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Jan 6, 2025

Death of a Bachelor, or A Leap of Faith

By J. D. Dennis

Time Period: September 21st, 2018

Perspective: Vince

Rating: R

Content Warnings: Major Character Death, graphic description of death, lack of context or remorse

Word Count: 4,193

Comments: Written as part of the end of the campaign, Legacy of Varnhagan. Giving any further context for this without explaining the entire campaign is basically impossible but I’m not sorry lol

He really needed the rain to calm the fuck down before his entire notebook dissolved in it.

Of course, Vince knew the rain was likely magical, and like many of the magical effects created around him, it was highly dependent on the emotions of the caster, which weren’t changing any time soon. And everyone that could have done magic that day had every right to be absolutely pissed. It didn’t mean he also couldn’t be mad about it, though.

He was sitting on what was left of the battlefield, on what was left of City Center Park, beneath a small umbrella that was mostly intact, trying to finish writing in his notebook before he dove back in to assisting as best he could. The Park, the location of the final battle, once a square city block of green grass, full of paths lined with thin, pretty trees that came together in a small canopy and vibrant fountains, was a mess of burnt grass and shattered brick, downed trees and dripping, broken fountains. There wasn’t much left intact - not even the buildings around it survived. White smoke rolled out of crashed cars, and dust and rubble from a destroyed parking deck still hung lazily in the air amid the rain. There was still fighting, of course - they’d only done enough to punch a hole into the center, they hadn’t cleared the outer lines yet, and reinforcements kept coming in - but inside the Park was calm. Like the eye of a hurricane, there was stillness, quiet.

Smoldering grass still smoked, long lines of dark gray breaking up the emptiness of the park, but there wasn’t fighting there anymore. Most of their friends lay, splayed, in torpor or unconscious, on the wet grass. Some had gone under to go and fight more elsewhere - others had just been absolutely wrecked in combat. Others, clearly injured, were still picking themselves up, trying to repair enough of the damage to get themselves to safety, or better yet, get themselves back out into the battle that still raged just outside the boundaries of the Park. Vince could still hear it, just off in the distance, not really very far at all - screams, crying, shouting, the wet sounds of objects making contact with flesh, the smell of blood, fresh and stagnant, recently flowing and half dead. Much of it was covered by the smell of burning flesh, fire, a thing his kind feared above all, being used to great effect all the same.

This entire battle was a testament to what one could put aside if the needs were great enough.

He paused to look up, scanning the battlefield for anything he might have been able to help with - that wasn’t a long list, honestly, but he’d try his damnedest all the same - but he couldn’t see anything needing immediate attention. There were still plenty of people fighting back the waves of bodies meant to stall them - that failed - even if the numbers were significantly thinner than before, which meant he wasn’t needed there. They’d lost a lot, by then, but the cost was worth it, as they’d lose even more just to let it be. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the battlefield to go back to writing in his book, the only thing he could think to do. He couldn’t get too distracted on nothing - he had to finish what he started before he could let himself get lost on anything less than urgent. He needed to fill out this last page, put a final mark on the book before he could put it away. He didn’t want to leave this chapter of his life with a blank page. Something about that felt wrong, sat weird in his stomach that hadn’t been properly hungry in three years, making him feel almost ill at the idea. It mostly amounted to the fact that he didn’t want to die with things left unsaid, unwritten, unfinished. Especially since his book was so close to being truly full.

It wasn’t a book like a novel - trying to write a novel during this nonsense would have been all but impossible, and that would be for someone who was good at creative writing - but the book of notes he’d taken over the course of the few months they’d been working towards their goal. He’d started the notebook a year previously, buying a tiny blank book from Walgreens when he needed a replacement, and he’d kept it up through that adventure and the one that followed. They’d needed the notes, tracking their allies and keeping up with questions that would have otherwise been lost, holding all the relevant information in a place they could access it, and now, as the final battle drew to a close, at least on the material plane, he was trying to finish it. It wasn’t easy, as rain pounded down around them, the storm above hellish and hiding all the stars, the wind high and the rain coming in sideways, but he was trying. He had one page left, just one. He had one thin, flimsy, miserable page left, and the only thing between him and shutting the book on this part of his life, literally, was trying to figure out what to put on it.

He was alone, sitting under the umbrella on the table as the seats wouldn’t have kept him dry, solitude in his attempt at escaping the worst of the rain, tapping the pencil to the page like maybe it would start writing on its own, cigarette hanging from his mouth, unlit. Most of his friends had gone into the Shadowlands, leaving him alone with the injured or the inept, those that could fight reforming with the line that kept the park safe. Most everyone that remained wasn’t equipped - mentally or physically - to deal with the hellish realities of existing in the Shadowlands, even if they were decent enough or healthy enough to deal with a couple zombies or szlachta, and that was fair - Vince considered himself one of that group. He wasn’t there because he was a good fighter, or a smooth talker. He wasn’t there because he was strong of will or hearty of soul. He wasn’t there because he was particularly good at anything, honestly - he was there because he was lucky. He was lucky, and clever, and he took notes, and he’d fallen into the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d met the wrong people at the wrong time, and while he’d walked away from the encounter and he’d survived it, it had only spiraled down from there.

