Vampire The Masquerade - Clanbook Malkavian (Revised).pdf - Clanbooks - Eneida88

A BRIEF PROCEDURE

It was the consummation of a marriage.

The vows were unspoken, of course. The courting had taken place long ago, in the language of grants and internships

rather than doses of cliched poetry. It had been patient and professional, trust given out measure by measure as he let me

further and further into the great work of his... life. First the gift of vitae, then the gift of responsibility - always rationed out

with perfect reason, perfect control.

And now...

It would have been unprofessional to shudder as we stepped into the operating theatre, so naturally, I did no such thing.

Although I felt certain that he wouldn't have interpreted it as fear - why should I fear this place, almost an old friend? - it

certainly would have been forward. The fluorescent lighting was no different, the polished steel table the same as it had

been throughout years of procedures, case studies and experiments. The catheter, the plastic drum — new, of course, but

hardly unsettling

No, the difference this time was anticipation. Delight, almost. But a show of such emotion would surely be embarrassing

to him, and that would be unforgivable.

The repetitive echoes of his shoes' soles against the floor bounced off the walls. As 1 slid off my lab coat, I lowered my

head and closed my eyes; time for the game to begin again. He had taught me a trick of superhuman hearing some time ago

— and I'd been so flustered by how hard it was to learn that I felt sure he'd turn me out before I grasped the secret. But when

I finally he ard for the first time, that was when the game began.

Clack. Clack. He was beginning his circuit of the theatre - always attentive for the slightest foreign element, the least

chance of chaos. Clack. Clack. At the left edge of the one-way mirror now, scrutinizing the seams. Clack. Clack. Halfway

across the mirror now. Can he see through the reflection to the observation booth on the other side? He's never said, but he

must be able to. Clack. Clack. The far end now. Clack — and a pause. My smile faded. What had he found? And then there

it was — the squeak of cloth, certainly his handkerchief, on metal. Clack. Clack. The circuit began again.

I'd be deluding myself if 1 thought that the vitae-induced sensory amplification allowed for as complex a sensory

mechanism as echolocation. But this theatre was home, more so now than the house I'd grown up in or the apartment I slept

in; to be frank, I believe last year I'd slept late hours at the lab as often as I'd managed to crawl into an actual bed. We'd run

so many case studies in here that I knew every corner, every inch of the equipment better than I knew my own bedroom.

And I'd watched Dr. Net-church pace the room just like this before every study, before every procedure.

That was the game. To see him as he must be, to watch every footstep with my eyes shut tight, to see him crinkle his

brow just slightly with every pause, with every possible imperfection.

At the risk of dropping all objectivity, it was frankly exhilarating.

Ten more steps, and he'd be within arm's reach once more. Clack. Clack. His pace picking up just a little now, as he

becomes more certain that nothing's amiss. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. By the cabinet now - and there, the slight touch of

skin on metal as he slides his fingers gently along the s teel doors, almost unaware that he does so. Clack. Clack. Almost

here. Clack. And - a pause? He's testing me, I thought giddily. Don't open your eyes yet. He still lacks one more step, just

one.

Clack.

I opened my eyes and raised my head, smiling ever so slightly. His face was immobile, a statue with glass eyes - and

then there was just a twitch of movement by one eye. I could have shrieked with laughter, but instead 1 simply tilted my

head a centimeter or so to the side, and raised lay eyebrows just so. Precise control. Precise communication. That was the

heart of our relationship.

"Well then," he lightly coughed. If you're quite ready, Doctor, we'll begin the procedure."

"Of course." I forced my hands to remain at my sides, although they ferociously wanted to smooth down the goose

pimples on my arms.

He took my coat, folding it crisply and setting it to one side. I sat down on the table and lay back. The cool of the metal

rose up against my bare arms and seeped through my clothes, and it was so refreshing — the laboratory's cool atmosphere (a

perfect 65 degrees Fahrenheit — I might have giggled at the thought) wasn't cooling me down at all. I must have seemed so

feverish to him; how like him, so courteous and concerned, not to mention it at all. Straps of metal and leather closed on my

wrists, ankles and brow; it was an interesting feeling. The feeling of physical restraints coupled with anticipation - yes, it

was an appetite, but something going beyond sexuality into so much more.

