IF I WERE A BETTING MAN...

BUT! I APPRECIATE I’M UNUSUAL IN A FEW RESPECTS, AND I THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE ➜ INDIE FABIEN VTMB2 ？

[anewcase]

indie & private rp account for FABIEN from vampire the masquerade bloodlines 2. multi-verse, multi-fandom, just here for a good time. written by sean [he/they & 25+]. hit up my carrd and we can party

[anewcase]

someone on reddit rifled through the files and found fabien's in-game model...

[couriers-mile]

I have to give props to the tiny detail in VTMB2 that Fabien's internal voice sounds so much deeper and more dashing than his speaking voice -- which is noticeably higher, reedier, and more annoying. Like you get to experience what the difference between Fabien's voice in his own head vs how everyone else hears him sounds like and it's very good

[valtyrex-deactivated20260216]

" fabien. " a gloved finger extends outwards, promptly pressing against @anewcase's cheek. he'd been saying his name over and over again, with little to no reaction from the detective. clearly, his head is a mess. all that the vampire can assume is that he's been far too busy with work and his brain hasn't had the time to play catch up with the world outside of the workplace.

[anewcase]

fabien blinks once, twice. the finger against his cheek brings him crashing back from wherever his mind had wandered off to, which -- where had it wandered? a gas station in reno? a hotel lobby in tulsa? christ, he can't even remember what he can't remember anymore.

"i—" zouin, christ, an elder. even when fabien hasn't done anything, it makes his hundred-odd years feel inconsequential, like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "right. yes. present and accounted for."

he doesn't pull away from the touch -- wouldn't dare, really --but his shoulders tense like he's bracing for something. a reprimand? a lesson? not that he thinks zouin's the type, not that he knows if zouin's the type, but fabien's jittery enough right now that he'd flinch if a fly buzzed past him.

"sorry," fabien says. "did you... did you need something?" and before he can think better of it, he adds: "did benny send you?" unspoken: send you to check if I'd finally lost my last marble?

[vitaeheir-deactivated20260323]

Eia  hadn’t  meant  to  light  the  candle.

the  ritual  didn’t  need  it  —  the  symbols  etched  in  chalk  were  enough,  the  circle  sealed,  the  blood  on  her  tongue  still  copper-bright.  but  the  habit  lingered:  a  remnant  of  her  mortal  life,  when  a  candle  meant  focus,  comfort.  now  it  just  painted  her  face  in  moving  light,  like  the  city  itself  was  breathing  against  her  window.

that’s  when  she  felt  it.  not  a  presence,  exactly  —  more  like  a  tremor  in  the  air,  the  way  static  crawls  before  a  storm.  her  focus  wavered,  ink  bleeding  slightly  as  the  sigil  under  her  hand  smudged.  a  ripple  of  vitae  recognition,  faint  but  distinct.  not  Tremere.  not  anything  orderly.

Eia  stilled  when  she  heard  the  voice  from  outside.  at  first,  she  assumed  it  was  the  usual  late-night  noise  of  downtown  —  the  half-mad,  the  half-drunk,  the  ones  who  mistook  shadow  for  audience.  she  pushed  her  chair  back  with  the  softest  scrape,  crossed  to  the  curtain  and  peered  through  the  slit  between  the  fabric.

a  man  stood  by  the  parking  meter,  hat  tipped,  posture  loose  and  conversational  —  as  if  the  whole  street  were  his  confidant.  Los  Angeles  was  full  of  strange  performances,  but  she  recognized  the  cadence  in  this  one:  dialogue  with  the  unseen.  Malkavian,  then.

the  Tremere  whispered,  mostly  to  herself.  “talking  to  a  parking  meter.  charming.  next  he’ll  ask  the  fire  hydrant  about  the  meaning  of  death.”  even  from  up  here,  she  could  feel  the  hum  in  his  aura  —  threads  of  fractured  perception,  like  glass  catching  the  wrong  kind  of  light.