He paused, finally finding the thoughts to put on the final page like a lightning strike from the blue. His best words and plans came to him like a bolt through his brain, and he wasn’t going to let this one pass him by. He started writing, scribbling quickly, hiding the book from the rain with his own body. He started by explaining, carefully, to the page, why he hadn’t gone to the Shadowlands - it was because he’d remembered. He’d been chasing a memory hidden deep in the wells of his thoughts for years, and finally, seeing the person that hid those memories from him had brought them back, little by little. He’d had them flood his senses, one moment at a time, suddenly so vivid in his brain when he couldn’t have recalled them before if he’d wanted to. He scribbled down the images that swam back to him, what he could describe, and then like the rest of his life he just kept going, unburdened by the concepts of editing or rewriting. He didn’t need it to be perfect, just full. He didn’t need it to be a novel, he just needed it to be there. He needed the sense of completion, not clarity of content.

He described how she looked, the night they’d met - cute, small, homeless, scared - and how he’d related. He’d been there, recently homeless, traveling, nothing to call his own but a pack of cigarettes and a leather jacket and a charming smile. He mentioned how she’d hung off his arm, how comfortable that felt. How he’d tried to buy her a drink and she wouldn’t follow him into the speakeasy. How she’d saved him, without a second thought, when she rightly could have left him to die of his own stupid mistakes. He paused there, the vivid call of her voice in his head -It’s going to be okay - before shaking the thought away. He couldn’t face her, not in battle - it was dangerous, too dangerous to do - but he could remember her. Fondly, even. He didn’t believe others like her would have been that altruistic if given the chance, and that was what inspired the fond feelings, because that felt… special. He wasn’t anybody to anyone then, not even her. He was a drifter, homeless, hungry, tired, running scared, and she’d cared. It was strange, remembering someone fondly that, not ten minutes earlier, had it out to kill him. But that was just who she was, really. That was just who he was. Heart too big for his body, brain too small to compete with the lingering affection.

It was strange that one of the people trying to end his very existence, and the world, was the same one that brought him violently into it with her compassion.

He huffed, writing faster for a moment, angry now. They were trying to end them all, all vampires, but he didn’t understand why. He understood at least the Baali’s deal - this was what they spent their lives aiming for. The end of the world, for them, was almost religious, and Vince never figured people that deep into religion to be particularly easy to change. But they weren’t the only ones who’d tried to kill all Kindred. The party had defeated the original orchestrator, Pip, the Bad Guy in their story, and his ideals - kill all vampires - were what had started all of this, and what made Vince so angry. He’d claimed that vampires were a net bad, that they were worse than they were good, that they only caused pain, but Vince didn’t believe him. Sure, it was a Kindred that forced him, rather violently, into their world and without his consent to boot, but ultimately, he’d made the choice not to walk away. Twice. And past that, he’d spent months talking to others, and they had a large group on that battlefield that night that gave a shit, and wasn’t that enough? They’d managed to take Kindred that would have, in normal circumstances, killed each other - hell, they’d managed to take Kindred that almost tried to kill each other in those circumstances, of all things - and gotten them to fight side by side, like friends. Why did it have to be that the only solution for bad Kindred was destroying the entire concept of them in the first place? It seemed excessive, and unfair, as at least some Kindred tried their best to be good people beyond their faults. Vince was, of course, thinking mostly of himself and his group - they hadn’t wronged anyone, not really, not without being wronged themselves, but to Pip, they deserved to die as much as anyone else. Collateral damage, probably, something Pip considered worth it if the worst vampires also died.

Well, as far as Vince could tell, the worst vampire in existence had just died with a rocket to the face.

He signed off the book, closing the pages with reverence. He’d said what he had to say, and that was it. He’d put the final pin in a chapter of his life he was ready to have close. His last words, he’d called them. There was a subtle irony in those words, as part of him really thought they might be his last. He’d been told, at the beginning, from someone he still loved and trusted, that a choice he made would kill him - but he wasn’t even allowed that choice. The party had made it together, without discussion, and that was it. But that was also kind of Vince’s life - the things he probably should have had the biggest say in were things he didn’t even get to consider for himself. If the universe was as described, his death was guaranteed, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. But he’d gotten through the worst of it already - they’d done their fight, they’d killed their boss, and he wasn’t going any further. He was just helping clean up, now, which should have been the easy part. He didn’t know how that could kill him when the Devil himself had walked away without raising a hand to fight him.

