A man in biker clothes crouches in the bushes near a mostly abandoned house, nerves racing and eyes darting all over the dark horizon. He mimed wiping sweat off his thinned black hairline, although he lost the ability to sweat decades ago, and anxiously scratched at his close-shaved beard.

Don Phillips wasn't the bravest Kindred around. He wasn't a slouch by any means, but he would rather avoid conflict, especially when punching up. But sometimes the lingering convictions he still held himself to would get the better of his sense, just like this night.

Within that abandoned house, there were two terrified teenagers. They were Thinbloods, unfortunate vampires too low on the blood chain to be like the rest of them, and something that terrified a lot of the dumbasses in power. These two in particular had barely been Kindred for a month and had already gotten the attention of a Scourge, a Camarilla stooge who was about to execute them for the crime of being unlucky.

Don wasn't the bravest Kindred around, but when he picked up a tip like that, he wasn't the type of person to sit on his hands.

The hard part was the damn waiting. It had already passed midnight, and there was nothing in the area, just barely off of the highway beyond Fife. But he knew it was coming, if a scourge was making enough moves to get noticed, they weren't half-assing it. 

He wasn't sure whether to expect a mass of shadows to appear out of nowhere, or for the front door to mysteriously open on its own or if there'd just be brute force at play. But he definitely wasn't expecting to hear the sound of a gun cock behind him.

"So, whatcha doin' out here pal?" And he definitely wasn't expecting to make conversation.

Turning around, he saw a very tall and averagely thin woman wearing rugged jeans and a brown fur-lined jacket, with long red hair and emerald eyes barely peeking from under stylish shades, and a shotgun not aimed towards him, but absolutely at the ready.

"And before you feed me any cover story nonsense, I can smell your blood-sucking ass a mile away." She added on, a toothy grin gleaming in the moonlight.

Of all the nights he had to run into a fucking werewolf, why'd it have to be this one?

"Might be hard to believe, but I'm trying to stop a murder." Don answered, his natural gruff tones choking out his nerves.

The woman in front of him gave a gesture saying 'Go on'. 

"There's a pair of kids in that house, they're vampires like me, but got the short end of the stick, and now someone's out for their head, and I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen."

"And why do you care, big guy?" She asked, eyes analytical and sharp.

"Never liked the idea of people getting the axe before they have a chance. Especially when it comes down to superstition or something crazy like that." 

The woman looked him over for a few seconds which felt like an eternity, before beginning an interrogation. "Have they fucked up at all yet?"

"Not that I've heard. They're thinbloods, doubt that means shit to you, but they don't always work like the rest of us, so the inherent 'badness' ain't a guarantee."

"Is that what's got them on the chopping block? The thin blood shit?"

Don nods in response.

"Who's after them?"

"Guh, there's some shit to explain. Um, essentially a black-ops assassin from one of our...political parties? Groups? Whatever, a bunch of controlling assholes who really want them dead."

"Hmm...another one of you?"

"I mean, I'm not in the same group, but yeah, another vampire."

The woman looked him over for a minute that felt like an hour, then cracked her smile wider.

"Congrats, you're going from bloodsucker to bait tonight." She chuckled and held out her hand to Don.

"Pardon?" Don asked, confused and slightly offended.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I could maul you and whatever vamp is coming this way in the time it'd take me to smoke. But, upfront and personal ain't my style. So, you'll be the bait, I'll help you out, and so long as you don't do anything stupid we both go home happy. What do ya say?"

Don still wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't about to trust a werewolf this soon, but it was quite the advantage. He had planned on just stalling the scourge long enough for the kids to get away, he was only a knife in a veritable gunfight. This was someone handing him a bomb. Whether or not it'd blow up on him too, it'd clear the field.

He took her hand, with the two engaging in a bit of a grip strength contest as she pulled Don up from his crouched, stealthy position.

"Crimson McNabb. You?"

"Don Phillips. Not gonna lie, less furry than I expected."

She snickered. "Shows what you know, we aren't always beasted up, we shift."

"Wait, if you were hunting for me, why not be shifted already?"

"Makes it harder to use this, for one," she began, tapping the barrel of the shotgun against her shoulder. "And it's harder to ride my motorcycle."

"Oh shit you ride? What kinda wheels do you have?" Don asked, a light of excitement growing in his eyes.

"Ah just a Hesketh V1000. I've wanted more, but it was a hand-me-down from an uncle."

"That's sick, I got a Speed Trip-" he began, before getting shushed. The Motorhead conversation would have to wait.

Crimson smelled a pungent scent in the air, far worse than any Don or the Thinbloods gave off. Kindred smelled of wanton destruction, mixed with the taint of a soul's corruption. This was that doubled, with a more corruptive, rotting, disgusting punch to it. And it was getting closer.