the  urge  to  retreat  wrestled  with  the  urge  to  catalogue.  Eia  slipped  her  coat  from  the  back  of  the  chair,  brushing  chalk  from  the  sleeves.  platinum  hair,  neatly  pinned,  caught  the  candle’s  dying  glow  for  a  moment  before  she  was  downstairs,  the  air  was  cooler  —  sharp  with  city  dust  and  old  paper.  the  hem  of  her  black  skirt  just  brushed  her  boots;  a  dark  red  turtleneck  hugged  her  frame.

hazel  eyes  adjusted  fast  as  she  stepped  into  the  streetlight,  its  jaundiced  glow  drawing  gold  out  of  them.  the  stranger  was  still  there  —  talking  to  ghosts  or  maybe  just  the  night  itself.  “Los  Angeles  doesn’t  usually  get  new  arrivals  without  an  introduction.”  she  called,  voice  crisp.

her  gaze  lingered  on  him,  curious  but  cautious.  there  was  something  about  the  way  Children  of  Malkav  looked  at  the  world  —  like  they  saw  through  it  and  past  it  —  that  made  her  skin  prickle.  “if  you  plan  on  holding  a  séance  with  city  infrastructure,  you  might  at  least  do  it  off  my  doorstep.”  she  added,  tone  softening  into  wry  amusement.

[anewcase]

fabien whirled with an easy spin, putting his hands up like he was being held at gunpoint. "this is exactly what it looks like," he said. "detective fabien, seattle pd, currently on something of a sabbatical. i apologize for my conduct, miss, i'll try to keep my séances strictly indoors from now on."

he knew how he must look, given the get-up and the talk. a malkavian in a trench coat and a fedora, what a walking stereotype he was, but he knew his schtick and stuck to it. and the woman in front of him, her aura read 'danger' like a lit billboard. but she hadn't run, which was a point in her favor. she hadn't attacked, which was two.

he let his hands drop, gave a quick shake of the head. if the man could blush, he knew he'd be blushing. "my friend here," (the parking meter made a small, metallic groan of protest only fabien, blessedly, could hear) "was just telling me about some of the local color. i promise i wasn't trying to bother anyone. just trying to get my bearings." he gestured vaguely at the street. "pinkie swear, introductions are at the very tip-top of my to-do, i just have to... figure out where i'm going first."

he cleared his throat and looked away. "...tremere, i'd wager?"

[anewcase]

fabien's potential surname being la(c/g?)una from the case files... lacuna, as in a blank/void/redacted bit of a record... laguna, as in the character in final fantasy viii...,,,

[anewcase]

STARTER CALL: for @vitaeheir

los angeles. city of angels, they call it, though fabien's yet to see one that wasn't spray-painted on an overpass. this wasn't his beat, not even close, but at least the smog-yellow night sky gave the grit a nice, cinematic filter. looked better than it smelled, but hey, seattle wasn't exactly a basket of lavender itself.

"you wouldn't happen to know how to get around here, would you? no? figures. strong, silent type like yourself." fabien patted the parking meter.

in a grizzled, vigilante-with-a-grudge voice, the meter replied, "people are lookin' at ya weird, toots. maybe hold the conversation for indoors."

fabien tipped his hat. "no can do, big guy. gotta talk it out. helps the old hamster wheel spin, and it's not much of a vacation if the brain's still on the clock, right? once i know where i'm at, we're square." he fished a crumpled pamphlet out of his pocket— a list of recommended therapists, a list of sights to see, a list of places that'd get him far, far away from anything resembling a Certain Case. a pamphlet from wheeler, who had all but shoved him onto the plane.

(and he'd tried to get around that one, tried to wipe wheeler clean and head back to the precinct, but wheeler'd already told half the station and fabien didn't have that much juice. could he have laid low, played it cool until the heat died down? sure. but... no. he was doing the right thing, coming here. probably.)

he squinted at the pamphlet. santa monica pier. asylum. swing by hollywood, try the vesuvius. there was a dead moth wedged between one flap and the next, a dusty, powder-blue thing.