Sex, after all, is a purely physical intimacy. Only clouded through psychological delusion does it seem more than that —

a lesson I'd gradually learned from my work. Watching him slice through the layers of tissue and blood down to a subject's

very bones - the same thing, really. An intimacy that means only as much as one lets it.

But this - to think of it. An intimacy of body and psyche, and of such intellect...

"Are you comfortable, Doctor?"

So reserved. So gentlemanly. I nodded quickly, refusing to smile like an embarrassed teenager.

"Very good." His fingers, strong and cool as the table itself, closed on my arm. I closed my eyes. There was the quick,

tingling dab of wet cotton — force of habit, or tenderness? Surely the latter - then the stab of the needle. Like a good

patient, I held my arm perfectly still as the metal slid into my flesh. Like a good patient, I began to give of myself.

It wasn't the first time I'd let someone draw blood, of course. I was glad to participate whenever the blood drives came to

my college; I'd long gotten past any latent fears of doctors and needles by then. It seemed preposterous to develop any sort

of personal attachment to my blood, so the issue of perceived "violation" wasn't at all relevant, either. Very simple.

This time, though, I was growing colder and sleepier than ever I'd been before. There was a brief moment when I

thought of my blood, all my blood, draining into sterilized plastic, leaving me stiff and lifeless, and I wanted to panic. But

the lethargy, coupled with discipline, was master here. A simple sleep, ever-so-brief, I sluggishly reminded myself. He is in

control; there won't be any accidents. Relax. And above all, remember — we would never get another chance at a

professional, objective observation of the transition from ghoul to... to Cainite.

And relax I did, and I set myself to remember.

Scientific observation began to fail me, though. I would have been disappointed in myself, but as the drowsiness grew, I

couldn't muster any focused emotion. My heart rate slowed, my pulse beat lethargically. My mind drifted, and I let it.

Intimacies. They came to mind so easily, while I was in this half-conscious state. And in this state, so easy to see them

from outside, to analyze myself objectively. My cravings for an intimate connection to another person were wholly typical

of the norm, I suppose. It's even forgivable to confuse intimacies such as blood relation or sexual intercourse with a

connection between minds, particularly given the influence of hormones or learned patterns. So, ultimately, I could forgive

myself for behaving all too naturally. But when viewed from the outside, with myself as the patient under study, those

longings for connection and desperate attempts to please others — Again, I could forgive myself, and not be embarrassed,

but I was grateful for my expanded perspective.

And perhaps this half-fugue condition made it possible for me to see exactly when the vitae-induced imprinting took

hold. I'd never tried that hard to analyze myself before; amusing that what I'd never looked for came on me intuitively, like a

jigsaw piece clicking into place. Six months after Lee had proposed, and in the middle of the Stauffer project. One month

before joining Dr. Net -church's team permanently. The Sunday morning when I snapped awake and drew away from Lee so

quickly that be woke up confused. The morning of our first real, honest fight.

Two days before I rejected my acquired need for intimacies. Two days before I realized exactly how I was going to

spend the rest of my life.

There's a slight, numb sensation in my arm — surely the catheter sliding free. 1 hear him sigh, the tiny sigh of someone

finally giving into temptation just this once...

And then his teeth enter my arm.

Shuddering weakly against the cold metal table, I fall into the dark.

***

I am not alone.

Emptiness surrounds me, vast and hollow. I feel as though I'm a child in the center of a giant bed, casting about for the

edges, but never reaching them. There's nothing to hold onto, nothing I can catch to pull myself free of this immense

darkness. It's very like a nightmare - I can see nothing, touch nothing, and yet I both hear and feel voices, no more than

distant vibrations. I'm not alone, and yet I can't call out to whoever it is that's surrounding me. I can't hear what they're

saying. I'm not alone, but I'm not with anyone, and it's terrifying.

Somewhere, high above me, there is the smell of blood. Then I go from being tiny and adrift to vast and heavy - I am a

sea of cold waters filling an immense, dark shell. My throat, now a great emptiness all its own, comes aflame.

With a ripping sound that I cannot hear, but rather feel throughout my infinite self, I come alive.

There aren't words.

Why would we use words, anyway? So imperfect - each word good for the microscopic purpose it was intended for, and

nothing more. Trying to capture the feeling of this transition using words is like trying to put an apple in a picture frame.

