As soon as the sun sets and night falls, Harry pulls the car around to the back of the club.  He and Deirdre head down the back ramp, and he unlocks the back door.  The back storage room is untouched, and so he is completely unaware of the destruction awaiting him as he opens the door to the main room.

Harry’s jaw drops and he stares.  “What the…”  His eyes scan the bar and the utter destruction:  the smashed liquor bottles, the ruined tables, the obscene graffiti, the shattered lights above the stage dangling like dead spiders.  He only stands, the keys held limply in his hand.

Deirdre walks up behind him, and her hand covers her mouth in a gasp.  She recovers before he does, and steps out into the bar.  She walks along the floor like a refugee child wandering a battlefield, green eyes staring over the ruins of the bar.  The place is completely smashed and ransacked, not an inch left untouched.  Her mind shudders in blank disbelief at the scene.  No, no this can’t be.  Not this place.  Not this place of all things.  Her one final haven, the last home she has.  She’d fled halfway across the world, an exile from her own homeland, and had finally found a place where somehow, marginally, she belonged.  And now, like that axe coming down on her brother’s neck, it’s been severed away from her.

Harry still stands stunned by the entire thing.  This place has been like a child to him for close to twenty years.  He gave birth to it, nurtured it in its hard infancy, and has watched it stagger and wobble to maturity.  He’s seen his fair share of minor break-ins, hell he even had to shoot one kid in the arm when he busted in after hours.  But nothing like this.  This wasn’t just a break-in, this was something altogether more violent and personal.  “Who the fuck…” he hisses incredulously.

Deirdre breaks out of her fugue.  She grits her teeth, and her green eyes narrow.  Rage suddenly comes bubbling to the surface, roiling and cresting through her veins.  Her fingers ball up into tight fists, black fingernails digging into her unliving white flesh.  She throws back her head and screams, a loud, wild, inhuman shriek that echoes through the basement club, reverberating off the walls in waves of anger, despair, and agony.  And then Deirdre picks up a shattered piece of a table and hurls it against the wall, roaring and screaming wildly.  She picks up what remains of a barstool and breaks it against the floor, flinging away the wooden splinters.  Her green eyes glow with preternatural light, and her inch-long fangs are bared.  She storms over to the stage, grabbing what is left of a speaker hanging precariously from the wall, and tears it from its mooring.  It hits the floor with a crash.  Grabbing the edge of it, she flips it over again and hurls it onto the stage, sending it skidding until it thuds against the back wall.

Harry jumps at the sound of Deirdre’s screech, snapping out of his own daze.  The sound frightens him to the very core, and in that moment he sees the creature that Deirdre truly is:  something not human, but a savage thing filled with monstrous blood, and harboring strength and power beyond any human.  He takes a step back, unsure of this thing that stands in the guise of the young girl.  He watches her rage across the bar, her own rampage mattering little to the debris already scattered about the place.  As she throws the speaker, he almost begs mercy of the thing that should happen to cross her path.  But then he looks at his beloved nightclub, and assures himself that it’s only what they deserve.

She continues her rampage for another several minutes, flinging broken chair legs and shattered liquor bottles.  She pounds her fist into the wall ineffectually, tearing at the spray-paint covered posters plastered on the wall.

Finally Deirdre stands seething for a few more moments, blood throbbing in her veins, making her feel hot and flush.  And then it subsides, the rage bubbling away slowly, the blood cooling and settling.  She stands amidst the ruins, panting, chest heaving, though more out of some sympathetic correlation with human action than with any need to catch her nonexistent breath.  “I have a very good idea who did this,” she says once she has finally contained herself sufficiently.  But that is all she will say on the matter.

She turns back around to Harry.  The glow has left her eyes, though not the fiery passion that hints at the anger still left inside her.  Her face is set in a grim determination that Harry has never seen on the normally placid, apathetic girl.  “You remember that journalist friend of yours you were telling me about?  Call him.  Now.  Get him down here.”  

