Part 1

There are men like them everywhere. Some call them fanatics, idealists, visionaries. Individuals who serve the system because they realise that perhaps the system is the best there can be hoped for. Or perhaps because they have a wish to change the system. Those who serve a higher purpose, who perhaps see the world in a different light from others. Perhaps more long sighted, more self serving. Perhaps even martyrs in the end. They serve in different roles throughout the world, different professions, different organisations. The crusading lawyer, the doctor that actually cares, the soldier that serves his country out of duty, the policeman that serves because of justice. A judge that is willing to look beyond the cases before him, to step aside from other rulings and to set right what is wrong. Men like these are few and far between, but certain professions call to them, call to a part of them that they serve without knowing.

Some write it down, some follow what they call a code of honour. But most don't, for what they serve is not a piece of paper, not a law. They enforce policy, they enforce what they see as justice and morality. In the end, they follow what they see within themselves. Most live much the same lives, alone and embittered, fighting a war that they can't win, trying to break some form of justice to a world of darkness. Few have marriages, at least marriages that are happy - even fewer have children. Driven by inner demons, it's hard for them to keep a life at home. Harder even for wives to understand that whilst they might love them as much as any other husband; perhaps even more, what they see... what they serve is perhaps greater in their eyes. A justice so that their children may grow, may live in peace, in a better world. But it's hard for others to understand that, to see the demons that hold them. A curse and a blessing all in one, perhaps more powerful than anything either could ever hope to understand. Like calls to like. When we are driven into the darkness, in the unknown, when a man is caught in the middle of a cars headlights he turns to the left or right counting on which hand he uses more. We turn to those things that we know, that are instinctual. And perhaps that is why Johnathan finds himself here, seated at a bar waiting for another to appear. But never one to act for one reason, never for a single cause. Nay, there is another here, one that is simpler. Men like these can't be bribed, can't be bought, can't be blackmailed or threatened. In many ways, they are incorruptible, but all men have their price. Their price is just one that most vampires, most elders could never pay.

The cup he holds is half gone, swiped from an empty table as he enterred. No need to purchase a drink that will never be drunk, not here. And so he waits, for the man to enter, to speak with him. At last he does so, perhaps in his late 40's, short and frumpy. A cigarette sticks out from his lips, a cough of a chain smoker accompanying it. Tired, drawn. Another long night at a desk that will not be logged in for to do so would cause even more problems with the bureaucracy. And so he works, for free in effect. And to the end the night, a ritual nearly 20 years long. A last night drink in this bar, alone. Rituals, a comfort in our life, something that drives our own lives on, that reminds us that no matter how bad things can get, at least some things stay the same. Johnathan knows of rituals, he remembers a few that he used to have himself, some that he has not broken, others that have been submerged. Others that he would never break... the Bard for one. Silently he watches, the man taking a seat at his own table with his beer, to mull over his next case perhaps. Or perhaps an old one.

"Would you care for some company?" Perhaps not as broad as it could be, would be in other presences, the accent. But it is there, a pervasive element within the mans' voice. Could he change it if he wished? Perhaps. But he does not, instead lying upon it like snow on a January day.

A startled glance, a blink and then at last a nod. It's not often that company comes calling, and perhaps he senses it. Feels it. Something more in the simple request. Perhaps all that will be said is already known, felt.

"Very late to end up working till."

"Yes." He falls silent, looking at his own pint glass as he hears the man sit down. The man, the detective says nothing for a long time before he looks up, looking into Johnathans eyes, meeting their gaze firmly. Shorter, smaller in stature than the man seated opposite him but in will and in virtue there is little that is small in him. "What do you want?"

A pause, perhaps a subtler approach might have been preferred. But looking into the mans eyes, coal black eyes meeting dark brown ones over their shared table. And at last, Johnathan speaks. "I'd like your help. And perhaps in gaining your help I might help you."

A gentle smirk brings rise to the lips of the one across, the man gazing on the other with a tired smile, perhaps already thinking that he knows what will be offered. Another bribe, another request to stop a certain investigation by a certain gang, a certain family perhaps. It doesn't matter, he's done it all before. "Go away and I won't arrest you for trying to bribe a police officer. Just leave me to my drink."

