[Official NPC]

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know they're there, those out of the way places were cockroaches and murderers gather. They are nowhere and everywhere. Only the paranoid can truly appreciate the magnitude of their nonentity.

As long as you don't pay attention, you're safe. Your subconscious knows this. So you don't look, you don't see. To see is to enter a whole new world, one that you can never escape.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He never had the chance not to see. Born in the black and reaped like wheat, he was destined to serve. Look who was serving who now, mm?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Ugh. The leaky pipes jutting out of the walls got louder every time.

"You promised me results."

He'd take the sound of the pipes dripping over the fool's grim smile. Was he trying to look intimidating? Dull blue eyes stared into dismal gray. He enjoyed the feel of his long incisors against his lips when he parted the latter to laugh hollowly. "You're getting them."

That raise of an eyebrow screamed volumes. He relished it. Getting under that man's skin took talent. Luckily, he had plenty.

"You wanted chaos. You've got it. There's been picketing and fights among the population. The marshal has cut off all support for Bailey and her lackeys. Oh, and let's not forget that there have been two near riots already. It's only a matter of time until the tension explodes into violence."

"It's been five months, twelve days, and six hours since the death of Layla Oisín."

He glowered. It never failed to annoy him when his employer poked at him with sharpened little facts. "Your point?"

"The riots should have begun already. You're behind schedule."

Always the same thing. Stick to the schedule. Keep up communication. Blah, blah, blah. Like he didn't know all that, already?

"Actually, you'll find that my timing is perfect."

"I heartily disagree. Thomas. Jonathan. Come and get this waste of xanthai out of my office."

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

"... Thomas? Jonathan? Where-Gggaaaghk ..."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Damn pipes," the dark haired vampire muttered, not paying much attention to the still warm corpse slumped over a rickety desk. Cause of death, should the body even be found, was a combination of red blood cell loss and an elegant dagger sticking out of the victim's eye socket.

"I need to get me a better office. This is pathetic."

Pivoting on a heel, the blue eyed vampire left the underground compound, but not in the direction he came. He'd just killed Sirius Stradivarius, a master vampire of mellow manner and dark intent, with a weapon beloved of one of his own underlings. More importantly, he'd done so after garnering the pledges of all of Sirius's supporters for himself. Sirius had outlived his usefulness, and the time for subtlety was near its end.

"Let's light some fires," he decided on his way out, "And keep them burning."