75

The moment you understood what you had become, you knew that you would have to make certain sacrifices to maintain your undead existence. The Beast needed to be fed, after all.

But there were limits, and this was yours. You and Julian didn't even need to say anything. You just threw the water back in the Tracker and drove off. You dumped the plastic jugs a few miles up the road.

After a long silence, Julian said, "The thing about our masters is they don't actually have very long memories. All us neonates look sort of alike to them. We'll keep our heads down for a few years. If anyone asks, we'll say we got run off by, I don't know, werewolves or Anarchs or something."

"We still don't have any money," you reminded the Assamite.

"Well, it's going to be a bad fucking couple of years, Fangwild," Julian said.

It wasn't actually that bad for Julian, though. A few months later, Julian got his money, though you never learned how. Something to do with venture capital interested in the software he was developing? Anyway, one night he just disappeared, leaving you with the Geo Tracker, a stack of CDs with file names written on them in blue Sharpie, and instructions to deliver them to an industrial park in Austin. You looked up his new company, 2100X, which was apparently located in Denver. But you could never find an address or a contact number. And that's been your life ever since.

---

The journey to Austin was long and uneventful, the desolate highways stretching out endlessly under the moonlit sky. Fangwild's thoughts were a maelstrom of regret and resentment, punctuated by the constant gnawing of the Beast within him. Julian's abrupt departure had left him with more questions than answers, but Fangwild knew better than to dwell on it. The world of the Kindred was a cruel and unforgiving place, and he had to focus on his own survival.

Arriving in Austin, Fangwild followed Julian's cryptic instructions, navigating the city's industrial outskirts until he found the specified location. The industrial park was a maze of nondescript warehouses and office buildings, each one more anonymous than the last. He approached the designated building, a sense of unease settling over him.

Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit, filled with rows of servers and computer equipment. A lone figure waited for him, a gaunt man with piercing eyes and an air of authority. He introduced himself as Marcus, a Tremere who seemed to know far more about Fangwild's mission than he was comfortable with.

"You're late," Marcus said, his voice cold and precise. "Julian's work is important, and we can't afford any delays."

Fangwild handed over the stack of CDs, his gaze wary. "Julian didn't exactly give me much to go on. What's so important about this software?"

Marcus's lips curved into a thin smile. "2100X is more than just a tech company. It's a front for something far more significant. The data on these discs will help us unlock the secrets of blood magic, a power that could change the balance of power among the Kindred."

Fangwild felt a chill run down his spine. He had heard whispers of blood magic, the dark arts practiced by the Tremere, but he had never imagined he would be so close to it. The thought of being a pawn in their schemes was deeply unsettling.

"And what about Julian?" Fangwild asked. "Where is he now?"

Marcus's smile faded. "Julian's whereabouts are not your concern. He has his own path to follow, just as you have yours. Your task is complete. Leave now, and forget this ever happened."

Fangwild didn't need to be told twice. He turned and walked away, the weight of Marcus's words heavy on his shoulders. As he drove away from the industrial park, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just been part of something far larger and more dangerous than he could comprehend.

The following years were a blur of survival and secrecy. Fangwild kept his head down, avoiding the attention of the Camarilla and the other factions vying for power. The Geo Tracker became both a refuge and a prison, carrying him from one desolate town to the next as he sought to stay one step ahead of his enemies.

Through it all, the memory of Brujah lingered in his mind. The betrayal that had driven a wedge between them was a wound that refused to heal. Fangwild wondered if his brother was still alive, if he had managed to survive the werewolf ambush. The guilt and regret gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the choices he had made.

One night, as he drove through the desert, a flicker of hope sparked within him. Perhaps there was a way to find redemption, to make amends for the past. The road ahead was uncertain, but Fangwild was determined to keep moving forward. The night belonged to the Kindred, and he would reclaim his place in it, one step at a time.

You can move your hands now. You push the top of the freezer open, haul yourself out, and drop silently to the ground. Your Hunger is an ache in the back of your gums that leads right up behind your eyes, threatening to turn into a migraine. You can hold off the Beast a few more nights like this, but you'll need to feed soon.

You wander past dusty and empty shelves and glance outside through gaps in the boarded-up windows. You can't see that strange eagle, but you still smell blood. It's faded, but impossible to ignore. Movement catches your eye, but it's just your reflection in the broken glass of an empty display case. You stare into the eyes of a haunted-looking, eternally young vampire.

Fangwild's face is drawn, shadows accentuating the hollows under his eyes. His lips part slightly, revealing the hint of fangs. His existence is a paradox: eternally youthful, yet burdened with centuries of regret and pain. He turns away from the reflection, focusing on the task at hand.

The scent of blood is faint, but it pulls him deeper into the abandoned building. He moves silently, his senses on high alert. The blood's source is elusive, leading him in circles through the deserted structure. Finally, he reaches a room at the back, the door slightly ajar. He pushes it open cautiously.

Inside, he finds a makeshift clinic, remnants of old medical supplies scattered about. The blood scent is stronger here, mingled with the antiseptic tang of alcohol and decaying bandages. On an old metal table, he sees the source: a pool of dried blood, long since coagulated.

Fangwild frowns, his hunger intensifying at the sight and smell. He forces himself to focus. Someone had been here, recently enough for the blood to still be detectable. But who? And why?

A noise from outside snaps him out of his thoughts. He moves quickly to the window, peering through a gap in the boards. There, in the growing darkness, he sees a figure moving cautiously towards the building. The figure is cloaked, their face hidden in the shadows.

Fangwild's instincts kick in. He retreats from the window, positioning himself in the shadows near the door. The figure enters the building, their footsteps soft but purposeful. As they step into the room, Fangwild lunges, pinning them against the wall.

"Who are you?" he hisses, his fangs bared. "And why are you here?"

The figure struggles briefly before pulling back their hood, revealing a young woman with sharp, calculating eyes. "My name is Alara," she says, her voice steady despite the situation. "I've been looking for you, Fangwild."

Fangwild tightens his grip. "How do you know my name?"

"I have information about your brother," Alara replies, her eyes locking onto his. "About Brujah."

The mention of Brujah's name sends a jolt through Fangwild. He releases Alara, stepping back warily. "Speak."

Alara straightens, rubbing her wrists where his grip had been. "Brujah is alive. He's been gathering forces, preparing for a confrontation with the werewolves. He needs your help."

Fangwild's mind races. The last he had seen Brujah, he had betrayed him to the werewolves, an act that had haunted him ever since. The thought of his brother alive, and potentially willing to forgive him, is almost too much to process.

"Where is he?" Fangwild asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Alara smiles faintly. "Not far. He sent me to find you, to bring you to him. But we must hurry. The werewolves are on the move, and time is running out."

Fangwild nods, his resolve hardening. This is his chance at redemption, his opportunity to set things right. He gestures for Alara to lead the way, his hunger momentarily forgotten in the face of the mission ahead.

As they step out into the night, the scent of blood still lingers in the air, a reminder of the constant battle against the Beast within. But for the first time in a long while, Fangwild feels a spark of hope. He will find his brother, and together they will face whatever comes next.

The night belongs to the Kindred, and Fangwild is ready to reclaim his place in it, one battle at a time.