--Last edited by Tara532 on 2008-06-06 14:41:07 --

Harry blinks.  He opens his mouth to protest…what about calling the cops?  But after just seeing Deirdre’s rampage he does what she says.  

Harry pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials the number.  It rings a few times before a tired-sounding voice answers.  “Hey, Jim,” Harry says rather weakly.  He clears his throat.  “Jim, yeah, it’s Harry.  Listen, somethin’s happened at my club.  You better get over here.  Yeah, bring your notebook.  Ok, see you in a few.”

Harry hangs up and looks over at Deirdre.  “What’s going on?  What’s your plan?”

Deidre stares forlornly at the floor.  “That bastard,” she growls.  “That fucking, shitfaced, cowardly bastard.”  She is still squeezing her fists, and looks down when she realizes her nails have broken the skin and thin red slits of blood are welling up.

“Make sure the door is closed,” she says.  She knows the bar still won’t open for another few hours, not till ten.  

“That fucking bastard thinks he can intimidate me.  Thinks he can push me around, bully me.”  She is talking to herself, Harry staring at her still rather fearfully.  “After tonight:  no.  No.  Not at all.  This is it.  God damn it, I will show him.  I will show him that I am not some dog, some bitch he can so easily put to heel…”

Harry does as Deirdre says, and secures the door as best he can.  He hangs around the entrance, and a few minutes later a beige Chevy Impala pulls up outside.  A tallish man in a tan duster coat, much the color of his car, steps out.  His features are a few years younger than Harry’s, with brown hair swept back, and a stubbly growth of beard.  If anything, he looks like an old-time gumshoe out of some Raymond Chandler novel.  As he walks up to the club, Harry steps out from the ruined door.  The man smiles.

“Harry, good to see you.  It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, has.  Sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances.  You’d better come downstairs.”

The man nods, face suddenly growing serious.  He follows Harry down the steps.  “Jesus,” he whispers.  “Did someone put Hurricane Katrina in here?”  He surveys the damage himself, and the petite, black-clad girl standing in the middle of it.

“Someone broke in,” Harry says.  “Did a hell of a job on the place.  It wasn’t just a robbery, that’s obvious.  This was something else.”

“I can see,” the man says as he steps forward and begins walking the perimeter.  He looks up and gives the girl a curious glance.

“This is Deirdre,” Harry says.  “She’s something of my co-manager.”

He nods to the young girl.  “I’m Jim. Harry and I go back awhile.  So what all did they take?”

“Actually, nothing, far as I can tell.  The back room’s still locked up.  That’s where I put all the money at the end of the night, so they didn’t make off with any of that.  They trashed tables, stools, the shelves, smashed the liquor.  All of that can be replaced; hell I’ve got the majority of the liquor cabinet in the back too.  The sound equipment’s expensive, but again, I have more in the back, and this stuff is insured.  The graffiti’s going to be a bitch…but it’s just paint.”  Harry sighs.  “Honestly, now that I think of it, it isn’t that bad.  Just cosmetic shit, really.”

“Did you call the police yet?” Jim asks.

Harry gives Deirdre a look.  “No, not yet.”

Jim pulls a small steno pad and a pencil from his pocket and begins scribbling.  He points the pencil at the bar and the load of festering shit sitting there.  “Looks like someone left evidence.  Hopefully the cops can pick DNA up off it or something.  If any of the hooligans who did this had any priors, they’d come right up.”

Harry can’t help but let out a wry laugh.  “I ‘spose so.”  He looks up at Deirdre.  “What’s next?”

“We’re going up top, and we’re waiting for the patrons to start arriving.  And then I’m going to say a little something.”  She nods to Jim.  “And I want him to record it all.  Call the police midway through, so they can get an eyeful themselves.  I’m done standing still.”

