Date: Sun, 24 Jul 2005 16:20:10 -0400
From: reapersharvest@mac.com
Subject: Underworld, Chapter 6

Here's my disclaimer: before you continue, be aware that this story depicts
homosexual relations between teenage boys and a certain level of violence,
if any of this is personally offensive or illegal for you to read, then
stop.  Otherwise, enjoy, comments are encouraged, no flames or viruses
please.

****************
	Carrion's private plane touched down at JFK at around 1 in the
morning with Miranda's cell.  Kyle nudged Damien awake and the two of them
stood up along with the computer guy and the crimson-haired boy with whom
they'd spent the trip in two facing pairs of luxurious leather seats.
Damien had gotten a chance to learn their real names on the flight; the
crimson haired boy is Bryce, a good friend of Kyle's, and the computer guy
is Cy, short for "Cyborg" on account of him being the cell's techie.
They'd been nice enough to Damien, especially Bryce, who was glad to
finally meet Damien "breathing on his own."  It was a bit awkward.

	"Did you enjoy the flight," Kyle asked Damien, sensing his thought
patterns become a bit erratic.

	"Well I've never flown before.  Much less on a private jet,"
Damien's anxiety was simply excitement.

	The cell made their way subtly to a row of black limousines to
transport them to their New York headquarters.  As Damien, Kyle, Bryce and
Cy transferred themselves from one luxurious mode of transportation to
another, they filled in the newcomer of just what he was in for.

	"If you thought Seattle was something, New York will blow you
away!"  Bryce informed Damien in an excited tone.  Damien had already
noticed how excitable Bryce is, of not downright hyperactive.  He was a fun
guy, though.

	"It was Carrion's first club he made when he began transforming all
his headquarters.  He started it with Miranda."  Cy added.  He was
definitely a mellow guy, his voice somewhat detached yet matter-of-fact
nonetheless.  The antithesis of Bryce.

	The cluster of limos took a secluded series of shortcuts before
reaching the Brooklyn Bridge.  As they crossed Damien noticed Kyle wince as
he was looking out the window.  To see what made him recoil, Damien looked
out his window and saw some drifter hanging around.  He looked quizzically
at Kyle, who guessed what he was about to ask.

	"Werewolves."  Kyle answered.

	Damien just nodded and tried to get another look at them.  How
could he tell?

	When the procession of limos was cruising through the dense
Financial District, they came upon a fairly derelict area with only a
couple of grubby delis, shitty apartment buildings, and shittier office
buildings.  The black cars stealthily turned into a pitch-black alley
Damien probably wouldn't have noticed otherwise.  The rearview mirrors
barely scraping the edges of the narrow opening, they receded into the
darkness until they saw two large metal double doors, what looked like a
service entrance, with a lone yellow light proclaiming its presence.  The
cars stopped, everyone piled out, and then they reversed out of the alley,
back into the street, and disappeared into the night.

	There was a broken-looking intercom on the wall, and Miranda
entered a code into the keypad which unlocked the door with a smooth
'click' that betrayed it's rusty facade.  Much like in Seattle, it was all
camouflage.  If the New York club is so grand, they certainly aren't
advertising it, Damien thought.  But when Miranda pulled open the door and
the twenty or so Vampires piled inside, Kyle grabbing Damien's hand, Damien
saw a long, old stone tunnel, lined with plasma screen TVs and a long, thin
red carpet leading to another pair of glass doors, with a sleek bat symbol
on it.  On the TVs were fancy graphics set to the subtle rave music pumping
in the background.  They walked through the hall to the glass doors, where
Miranda pushed a red button with a down arrow on it.  Damien noticed that
there were surveillance cameras everywhere.  The glass doors slid open,
revealing an elevator into which the crowd entered, and continued their
journey downward, the glass walls of the round elevator showing the aged
brick of the tunnel as they whooshed downward.  When the elevator stopped,
the glass doors opened, followed by a thicker pair of iron doors and, much
like Seattle, the blaring music poured in.

	They were on a balcony that wrapped all the way around the large,
rectangular space and cris-crossed over the dance floor below.  The floor
was a metal grate so they would se the writhing sea of bodies below, awash
in the fog and laser lights.  on their level were sleek couches where
people lounged, drank, and made out, there were two bars on either end of
the dance floor that were illuminated red boxes.  At the opposite end their
was a dark, empty booth that presided over all.  The club was impressive,
and as they walked along the balcony Damien noticed the dancers in moving
cages, the live singer.  It was huge.  The gang moved along to the other
side where there was a sweeping metal staircase leading into the fray.
Damien noticed that despite the crowds, people stepped aside for them, like
they were royalty.