When the Englishman next speaks, the words are soft, quiet, barely even heard by the other in this bar. Anger flashes within the man for a moment, anger fuelled by something awakened by the Blood, quickly suppressed. Perhaps he should have expected such a reaction, certainly it should not be such a big surprise. "I'm not sure what I would offer you could be termed a bribe. I do know what I'll ask of you is against the law. But I think in the end you don't serve the law do you? You never have... what you serve is something bigger. Call it Justice, call it honour, call it what you want. That's your real master."

He snaps his head up as if he's been hit, startled and angry. Having something like this thrown in your face is never easy, especially not when it's the truth. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off, Johnathan speaking again, softly, silently. "But the system doesn't work does it? That's why you stay up late at night, without being paid, working on cases that others have abandoned, that you've been told to abandon. Working on bringing some justice, some peace to this world. It's not enough is it. The bad guys still get away, the ones that really caused the problems never get caught. And in the end, your work is for naught."

This time, when he speaks the same words again, the tone is different. Harder, strained with control - to keep his anger at bay? Or with fatigue over the truth? "What do you want?"

"I want to help."

"Stop beating around the bush... I'm listening."

The Englishman nods, speaking at last, softly, silently. "The system doesn't work. You know it, I know it. Sometimes investigations that should go on are stopped, other times they never are completed or are thrown out of court on technical difficulties. Justice is no longer served, the ones that are caught are not the ones that are the real criminals. Not anymore."

"…" No words. What is there to say to the truth, a truth that you know inside of you, that lies within your bones but you dare not ever speak?

"I want to change that. By doing what needs to be done, to make sure that justice is done."

Softly, looking at the man seated across of him. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. Not now. Think about it, think about what I've said. I'll speak with you later, on what might be done, of how to shift this, to change it. But for now, just think of the words alone. That's all I ask." "All?" A harsh, bitter chuckle at the last. All. Dark humour at the words, at what is said. But he nods, not speaking any further, lowering his drink to his own, to gaze at the pint. When he next looks up, to ask another question the man is gone. And in way it seems so unreal, so surreal. Perhaps he dreamed it even…

"Mr. O'Riley?"

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

The man, standing at 5'7" with the beginning of a pot belly stands in front of the man, a simple neat suit over his clothing as he hands over a card with his free hand, the other holding a briefcase. "My name is Bernard Shaw. I'm a solicitor dealing with divorce cases. May we speak in private?"

"Christ. I'm on my lunch break... of fuck it. Alright come on, let's see what that hag of a wife wants now." With a gesture to the side booth of the eatery he sits down, glaring at the man in front of him as he pockets the card.

Taking a seat opposite Riley, Shaw nods his thanks before placing his briefcase to the side of the table, adjusting his tie before speaking "Mr. O'Riley, I'm not here representing your wife. My services have been acquired by a third part - who at this present time wishes to remain anonymous to help yourself deal with your current situation."

"What the hell are you talking about? If your not working for my wife what the hell are you doing talking to me for?" Perplexed and annoyed the man begins to stand up, his lunch time already being wasted. "Please Mr.O'Riley, wait a moment. I'm here to help you, to take over your case. As I understand it you currently are going through a divorce and the individual that is currently handling your case is... unprepared for such an endeavour. I am here to help you win this case... if you will allow me." The man pauses, looking at Shaw before sitting down. "Alright, who is it? And this had better not be a joke."

"I assure you sir, this is no joke. The acquirement of my services are not inexpensive. As for your benefactor, he wishes to remain anonymous at the current moment. What he does wish is that you are able to gain a fair deal over the current predicament you find yourself within. Now, once you agree to myself representing yourself I will need to speak with on certain matters."

"Fuck, you mean I'm getting you for free? What's the catch?" A slight straightening of Mr.Shaw's back as he hears the words concerning a catch. "My dear sir, I have not been informed of any catch. Now, shall we begin or should I leave you to your... lunch." After a disparaging glance at his food he sniffs. A moment as the Detective of the Homicide division looks over Mr. Shaw and his clothing before at last deciding that firstly this was not a joke. And secondly that he really did want to get back at the bitch of a wife of his. And it wasn't illegal now was it? Perhaps his work-mates just didn't want to be known for doing this... he could see that happening. Sure he could. "Yeah, sorry. Alright, so where do we start?"