No poetry, just sensation. An infinite number of colors, all black - the vibrant colors of pain behind closed eyes. A wall

of unseen skin pressing against me — fire burning in the recesses of my brain — heat, darkness and noise.

I swallow, and in that swallow he enters into my soul.

The skin tears. I am through, and one - my mind beats around his, is cradled in his. His mind is cool and hard, like a

jewel. I press my own against it, savor the cool in the wet heat of the darkness. He is silent — but there is no silence for him

to break, had he reason to do so. A susurrus washes around us. It's warm, too — is it the heat I feel? It brings with it a

painful twinge.

And beyond? Others? There is his sire, nestled deep into the fissures of my brain. Perhaps I'm hallucinating it, of course.

However, I'm not in any state to make a proper diagnosis. I know I shouldn't trust my senses — and yet I am my senses.

Although I feel certain I can't literally see anyone, I feel the soft pressure of other people, other thoughts all around, like

breath on my neck.

Something else, back there, too — a shadow shaped like a flame. It hurts to focus on that. I have to withdraw.

It's so warm. The heat is overwhelming, but not stifling — I feel spasms of energy, not the slow crush of suffocation The

beat pulses behind my eyes. Just as I'd known it would be, my body is cool, cool against the metal, but the heat -

A body. I have a body. Shocks of pain impale it. I am immense again, a cold mass stapled to a metal slab. My eyes open,

and I need to scream at the intens ity of the light. My mouth opens silently, and the pain worsens. I feel nothing in my limbs

— only the pain and heat in my head, and the painful emptiness in my torso. I'm a frostbite victim placed next to a fire - the

agony of need, of life, is too great. I try to scream again, but no noise comes.

The strap around my head loosens, and I blindly twist as much as I can. The cries within are deafening. I feel bats' wings

brush against my eyes, and I slam my eyes shut, even though I know it's only stray locks of hair. The straps creak as I thrash

against them, and the sound is like icebergs slamming together. The metal against my flesh is arctic-cold, but no sensation at

all next to the hunger.

He puts my own blood to my lips, and I guzzle as greedily as any newborn. The cacophony fades slightly with each

swallow, and I feel the still-warm fluid seep into my thirsty tissues. Each cell trills as the blood spreads further throughout

me, carrying a painful warmth with it. Finally I'm left sucking greedily at an empty tube, trying to drain the last beautiful

rivulets. Then the tube is removed, and a cloth dabs at my lips. 1 open my eyes and the world explodes into view, cold and

brilliant in a spectrum of whites and metals. The clarity is frightening. He stands over me, and I see the richness of polished

marble and lightless ocean waters layered across him, perfect as a photograph. I want to do something, but I don't know

what. Shouldn't I be gasping for breath? No, no, foolish...

His voice, echoing with the same unearthly clarity. "How are you feeling?"

My body is still cold, but it's a small thing. My mind blazes with heat. My tongue is thick, and my first attempt to fora

words fails - of course, no air in my lungs. Inhale. Then...

"I... I feel... cold." The noises have died, but the heat remains, insistent and rhythmic.

He nods, in that tiny, economical way of his. "Mmm. Mmm-hmm. I'll admit some small worries as to whether or not

you'd come through in a lucid state — so few do — but I knew that you likely bad more than enough strength. If you don't

mind, Doctor, I'd like to keep you restrained for just a little bit more; a formal precaution, you know."

"I understand." A tiny smile slides across my lips - I try to stop it, but it's no good, I feel like I'm drunk - but that's fine.

Best to be drunk when you're with someone you trust, someone who'll never take advantage of you. "I'll be glad to wait as

long as you need."

"Excellent." He stands up. His cool fingers slide across my brow, ordering the errant strands of hair into a regiment. I

wonder what those fingers would taste like. " If you have any requests, an orderly will be in the next room; just raise your

voice. I'll return soon."

And then it's the most wonderful thing. I hear Dr. Netchurch leave the room, the clack of his shoes on the tile, the door

closing and locking afterward - and yet he hasn't left at all. The room is so still that I can make out the faintest whispers of

his voice, blowing like fallen leaves down in the back of my skull. I close my eyes against the fluorescent lights and sink

into the warm blackness; and his voice grows just a little louder. Maybe there are other voices in it. I don't know yet. But I

have time to listen in the darkness, until he comes back and undoes the straps and helps me up and we walk out of the

laboratory into this incredible new existence, this marriage of minds enfolded in the loving cruel heat of our Blood.