	They descended, but as soon as they were at the foot of the stairs,
they wheeled around and walked underneath the staircase, where there was an
entrance to a VIP room.  It was round and intimate, the music was a dull
throb, and attractive waiters and waitresses took their drink orders as
everyone slung themselves on the red velvet furniture, relaxing after the
journey.  Miranda and Cy, however continued to a private elevator at the
end which, by the look of it, led to the dark booth, a private office and
security headquarters.  ****************

	The Renegade opened his eyes slowly, painfully, he'd obviously been
drugged, but as he experimentally twitched his muscles, he was pleased to
find that the silver wounds had healed well.  He also panicked suddenly
when he became aware of his surroundings.  He was in a glass tube, filled
with liquid, floating upright, with an oxygen tube and goggles.  There were
tubes all over his body, and when he began to struggle, he felt a sharp
prick in the back of his neck that immobilized him immediately, leaving him
conscious, but trapped in his own body.

	Nearby at his desk, studying the blood sample through a microscope,
the scientist was observing the same phenomenon he'd seen in Viktor's blood
all those years ago.  Back when he thought the Hybrid legend had been
fulfilled, and that he would be able to change the scope of the Underworld
forever, and end this bloody and senseless war.  But Viktor disappeared,
the war raged on, and his plans were destroyed.

	Until now.  Now, he had Viktor, he had Sanger, he had his
experiments, and he had a whole new plan.  ****************

	At the northern tip of Manhattan, around 183rd Street, at the old
Croton Aqueduct Flag house, one of many such remnants in the area, Reggie
jumped the chicken wire, as he had so many times before, and entered the
cramped, stone structure.  He continued down the spiral steps into the
underground space, full of old filing cabinets, a collection assembled from
every trash day for the past 60 years, all of it illuminated by grim
florescent lights.  At the end was an old man in an older chair, bent over
a desk, writing, as he always was.  This was the Storyteller, known to some
as The Lost Prophet.  He sensed Reggie's presence and greeted him curtly
without looking up.

	"Good evening, Reginald, do you have the briefcase?"

	"Yes, sir, I managed to grab it in the crossfire."

	"Well done, bring it over."  Reggie set it on the desk and the
Storyteller opened it, revealing ancient-looking parchment preserved
between glass in a high-teck looking frame with a small screen displaying
data.  There were about four of those as well as a very old notebook that
looked beaten up, which was hastily thrown into a ziploc bag.

	Reggie tentatively asked, "So, what are they?"

	"The latest additions to my collection.  He wanted them, the doctor
was having them delivered to his offices when the Renegade attacked his
transporters.  He wanted these, because it details the Apocalypse.  These
four are from the Vampire Archives in Prague, but this book here, it was
Viktor's diary.  I don't know how he got a hold of it, but they say Viktor
outlined his plans for the revolution here.  He had a specific model for
not only the revolution, but for wiping out the Vampires entirely.  They're
just rumors of course, and the werewolves would den anything that would
make their saviour look crazy, but he got the ideas from his contact with
the scientist.  While the scientist was Sangreal's doctor, he was
convincing him and Viktor to annihilate the other species, breeding strife.
He wants these documents to bring that plan to life once more, now that
that Viktor has returned at the Renegade.  I've also heard he's Sanger's
partner now, the one who created all the blood technology.  He's trying
again, he'll never give up."

	"Never give up what, exactly?"

	"A union of the two species.  He means to make the Hybrid Legend
come true.  When the Prophets wrote that legend, it wasn't just so it would
happen one day on its own.  They wrote it because they knew, I knew, that
there would always be people like him to try and bring the two species
together.  They weren't prophecies, they were educated guesses based on our
behavior now,and where our actions would lead us."

	"So, why does he need these documents, anyway?"

	"Because Viktor wrote out a plan to bring about the Vampire
Apocalypse, which he wrote in his notebook here.  These others are some of
the Prophecies.  We predicted the Hybrid legend and the Apocalypse, now
he's using these to form an outline, a strategy, of how to revive this plan
and use it to annihilate both species and replace them with a new one, a
combination."

	"So an Apocalypse is not really the end, but..."

	"... a Sea Change.  A new Underworld requires the destruction of
the current one, so he can rebuild it in his image."

	"Who is this scientist?"

	"I knew of him so long ago that to say his name again makes me feel
like I did back at the School," the Storyteller looked up wistfully,
craning his neck for the first time as the words rolled off his tongue,
"his name is Frankenstein."