It's night at Chan's home when he arrives back from a long night at work. The lights are on as he'd expect but an unknown car was parked outside. Wondering what was happening but not alarmed yet he walks forward, opening the door. Inside he notes his wife and grandmother standing outside the door of the living room, watching. As he enters his wife turns, walking quickly to him with a finger held to his lips. Taking his hand she leads him to the doorway where he sees his son - Kevin, stuck with asthma and a hundred other minor problems that made his life so hard and put their bills so high... - being talked to by an unknown man. A strange man that is holding a stethoscope to his chest.

"What...?" Uncertain of what more to say Chan looks to his wife who draws him away to the kitche, speaking softly.

"I... I don't know. He's a doctor.. I checked. He just came in a few hours ago and he's been checking Kevin over. Says he's been asked to come here by someone... and that everything will be paid for." A pause as Chan looks back to the living room, looking to his wife and then shaking his head "We can't take that... take this. It's wrong."

Materialistic, womanly practicality wins out however as the wife grips her husbands arms, pulling him further away to speak with him, softly and harshly. They could never pay for the full health care that Kevin needed and there's always been the niggling belief that he could be so much better if they could pay for it. Now it's being paid for. She wasn't going to let her husbands little sense of honour get in the way of that.

Of course it's not enough. Not even half. There are few enough men like the detective, few enough men who understand or who see too clearly. Few enough who are driven by the demons within themselves to do what must be done. Other methods have to be taken. And in a car park one of many drops begin. A man, working in the communications department of the police station comes back to his beat up Ford, to go home after a long night. His shift is over, his time is done. Time to go home, to scrounge and to work to perhaps save enough for his children's college fees in another 5 years time.

The envelope falls to the ground, released from its trap as the door opens. The man blinks, looking down at it, not noticing it till then. Nay, he didn't. Why should he? The same routine done again and again so much that you begin to forget the details, like a driver that commutes to work daily. Soon the journey is forgotten, not to be remembered as he comes to another day in the office. Dull, comforting routine. A plain brown envelope, one that could be bought from any stationary shop in town lies at the mans feet, beckoning. Tantalising. Curiosity makes his pick it up, curiosity makes him open it. Surprise is what makes him gasp, for the thin brown envelope holds 4 simple, used $50 notes. Nothing else, no notes, no words, no offers to explain the… bribe? The gift?

A hand hesistates, looking over the area, searching for something more. But there is no one else, no one that matters anyhow. A tramp lies curled up on the sidewalk, trying to sleep. A woman walks onwards from a late night trip to the store, her baby awaiting her at home. Her steps are quickly taken, in fear for herself and in haste for her child A pair of young lovers walk onwards, talking quietly to one another as they go to the next club, the next bar. No one that matters in sight and as quick as that thought the hand dips forward, pulling the notes forward. To touch, to feel, to reassure the man that what he sees is real. But as quick as surprise springs and greed followed afterwards comes caution. Is this a set up? A hoax? Is he being tested? The hand shoves the bills back into the envelope, the man looking around him once more in fear. But there is nothing to see, eyes adjusted to the lights under streetlights can not pierce the darkness that surrounds the night. Shadows that were once peaceful become frightening, that covered the stench and decay of the city now hide eyes that watch, that note.

Perhaps he should throw the envelope away, the money away. No evidence… he didn't take it. But reason takes over fear at that thought. No evidence, of him NOT taking it. And throw away money… no. Best to take it, to keep it - all of it, even the envelope. Keep it and perhaps at home, when no one watches him he can think about it more carefully. He has till tomorrow morning to report this. Of course, he does.

With that last relieved though he turns, getting into the car, placing the envelope safely within a pocket. Of course. He can always say he was going to tell them about it tomorrow if they ask… of course. But hands shake slightly, the mind turns events over and over again as he drives home. He won't sleep well tonight, his mind turning over this gift/curse?

And high above a man lies, dressed in black, holding a camera. Click. Click. Click. Photos snap, a man watches and waits. And then he is gone. Modern technology is a wonder isn't it? A glance at his watch, a nod. And two more men, in different parts of town work the same magic, each with their own timetable. Each with their own orders, with their list. It will be a long night. For everyone.

2 nights ago

In a small office in a downtown block the Englishman sits opposite another man, speaking. Speaking, they've been doing this for the last 2 hours. Planning, going over what they know, what can be remembered and what has been drawn out. The lights in other offices have long gone out, no one but them share this building tonight.

"Are you sure of this James?" The Englishman speaks one last time, showing how nervous he is over this. The voice stays calm, but the questioning of the other is unusual. In all other things perhaps he might be confident, but he has never done this before, to gain control…to manipulate others. A fighter, a soldier, a killer by trade - turned first to politics now manipulation.