"well, hello there, little fellow." fabien plucked the moth free, holding it up to the streetlight. "you a tourist too? no, no, you strike me as more of a local."

the moth's voice came in like static through bad reception, thin and scratchy as an old film reel. "you've... noticed... it... haven't you...? up... stairs..."

fabien glanced up at the apartment window above the shuttered bookstore, candlelight flickering behind heavy curtains. "now that's interesting. bookstore's been closed since—" he squinted at the faded 'going out of business' sign, "—a while, but someone's keeping house. squatters, you think?"

"blood..." the moth whispered, its dust shedding onto fabien's thumb. "recent... tonight... you can smell it, can't you, detective?"

fabien could, actually. he rolled the dead moth into a little ball of dust and let the wind take it. "hey, meter," fabien called back over his shoulder, "who lives up there?"

"ain't my jurisdiction, pal," said the meter. "just a parking meter."

"no such thing as 'just a parking meter'," fabien said, shoving his hands shoved in his pockets. "everyone's a potential witness. you should be more civic-minded."

the meter fell silent. smart guy. probably didn't want to get involved. fabien looked up, stared into the window, wondered. a crime scene? kindred? a mortal? coincidence?

"it'd be bad, bad, bad form to investigate, detective," a parked prius warned him. "they're much more trigger happy down here."

fabien kicked at a loose piece of asphalt. "you're right. i'll just... stand outside their window and... talk to myself for a while."

"not a great look either, buddy."

[anewcase]

here's a little starter call! leave a like and i'll gladly whip something up for you. happy halloween!

[vitaeheir-deactivated20260323]

remember,  wherever  we  go,  it  is  the  blood  of  𝑪aine  which  marks  our  fate.  farewell,  𝔳𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢  .  .  .  ✃𓄧꒷꒦

[anewcase]

anewcase / private and independent fabien from vampire the masquerade bloodlines 2. written heralded flung-around by sean (he/they & 27). i willl pay you 5000 batrillion smackaroonies if you let me write this guy with you i so deeply adore him

[vilieldr-deactivated20260104]

@anewcase, sc.

" i wish to visit your haven. " as lovely as their current whereabouts are - the deceased feline paired with a hundred different scents is enough to give him a headache. his tone sounds demanding, but he does not mean it that way. despite their unfortunate circumstances, phyre has come to respect fabien in a way that he has not another. of course, their relationship is odd. it is not every day, or ever, that he is aware of, that another conscious gets trapped in a body that already hosts one. he is glad that the two manage to get along well enough as to not make their circumstance even more complicated. " .. surely, you have one ? "

[anewcase]

that's a reasonable request, isn't it? man ought to know where he hangs his hat. fabien lets the question sit in the air, turns it over once, twice, maybe a beat or two too long and none too subtly. surely phyre knows he's floundering, but well, what's one more awkward silence between a centuries old elder and a foot-mouthed malkavian? "i had one, i'm sure of it," fabien says, lying. "must've right? can't spend a hundred years in seattle surfing couches."

but why can't he remember? recency bias? proximity? why dale's place but not the place he placed his head? "funny thing is, I don't think I spent much time there. can't shake the feeling I was always somewhere else, the office, the street, up in other people's problems... maybe that's why it's so fuzzy. huh."

uneasy, thinking about this. you'd think a voice in a head would be exempt from the woozies, but seems fabien's got no such luck. "sorry, i can't rightly remember. we could retrace my steps if you like. maybe there's a trail to follow. but..."

the nerves swell like a tide, cresting, breaking, a sensation of crawling paranoia, a horror movie soundtrack. fabien (mentally) swallows down the nausea. "can't say if we'll get anywhere. i don't reckon you've got a swanky penthouse stashed nearby, do you?" stupid question, obvious answer, stupid joke. if he had a face, he'd be wincing. he trips over himself in an attempt to segue. "we'll find something better than this, i promise. if you had your pick, what kind of haven would you prefer?"