He just hadn’t been wrong before, and he’d learned not to doubt himself like that. Even when everyone else did.

He closed the book up, placing it and his jacket beneath the umbrella in an attempt to keep the notebook dry. The jacket was old, graying leather, given to him by Al years previously, and he pressed a hand to it fondly. It had been through a lot, and he loved it, and that's why it was staying with his notebook under the umbrella. Everything was much safer there than out in the rain, even if it meant he was more apt to get soaked. He tucked his jacket around the items there reverently, taking a moment to shake the rain from his hair one time. He didn’t feel cold, but wet was still uncomfortable, and being dry for even a moment felt nice. He was excited for all this to be over - he missed the small moments of feeling nice. He had left the rest of his things there, too - keys, an empty pack of cigarettes, a lighter with no flame - leaving him in just his jeans, his stupid t-shirt, and his sneakers, a damp and droopy cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his wedding ring on his finger, his rifle still slung over his back. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he’d be dumb to leave it behind. The t-shirt stuck to his thin frame like a glove, and his sneakers nearly had holes in them. He had boots at one point, but he wore right through them, which was kind of sad. He paused there a moment, looking at the collection that was his life sitting out in front of him like it could dictate the story he’d been through in just the visual, before shaking his head. Now was not the time for reminiscing.

He stepped back out into the rain, immediately soaked - ugh - looking around to see in what way he could actively help. The main fighting was over, and the park was ultimately clear, if highly damaged, and the only real fighting left was in the streets. It was a ruckus out there, blood and screams and gunfire happening with wild abandon. A few of the kids - and god, were they children, actually children, and Vince felt for them because he’d been there once upon a time, he’d been young and dumb and bumbling through the world - were trying to drag unconscious or torpored allies to an area under an awning where they could be cared for properly. There were far too many of those, and far too few people left to carry them, but they did good work. He scanned through those that were left in the park – there were the Lisowskis, two of them, standing, weapons ready, over the fallen forms of their friends, two others raising walls around the area to stop wandering szlachta from coming through the ranks; he saw Corryn and Rashida and Davis, carting the first of their allies over to the awning; there was one of the remaining Tremere, Weaver, checking over the bodies to see who was wounded and with what; the other, Caul, using magic to help create a better awning out of branches and leaves - and then scanned the battlefield, noticing that there were more bodies out there besides their friends. They weren’t allies, but the enemies, splayed out on the grass in the rain. Vince winced, because honestly, it wasn’t really dignified, and if they were supposed to be the good guys, the good Kindred, the people that deserved to be kept alive because they could exhibit compassion to others, they couldn’t just leave them like that.

Vince carefully trotted over to Molly, one of the other bosses they’d fought. She was tall, but she looked rather light, her dress pooling around her thighs, her limbs splayed awkwardly. Vince paused over her, just for a second, before reaching down and bundling her into his arms. He was gentle, picking her up in a princess carry, making sure he grabbed only dress and didn’t accidentally get handsy with her thighs. In that moment, looking at her face, her blond hair curled around her cheeks, pink lips and dark eyeliner and soft jaw, she looked so much younger than she had before. She looked almost like a child, sleeping. He shook his head, trotting back over to the awning, ignoring the look of fear or defensiveness he got as he did so. He moved past them, setting her gently under a different part of the awning, straightening her dress and making her at least look dignified in her torpor.

“What are you doing?” Corryn asked, watching Vince with concern. He turned to her, a sadness to his face, and he noticed that everyone had paused to watch him. Even the vines had stopped moving, Caul’s face drawn into a frown, though the leaves still wiggled in the rain slightly.

“Pip started this because he thought all Kindred were a net bad.” Vince stated, plainly, standing between Molly’s body and the others, preventing them from doing anything to her. “She was dominated by him; she wasn’t here because she had a choice, just like the rest of us. She deserves at least a little dignity, even in defeat. I refuse to be the kind of person Pip thought needed to die, even to the people that tried to kill us. Being a net bad is a conscious choice, and I won’t do it.” He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t stutter - it was the strongest he’d ever felt talking before. There was no doubt in his mind what was right, and what was wrong, and he wasn’t going to let himself fall into what was wrong because it was what was easy. The others seemed to accept this, accept that she was on one side of the awning and their people the other, and they didn’t say another word in question, because it wasn’t worth the fight. They were all tired.