"It's show time, bait."

A black car drove up to the house, with its headlights off. From the driver's seat came a tall, broad man, almost a stereotypical musclehead minion, with a long trenchcoat hiding his frame.

Don waited back in the bushes, knowing he'd be able to close the distance to the door. Crimson had made her way to the back of the house, waiting for any secret minions to get the drop on them. It's how she'd fight, after all. The Thinbloods were still waiting inside, having gotten a text earlier that evening that someone would help them get away, but still scared and uncertain.

No one was expecting a voice to come from the roof.

"Oye! Walking corpse!" 

The young voice belonged to a bronze-skinned woman, with curly mahogany hair and bioluminescently glowing hazel eyes, wearing a bright turquoise shirt and black hoodie with worn jeans.

"You're on reservation land, cabrón. Even in the night, your kind has no jurisdiction here. Take one step closer, and I'll exercise mine."

"How many people are gonna show up!?" Don shouted internally, especially since the woman seemed to be a garden-variety human, save for the fact no one had spotted her.

Crimson merely chuckled and shook her head, before hearing a rustling towards the side of the house as another putrid stench hit her nose. With an ephemeral shimmer, all traces of her presence vanish.

The scourge, for his part, doesn't say a word or even emote. He merely steps forward, reaching for his modified gun.

"It's your funeral," she says, as bioluminescent lines appear on her right hand. "And Roxana Reyes shall be your undertaker!" She points down, and the scourge finds himself unable to draw his pistol.

This is followed by enough weight coming down on him to push his feet an inch into the dirt, as immense pressure builds on his back.

"You've got a lot of ghosts at your back, cabrón. You must've killed so easily, but now you'll feel the weight of their lives!" The pressure increased, but the scourge was beginning to muscle through it, long-dead veins bulging from the force, Vitae pounding hard.

Don begins to wonder if he and Crimson will even have to do anything, but then he sees the gun still being drawn and knows he'll have to act.

Crimson makes her way around the side of the house, undetected, and sees a slowly moving figure in the dark. It is how she'd attack, after all.

The figure in the dark goes to enter the house through a window, and the shotgun is drawn.

"Howdy, pal!"

The shotgun fires, the pistol is drawn, and Don lunges forward at the scourge. He cannot fire off a shot at Roxana before Don's leap sends him like a bullet toward his head, a Vitae-enhanced fist knocking the thug a solid three feet flying to the side.

"End of the line, jackass!" Don declared as the Scourge picked himself back up.

"Oye! Get out of the way, vampire! This is between me and that clown!" Roxana shouted from the roof.

"Back off kid! I was here first and you're out of your league! Just leave the vampire to the vampire."

"Vampire? That tombstone-headed jackass ain't a vampire!" She said incredulously. 

"How the fuck can you tell?" Don returned, even more incredulously.

"I deal in spirits, pendejo! You lot at least got a different signal, he's got nothin'!" She explained as a flock of spectral hawks began to form around her.

Don was confused by this but began to steel himself as the scourge stood to face him down once more. Then, the sound of the shotgun echoes once more, and Crimson leaps back from the side of the house into the main area, reloading. 

With a third shot, she jumps to a point where she's back-to-back with Don. "Hey, so, weird question, you guys can regenerate right?"

"What? I mean, like, slowly? Why?" He questioned, as he saw a shambling form come from the side of the house.

"Okay cause he ain't, but he's still movin' around!" Crimson said, sounding almost exhilarated, as the shambling body stepped into the porch light, showing its lack of an upper skull or chest region, riddled with holes from the shotgun shell, but moving forward nonetheless.

From the darkness and woods around the house, more and more suited shambling bodies began to gather around the house, with the scourge at the epicenter. Roxana jumps down to get on level with the others, drawing two small knives from her pockets. 

"So, vampire and werewolf teaming up? You guys know how to deal with them best?"

"I think it's still related to vampires," Don began. "When I heard about the scourge, I thought it was going to be Seattle's, but Bremerton is Camarilla too, and they're run by the goddamn Hecata."

"Gods above, it's a freakin' infestation," Crimson muttered, rolling her eyes. "Mind explaining the vocabulary?" She said, wiping drool from her mouth.

"They're a clan of necromancers! Their zombies are annoying as hell, but they aren't exactly miracles. Hit them hard enough or in the right spot, and they're down for keeps." Don explained, letting the vitae rush through his system.

"That's the plan then? Hit 'em hard and fast?" Roxana asked, taking a low crouch.

"I'll handle the scourge, he's gotta have some kind of authority. You two focus on the zombies for now." Don said.

"Don't hog all the fun now." Crimson chided, reloading the spent shot.