Deirdre shoulders past Harry and Jim, moving her way up to the stairs and out onto the street.  Harry follows, and Jim comes shortly after.  The trio stand around the front entrance of the club, Jim hanging at the back and scribbling in his steno pad.  One by one, a few of the club patrons show up.  At first it’s just the real die-hards, the ones who are the first in and the last out.  As they walk up, Harry tells them to hang around, that’s something’s happened downstairs.  One or two people hang around five minutes and leave, but the majority stays around.  Gradually, a crowd gathers:  by ones and twos, but the larger the group grows, the more it further attracts.

Deirdre flushes the blood through her veins, forcing herself to breathe and for a pale blush to spread across her cheeks, giving her all the appearances of humanity.  She steps forward to the curb and spreads her arms.  From deep inside herself, she pulls on the eldritch power her sire had once taught her to use, and which she has seldom tapped up to this point.  Radiating pulses of attraction and magnetism flow from her, throbbing in unseen waves on the minds of the crowd, like breakers on the shore, tugging and pulling the grains of sand forward. The gathered throng calms down and turns to regard her.

“Brothers, sisters, and friends,” she begins.  “Tonight, misfortune has befallen our small community.  Someone has attempted to send us a message – a message of hate, destruction, and fear.  Our beloved bar, nightclub, and haven has been ransacked and vandalized.  The perpetrator or perpetrators smashed tables and stools, destroyed sound equipment, desecrated the bar, and scrawled graffiti all over the walls.  To add insult to injury, they defecated on the bar.  Their actions are savage, underhanded, and ultimately cowardly.  They are fools and idiots to think us cowed and intimidated by such childish and vulgar antics.  Since our culture emerged in the seventies and eighties we have been nothing if not resilient, fearless, and determined.  We have weathered trial and hardship, as individuals and as a community.”  By this point Harry has called the police, reporting the vandalism.  As the squad cars pull up, they find Deirdre in the middle of her speech, her voice rising up in a crescendo of galvanized passion.    “And now these cowards have attempted to strike at the heart of that community.  I’m afraid they’ll find their attempt in vain.  This place has been more than a nightclub to you all, more than just a bar.  I know for myself it has been a place of employment, a place of safety and solidarity, a belonging.  It has been a stage for the practice of my art, for the expression of my very soul.  And I know it has been such things to you all – home, family, safehouse.  It has been your safeguard, your haven when all else have shunned you and turned you back.  It has been the place, night after night, where the music sings to your being, whispering sweet words of communion:  Community.  Union.  This place, and the man who has made it what it is, Harry Morris, have given and given and given to you – gladly and joyously.  And now, Harry and Thorns itself needs you, and your help.”

As the police step out of their cars they stand there perplexedly.  Harry breaks away from the crowd and walks over to them, explaining the circumstances.  He puts them at ease that Deirdre is only trying to explain the situation to the crowd of clubgoers, and has no violent ends in mind…at least, so he hopes.

“The damage is hard, and it hits to the heart,” Deirdre continues.  “But we are strong.  Thorns is not a collection of tables and chairs, a few shelves of liquor bottles, a stage with speakers.  Thorns is ultimately the hearts and minds and spirits of its friends and family – you!  All of you!  This building, which has been trashed and vandalized, is only the temporal home of the community which is a part of your very being.  And so no matter what they can do, they can only scar that outer façade.  And so I ask you now, as Harry and his beloved bar have given to you, have opened up their arms, I ask you to open up your arms as well.  Whatever you can do, whatever is in your heart to do:  do it!  Whatever you have to give and can afford to give:  give it!  We are not asking much, but think long and hard of what Thorns has been given to you.  With your help and your love, Thorns will rise once again, more beautiful and more glorious than ever before!”

And with that, Deirdre steps down.  The police move forward and begin questioning Harry, looking at the strange mix of freaks, geeks, and misanthropes gathered.  Deirdre turns to Jim.  “I’m guessing you want a personal interview?”  She hangs around the outside of the nightclub, answering the questions of police, patrons, and Jim’s own investigative inquiries.  She can’t quite believe she’d just done that.  Performing on stage was one thing – with throbbing music backing you, lending its support to bolster you.  And that was after long hours of practice besides.  This…this was something completely spontaneous and completely different.  She can’t help but wryly smirk inside.  Cayden would probably be proud of her; this was more like his style of things than hers.  That speech was as much about galvanizing and invigorating the mass of goths, punks, and misfits as it was about sending a message to the Kindred of the city.  Enough was enough, she was through being stepped on.  They would not keep her down.