"Koberts a good place to start Boss. Trust me, I worked with him for 2 years before they kicked me off the Force. He's a good man, driven... but he's begun to grow weary of the system. He's exactly what you want."

A slight nod, a sigh and the Englishman leans back against his chair. Life draws one in the strangest of directions. "And the second part of the plan? The money?"

"Filtered and used. We know how to do it Boss, no worries. Drop the bills off in the envelopes, head up and take photos of them. Then watch and wait. We start with 6 different people, 2 for each of us at each of the shift changes at night. I go back, chat with the others in the bars, listen up to hear if there is anything wrong." A smirk at last from Rien at the end of that "At least all the time I spent with those Internal Service buzzards is going to pay off." All the time spent. Perhaps a better way of saying that his record in the force was spotty at best, for excessive violence during the course of duty.

A nod from Masters at last. Photo's taken… and Riens and the other ghouls presence's in the bars nothing to be commented on. After all, Phoenix has been trying to recruit from within the police forces ranks for a while now. Different people, different departments and different stations. A total of 50 drops to be made. Perhaps only half of them might pan out in the end, certainly not all of them. A wince at the thought of the total cost of this part of the operation. So much money… with so little gain perhaps. It's that thought that provokes the next question, bringing it to Masters lips - almost said but at last held back. Reading his Domitors mind Rien nods, murmuring. "I've done the best I can boss… but it's been half a year since I was in the Force. And hell, I never had much to do with some of them in there. And whilst the others in Phoenix might know more, there ain't that much I can ask without letting them know. I can guarantee you at least 10 of them Boss… those guys are as dirty as dirty gets. They'd sell their own mothers for what we're paying them already."

A silent nod at last and Masters sighs, standing. "I know. I… Get some rest Rien. You've got a long night ahead of you tomorrow." One last nod to indicate goodbye and the man turns, walking out into the night.

A woman comes' walking along to the Englishmans table, taking a seat next to him without a word. He frowns, looking at her and her presumptions. Suprisngly the woman meets him gaze for gaze, liquid brown eyes behind thick glasses staring back at black voids. The silence continues for moments that seem forever, drawing out till at last he speaks, breaking it.

"I'm sorry Miss, but I'm waiting for someone."

"I know. Mathew told me and gave me your description. Quite a good one too, but then he's always had a good eye for details." A gentle voice, completely calm and soothing, as if speaking to one who would burst out in anger soon. A doctors voice at the bedside.

The man tenses, looking at her before he speaks. Softly. Slowly. "Who are you?"

A gentle sweet smile, a patting of gloved hands with much smaller, more delicate hands, hands toughened through the washing and daily grind of life. "Oh please dear, calm down. I'm not here to hurt you. My name's Janet Halloway. Dr. Janet Halloway. Mathew's been a very old friend of mine, we go back a long time." A soft, sad gentle smile on the womans face for a moment as she remembers something else. "He was the best man at our wedding."

"Doctor?" Grasping on edges, on words as he tries to work out the angles now, the new dangers. Oh he's not good at this, not at all.

"Not a medical doctor. I'm a psychologist. I work with the police, helping them to cope with their problems and helping to create personality profiles on criminals. You know how it is." Again that soft, gentle smile as she sits across of him, seemingly at ease.

"Why... what are you doing here? What do you want?" Off balance? Certainly and perhaps just a little out of his depth. A doctor, a psychologists. What did she want?

"Mmmmmmm.... let me see. Strong certainly, oh very nice muscles . If I was 20 years younger... even 10." A slight smile at that, a gentle quiet hum before she continues. "Hiding a gun perhaps under that big coat of yours? Yes, you look like one who would do so. A bit foolish when meeting a policeman but perhaps you even have a license. Let me see.... dedicated to what you think is right, driven. A fighter from the scars and a worrier from the lines. A leader? Once I think but no longer? Forgotten? Or did you choose to forget?" A gentle voice, spoken softly in question to the man though she continues without waiting for an answer. "The way you hold yourself still, the way you sit, I'd say a soldier. At least for a while. Long hair, you must have been out for a while, at least a few years. And your eyes, so hard. So filled with pain. Where has your honour led you my friend?"