“Weaver, can you contact the hotel?” Vince asked, stepping back over to the group. “Her secretary, Claire, the one we rescued, should probably know her boss is alright, if a little torpored.” Vince looked back over his shoulder, and Weaver nodded, standing up and pulling out her phone. Vince then turned to the others carrying bodies, looking at them for a moment before looking out over the battlefield at Ray. That man was too big of a guy for any one person to carry, regardless of how strong they were. “Davis?” Vince asked, and the Nosferatu nodded, no expression under the mask but no expression needed.

“Yeah, I’ll help.” They said. Vince smiled, a sad thing, reaching out to clap the other on the shoulder before leading them out into the rain. It was still pouring, and the ground was slick, but he thought the two of them could manage to carry Ray together. “Do you, uh…you really believe that?”Davis asked, softly, as they made their way over, their voice half hidden by the rain. Vince shrugged.

“Being a bad person is always a conscious choice. Just because we’re undead doesn’t mean we’re necessarily monsters, unless we choose to be them. And I’m not a monster.” Vince said, giving Davis a shrug. He approached Ray, standing over the man’s body, considering the challenge in front of them. Ray was a hefty son of a bitch, big and beefy, and while both of them could cart the man around, how was still a question. After a moment, Davis went to Ray’s shoulders in a silent suggestion, and Vince went to the man’s feet in implied agreement, taking a strong stance in his attempt to lift the man, hoping their unsaid plan worked. They didn’t get a chance, however.

A shot rang out, the ear splitting vibrations sharp and loud across the open field. Davis’s mask shattered, the bullet creating spider web cracksacross the front. Davis fell, having no chance to react to what happened, body hitting the ground with a wet, sickening thump. Torpored. Vince felt like he was moving in slow motion in those moments, his body reacting on instinct rather than pure thought. He snapped to being invisible, his obfuscate hiding him from being otherwise out in the open. He spun, crouched in the middle of the park, pulling his rifle from his back and immediately up to his shoulder. He could see, in the corner of his eye, Corryn jump up and Rashida grab her, holding her back, hidden by the growing trees and the original awning. Corryn was screaming, but through the ringing in Vince’s ears, he couldn’t hear what she said, but he knew what was happening - if she ran out there right then, she’d get shot just as much. Vince couldn’t hear much at all for a long second as he pulled his rifle up, but when his hearing came back to him, everything seemed to fall in all at once. Davis had been shot from somewhere off to the side, and even the militia could tell, the first word Vince heard shouted initially in Romanian across the crowd before it was echoed again in English - sniper.

He scanned the rooftops, his hands clammy and steady. He would have been able to feel his heart thump wildly in his chest, but he had no heartbeat. He could feel slick wetness on his ear, which explained the ringing - the bullet had raced right past his face to hit Davis, the sound of it throwing off his hearing for just a moment. He looked first to where Al had been, a sick feeling in his stomach - did the blood bond not wear off? Did the ritual fail? Did Al take the shot? - but he didn’t see anything, or anyone. Al clearly had moved somewhere else, as snipers were supposed to do, and Vince had lost track of the man. Fuck. He couldn’t see anyone else, however, no matter how hard he looked, even checking quickly with Auspex, which sank a deep feeling in his gut that there was only one sniper, and that sniper was Al. A second from the first shot passed, and then another. His rifle scope flashed as lightning thundered overhead.

Another shot rang out, but Vince didn’t get to hear it.

The bullet raced through the wet air, finding home first in the glass of Vince’s scope, which exploded outward in sudden hot fury, and then further on, Vince’s eye. For a moment, there was only pain, pain racing up Vince’s entire body, radiating out from his eye, from his face, from his wound. His mouth opened in shock, dropped open as his jaw went weak, and then it was like the pain coalesced all at once in the outer edges of his body. He could, of all things, feel himself ash as he died, as the damage finally took hold in his brain, as the bullet put too much punishment into his system. He felt his hands go first weak, dropping the rifle, and then go entirely, the feeling in them vanishing as they turned to dust in the wind. It was surprisingly peaceful, dying, turning to ash. There was no more sound, just silence. It was quick, too, the moment lasting no more than a second or two. The pain subsided, vanished as his body stopped registering anything at all, and that last second of life was surprisingly calm. The strangest thing was that in his final second, he breathed out, exhaled, let go, even though he didn’t breathe. Sorry, Flid. Vince managed to think, the stray thought passing through before his brain gave up the ghost.

He was ash before he fully hit the ground. His ring tumbled to the grass next to his rifle, losing a little shine as the ash of his body settled lightly on it. There was nothing left otherwise, just the rifle, the ring, a wet pile of ash, and his cigarette.

And of all things, his cigarette didn’t fall – instead, left hanging, helplessly, in midair.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm #ttrpg #malkavian #fiction #j. d. dennis #legacy of varnhagen #vincent renato #stand alone #molly de l'argonne #corryn nguyen #davis takamuri #rashida