Words can't express.

But then again, who needs words?

CHAPTER 1: THE TOWER OF BABEL

Another [arrow] was called Madness, and

as it struck the earth

1 saw each gripped in fever

And those things in their blood

which were darkest

Gained in power a thousand fold

— From the Ericyes Fragments of the Book of Nod

He limped, then lurched, then staggered as if he were drunk. One foot fell in front of the other, dragging Daniel

forward along the long, light-less stretch of asphalt. Once he slid to the side, his feet flying out from under him, and his

shoulder smashed into the guardrail — but he clutched at the cold metal for support, yanked himself upright again, and

began walking once again.

Occasionally a pair of headlights would sway carefully around a bend in the road, pass across Daniel, then speed

rabbit like past him with a shriek of rubber.

The voice continued to batter at him, at the inside of his skull.

Listen.

Daniel dug his fingers into his temples, as if trying to prevent the sound from reaching. But no blood was flowing

under the skin, and there was nothing to cut off. His teeth ground together with the sound of cracking porcelain.

Listen.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets, grinding them there like pestles, but nothing came of it. He

wept blood, and it came away on his hands. Still the pulse of the voice rang in his skull.

Listen.

All that I have wrought, I have wrought for you. You must carry this.

It has taken nights — nights upon nights — for me to sift through the visions, the scrawls, the shrieking. Years.

Decades. More. Thousands of nights to fashion our story into a rigid form. You have one night to listen. You must

listen.

Sobbing tears of blood, Daniel slid down the bank and wrapped his arms around his shins. Quietly and slowly, he

rocked back and forth as the pulsing voice rolled round and round in his head.

Now.

There are 13 families of us, each with its own progenitor.

Of the lot of them, only three define themselves by the blood of their ancestor, even by feeding off the very name of

that vile god. Only three choose to answer not to the direct name of their forefather, nor to use a secret word coined by

an elder to mask their own names. Only three call themselves true children of their divine progenitor. There are

Hassan's childer, who share the disease of their grandfather's blood. There are Set's childer, who share the disease of

their grandfather's faith.

And there are us.

We are a sprawling, fractured, decayed family. We are more ancient than any lineage of kings, yet more inbred than

any withered aristocracy. We are fragmented, scattered, slivers of a broken mirror that cast bitter reflections. We are

children of a mad god. We are Malkavian.

Daniel's eyes snapped open. The shivering stopped. A faint heat, no more than a mirage, circled around the base of

his skull.

You know what we are. You know the words, the keys to power — even though you haven't been taught, you

recognize them. But you do not know why we are what we are, why we have been blasted with the curse of knowing.

You must learn more. A terrible time is forthcoming, when he — the creature and god in your blood, hiding in your

mind — when he will again draw himself together. And you must be ready.

Daniel began to tremble again. Although the unlit road and its surroundings were little more than shifting shades of

darkness, a greater blackness seemed to draw over his vision.

No. Not yet. You cannot know why I chose you yet. You must be ready first.

His fingers dug grooves into the ground.

THE BIRTH OF MADNESS

Our story, of course, begins with Malkav. Yes. That sticks inside your ribcage, catches at your throat, makes your

stilled innards quiver. Malkav. The name of a god made flesh. The name makes you cringe. You and I and all of our

brothers and sisters, even those who haven't been told what the name means — we all share a shudder when his name is

invoked and it is all his doing.

Listen. We rarely invoke the power of Malkav's name; perhaps you know why already. It isn't for us to discuss him

over cocktails as others might speak of Plato or Hitler. What is there for such as us to say? You might as well describe a

hunger pang or a burst of half-remembered lust, because that's what he is. Part of him lives in you, deep back in that

dark partition dividing your brain — that warm, wet throbbing that can't be addressed or reasoned with, only tolerated.

The pulse that echoes with every word I speak, with every burst of imagery that flashes across the veins of our shared

Vampire The Masquerade - Clanbook Malkavian (Revised).pdf

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