by Timothy Toner
Just another idea from the Thanatonic Sluice. This answers that immortal question: so what job would be LEAST disrupted by the Embrace. I think I've found it. Besides, when's the last time you got a REAL good look at that cabbie...
Name: Curtis Jenkins Nature: Jobsworthy Generation: 11 Player: Demeanor: Curmudgeon Haven: A cab Chronicle: Chicago Clan: Nosferatu Concept: Cabbie Attributes Str: OOOoo Cha: OOOoo Per: OOOOo Dex: OOOoo Man: Ooooo Int: OOooo Sta: OOOOo App: ooooo Wit: OOooo
Talents: Alertness:2 Brawl: 3 Dodge: 1 Streetwise: 3
Skills: Drive: 5 Firearms: 2 Repair: 3 Survival: 3
Knowledges: Area Knowledge: 3 City Secrets: 2
Disciplines: Obfuscate: 3 Potence: 2
Background: Generation: 1 Resources: 1 Contacts: 3
Virtues: Con: 3 Self-C: 4 Courage: 4
Merits: Crack Driver, Reputation
Flaws: Curse, Vengeance
Apparent Age: 56
Description: 5"10', 250 lbs, bald, with piercing black eyes.
You're a cabbie, a hack. You're good, mabe the best in town. Maybe that's what attracted him to you.
It was in the summer. Christ, summers are ALWAYS crazy in Chicago. Anyway, cabbie's were catching lead in the face right and left. But you were riding your cab for over 20 years, and no two bit hood was going to scare you off the streets.
Was it any surprise then that he came for you, one soft night? You drove him to his destination, a bongalow in Hyde Park, and he passed you a hundred. You told him you couldn't make change. He told you, "That's all right. I can." And he broke through the partition like it was nothing.
You died, victim number 8.
And you lived. You recognized Leon, a bum you drove home some nights standing over you, blood on his lips. He smiled, and told you that you were too noble a soul to die, or some other shit.
He told you what you were, and it didn't scare you at all. In fact, it kinda didn't affect you at all. You did the night shift for the Company, and who ever looked at a cabbie before. The anonymity of a working stiff was all the Masquerade you ever needed.
One evening, after hauling your butt out of bed, you notinced one of those cellular phones in your cab, and a note saying that you no longer needed to report to the garage. Laughing, you set out, business as usual. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
You found yourself catering to a different clientel...those more like you: vampires. One of those art types called you a Neo- Charon, ferrying the dead of Chicago, or some other shit. Still you know your job, and you do it.
However, the change Leon bestowed upon you had a down side. You remember him, the bastard who made you number eight. You feel him, calling out. Leon called you "Caine's Fury," whatever that meant. All you know is, one of these days, you and him are going to meet up, and it'll be YOU drinking HIM dry...
It's weird, though. You did meet him once, about three months after the Change. You went after him. He cast some mumbo jumbo, so's that you HAVE to lie. And you can't talk about him, or about you becoming a vampire. Ever. Your voice feels like it weighs a few tons, and can't even make it past your lips. But you know that others want him to fall. You've put out a few feelers (written, of course), and you're waiting for a word. And then heads will roll.