A blink, a breath let out slowly as she continues to speak to him, reeling from each blow though he tries to hide it. How does she see so much, know so much? But he can't keep the question from his eyes and that is where she watches, she looks. And she answers.

"It's alright dear, I'm not reading your mind. I had a husband like you, just like you." Again a slow sad smile and then she shakes her head, watching him "I know all about men like you, like my husband. My whole life has been lived around them." He frowns, speaking softly at last, his voice hard "What do you want?"

"Want? Oh nothing that you could give me dear. Mathew asked me to come here, to watch you, to see you, to advice him. Your little offer really put him out of joint you know, the poor thing. He's been asking himself those questions a long time. All of them do of course. But you knew that didn't you?" Again the man asks, softly, quietly. "What do you want?"

"Mmm.... persistent too. You do remind me of my dear Jack. What do I want? I want to see how committed you were. I wanted to see who you were and what you wanted to do. I wanted a lot of things, all of which I've gotten the answers for except this. Who are you?"

A smile at the last as the man watches her, shaking his head "A man, much like any other." "No. Not like many at all. You really do understand these men don't you? Like calls to like. But it's not justice that drives you to do this. It's something else. You want something from them. I want to know what."

Now he's on firmer ground. He expected this question, from Kobert perhaps but it's the same question. So the words come out easier, perhaps a bit more cautiously but they come out. "I have an interest in a group. A particular subset of the population. You could almost call them a cult. They have connections, in high places. In places that would stop any real investigation from continuing, in places that would alert them if an investigation was carried out normally against any of their fellows. I want to put a stop to them, to this group. But to do it I need a head start, a way to bypass these normal routes and stop or hide the evidence as needed. To cover up cases so that their leaders don't know something has gone wrong. And then I can move in, to put a grind on those who first committed the crime."

The lady listens quietly, running a gently hand over her hair, pulling it to the side and upwards as she sits there, watching him. "You're not telling me all of it are you? Of course not and you won't will you? Mmm... don't answer. There's something more to this isn't there? Something else you haven't told me, something that I really should know. I guess it doesn't matter, you've already started it. And poor Mathew will sooner or later make his choice. Oh dear."

A blink, shaking his head slighty. Not exactly the reaction he expected. But the woman, the lady before him was anything but what he expected. A woman, drawn and tired, at first looking to be over 60 but now at closer inspection perhaps only perhaps 50. Certainly she has not aged well and she seemed not to care how she dressed.

"You know my dear, you might have started something you couldn't stop. Have you spoken to anyone else?"

A slight shake of his head before he stops himself, her voice, her tone, her body posture making him relax even when he knows he shouldn't. A simple, easy charm of a woman that you could always talk to. The favourite aunt.

"Well, that's good. Let's see, Alexander, perhaps Darian, Mary.... Andy's burnt out, he's too bitter." No longer seeming to see the man the woman sits there, drawing out a pen and taking the napkin to write upon. After a moment she looks up, smiling at the man and gestures away. "It's okay dear. I won't tell but I wouldn't suggest talking to anyone else. You'd just make a mess of it." A soft, gentle smile to take the sting out of the words "Now why don't you go. I'm sure you have a lot more things to do and I need to think. Oh and be a dear and get me a drink? A bottle of whisky?"

He is already standing before he realises it from the gesture, a blink at the way she handles him before he at last nods, walking away to get the bottle as asked of him. He comes back, placing the glass next to her as he stands there, trying to decide what more to do. In the end he walks away, realising that there is little more he can do. Kill her? Wait for her? And risk the fact that she might have a camera, a note, something more waiting.

And so in a smoky bar, seated alone with a bottle of whisky and a pen a woman works, to change the world she lives in. For a memory, for those who live and those who will live. And perhaps because she can no longer bare to witness her friends, her family crumble as the world crumbles around her. Smoke drifts, a man walks away into the night and the level in the bottle drops slowly, inexorably.

"Everyone knows Dr.Halloway Boss. Everyone likes her. She was meant to go real high, I mean, she was really good. Until her husband died, shot in the back by a punk he let go because he was feeling nice that day. Poor bastard. She loved him a lot, broke down. She took an extended vacation and came back 3 months later. It's said she's got a drinking problem but, well she does her job well when she's sober. And everyone likes her like I said Boss. Real nice dame."

"I see."

"Why Boss? Something we need to know?"

"I don't know. Carry on the other operations as planned. I need to consider this."

"Yes sir."