was thinking I'd grab a few snacks and a burger and sit at home moping all night. So if you could just get your territory-pissing over and done with, I'd be real happy."
The gangsters just looked at each other and then simultaneously pulled out Tech-9's, Glock's and all the usual heavy artillery of the NRA-members they probably were, and pumped clip after clip of 9 millimetre bullets in him.
It hurt. Sure, maybe not as much as that time they burned him at the stake in Paris in 1576, but it hurt enough to bring him to the ground. The killers laughed, reloading their weapons and turning to walk out of the alley.
He stood up.
"Guys? I don't think you're done yet..."
They turned. "Shee-it...this guy wants more..."
The Brujah looked anxious; he could almost feel his thoughts: was this guy an Elder or something worse? As they prepared to blow him away a second time, he turned to the young vampire. All it required was a little push.
"Kill them."
The vampire looked blank for a moment, and then, as it dawned in his face, he turned the gun on the others and started firing in their midst. They went down like bowling pins to a wrecking ball. When the smoke cleared, only two remained in the alley.
Time to release him...
The Brujah dropped the gun. He stared at his dead comrades in arms, and then at him. "You-you-you're an..."
"No, I'm no leech. In fact, I got too much life on my hands; that's my problem."
Now the leech was really scared, and he pulled out a long, slim katana from under his coat, probably some mail order junk he'd spiced up. "I fought one'a you before, and I got him, like this!"
With a single swipe the vampire severed his head from his shoulders, sending it rolling to the ground.
He wiped off the blood in his mouth, looking smug.
He swallowed.
And spat. And coughed. And threw up, as the special blood burned his throat from the inside. And as he stood there, retching, coughing up his own blood, the headless body slowly stood up, fumbled around for a moment, found the head, and put it back. The wound healed seamlessly, with a faint blue glow that soon disappeared.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I've been decapitated more times than you've pissed your pants, little vampire. This once isn't gonna kill me. Oh, I see your metabolism couldn't stand my modified blood. Well, that's no surprise; I once saw one of your elders burn to death from the inside from drinking one of my..."cousins", one might call them...but don't worry, you won't die from that tiny trickle. You just won't be able to talk with your own voice again. But still, I can't let you write or sign language to your little undead buddies about me; no, I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you...
He pulled out a small knife, put the blade against the palm of his hand, and cut. The blood seaped down the blade; the wound healed up, and as he stared at the blood he spoke one word.
"Burn."
And the vampire burst into flame. Wailing with pain he ran off, but he knew he would die within minutes; the fire was inside him as well as outside him. Lucky bastard. He didn't know how lucky he was to get the chance to die. No-one ever gave him that chance.
Ah, well. Maybe...yes, maybe napalm? He hadn't tried that yet or maybe he ought to seek out one of those French nuke sites in the Pacific Ocean, and hell, a nuke at point blank range might even do him in...
Nah.
Probably not.
But a few of them told their initiated friends that they were, in fact, grateful that there actually was a chance for them to die. Because these few had met at least one of those who refer to themselves as The Cursed. The Cursed are, in the most negative sense of the word, truly immortal. They won't get a great Prize when all of them are dead but one. They won't have any time of Gathering, and they definitely will never be allowed to enter the afterlife.
As those who met them soon understood, this was a far more horrible state of being than anything they could imagine. Eternal life, without rest, without relief, without any consolation. The few powers they gained upon entering this state were no consolation, but did keep them from being caught and examined by the darker powers of the world, or, as one of the young Los Angeles anarchs who witnessed the sudden demise of his sire when drinking from one of these, "He went off like the f-ng Fourth of July, man, from one sip!"
They don't know why they have been cursed with this, as most of them were ordinary men and women when they Became, as they put it, and none of them had committed any crime greater than any other on this planet. They only know one thing about themselves.
One day in their lives, they will be allowed to taste the final death.
One day.
If they miss it, they're doomed to stay alive forever.
Oh, joy.
The Cursed lead pretty much normal lives, until one day, when they, like the "headcutters" as they have named those who call themselves immortal, suffer from some great accident that should kill them.
It doesn't.
And from that day on, they simply cannot die.
Bummer.
They do feel pain, though. They stay conscious through whatever misfortunes they happen upon, and they can truly say that there are, in fact, a lot of things worse than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick, such as being burned alive, or being put through a meatgrinder, or just getting your nuts squished in a vise.
And the worst part of it is, they get no relief of the pain while they heal from it. They feel every bone in their body being crushed, and then they feel the more unpleasant experience of having them put back in their proper places.
Ever relocated a dislocated shoulder?
Imagine that with your whole body.
Not a pretty picture.
They do get a few advantages, such as the abilities they call Blood Magic and the Voice. Or the psychic insight they gain at certain opportunities. No telepathy. They just feel, inside themselves, and all of a sudden they know things they should not possibly be able to know. Many a Nosferatu have found that it is no use trying to sell them information, as they just smile at them and all of a sudden know exactly what it was they wanted to sell. And then there is their little talent of what they call Allocation. Quite useful in a fight. More on these later.
"Ah. The Cursed, why, that's us. We're cursed to eternal life and bloodsucking. So?"
Garou: They really have to stop chasing their tails if they're going to get anything done.
"The what? Are they Wyrm? No? Then I never heard of'em."
Magi: Ah, yes. They live, they die. Gods, how we envy them.
"Huh? Immortals? Like in that movie with Sean Connery?"
Kithain: These ones are truly weird. I mindread one of them, and had a headache for three weeks afterwards, and all I got was that he wanted a Hershey-bar.
"Immortal? I'm immortal. Maybe not my body, but, hey, it's what's on the inside that counts, right?"
(Highlander-style) Immortals: Lucky bastards. With just one swipe of a sword they are liberated.
"They have my sympathies."
Adephi: Hmmm.... They don't bother us and when we meet, they in general try to avoid us. It's as if, as if they're ashamed of something, something to do with us . . .
"It was not us who made them like they are. But we know who did. And why. And we're not proud of it."
NightBreed: I like them. They do not hide what they are, and they have no respect for the boundaries of the mortal world.
"(munch, munch, munch) The Cursed? Sure, I met one once. But come here, and taste the mailman...I've made him in this special sauce I make with red wine, some oregano and a little garlic..."
Windrunners: Quick little devils, aren't they?
"What was that? Oh yeah, I've met one of those, but hey I gotta run, see ya! (zip)"
Cenobites: Heh heh heh heh...they have no idea what we've done to them, but they'll find out soon enough... (Oh, Mr. Barker, I have the material you wanted!)
"Interesting. But tell me, have you experienced true pain? Now where did I put those hooks..."
The effects of this magic is very different from time to time, the words "kill him" might not actually kill the man on the spot, but one day, when he thinks himself safe, he might all of a sudden find that his body is rotting from the inside out, or, as envisioned in the little prelude, it might just set fire to him right where he stands.
You just roll Willpower against Willpower, diff: 8, and you can tell someone to drop dead. He won't actually die, but he will believe that he is, and will continue to do so until someone with an ability similar to Dominate, or, in fact, someone possessing Dominate, tells him otherwise. You can also tell someone to kill his friends, to go dunk his head in an unflushed toilet for ten minutes, or to go jump off a bridge. All it takes is one success more than him.