2008-06-05 23:21:36Deirdre rolls 7 dice to Presence (Awe) (Diff 7, used willpower) 2,6,9,10,3, 8,6 (4 successes)

((I’ll leave it up to RJ to fill in the crowd’s reaction for me…if RedShirt Army wants to throw in a few more things too, like particular crowdmembers’ actions, go ahead))

Deirdres speech was very moving. Her vampiric charisma very effective. If she had fans before, now she has fanatics... 20 men and women from the crowd are hanging from her every word, ready to smash and burn at her order, or help rebuild with all the strength they can muster.

As the crowd gathers around Deirdre she fields their questions about the vandalism and their plans for rebuilding.  "It's mostly just cosmetic damage...most of the real expensive stuff was insured, and they didn't get to the liquor storage.  But we need all the help you can give.  Even if it's just a few dollars...anything you can donate, or time you can give."

There's an odd feeling swelling inside her, a feeling she hasn't had often before:  pride and accomplishment.  Nothing at all like the feelings of performing.  No matter how well she'd ever done, she had never felt any sense of pride from that.  Now she feels like she's actually done something, made something happen.  It's rather an invigorating feeling.  Even now her mind is racing with the excitement of it, pulling together more and more of what was only a half-formed idea moments ago.

She grabs Jim's steno pad, despite the reporter's protests.  "Listen," she shouts over the crowd.  "Write down your names, e-mails, or whatever other contact information, and you can be part of the new Project Thorns.  In the next few days we'll be organizing repair efforts, and a benefit concert to raise money for the refurbishment of the club.  We'll keep you all informed, and give you a vanguard role in putting together the new club."  Before she can even finish, the notebook and pencil are grabbed from her hands, and begins circulating through the crowd, the enraptured patrons clamoring to sign their names to the list and become part of the rebirth of their beloved bar.  

--Last edited by Tara532 on 2008-06-06 20:20:36 --

As Deirdre speaks of "Project Thorns" and benefit concerts, Harry's head shoots around and his eyebrows arch in a curious look.  What in the name of God is that girl up to?  He's never seen her like this before, something is new about her.  It's like she's only just come to life, waking up from a lifelong torpor.  Harry could only focus on the waste and destruction in his beloved bar, but now she is turning the situation into a veritable renaissance, as if the vandalism was the best thing that could happen to the shabby little establishment.  Vampire or not, right now he can only think of this girl as a miracle.

Randal and David approach Harry and Deirdre with a note pad.

"A moment of your time please, we have a couple of questions we would like to ask you," David asks them cool and calm.

"Certainly officers," Harry says.  "Ask away.  We're all eager to get to the bottom of this whole mess."

David starts to write on his pad.

"First, where were the two of you when this happened?"

"Well, we were at my place.  The bar is pretty much closed up and untouched during the day, until I come in around eight or so to open it and get it ready for the night."

Walking around checking the place out, Randal does what he can to asses the bar's damage.

2008-06-09 14:57:02 Randal rolls 4 dice to investigates 1,6,1,9 (failure)

David jots down some notes from what Harry says to him, studying his face as well as Deirdre speaking to her fans.

"Is there anyone that you know of who would do this?"

Harry shrugs.  "It's a bad neighborhood, I'll be honest.  I've had a few break-ins once or twice, but mostly looking to knock over the cash register.  Nothing like this.  This seems like something personal.  I don't know.  I don't have any real enemies per se."  He looks over at Deirdre, trying to figure out how to word this.  "I know she's had a rough life, maybe it's someone jealous of her growing popularity."