Chapter Text
As Koschei descends into the basement of one of the Camarilla-owned houses on 25th Avenue, his stomach descends well into the centre of the Earth. It's heavy, the heaviest it's been since he turned Zaeth, and he clenches his jaw to fight against the feeling.
If Zaeth was allowed to run rampant as he was, the Anarch's would gain yet another foothold in Northern America, and they are powerful enough with just Los Angeles under their thumb. Regardless of the actual power the former Prince of Purpee holds, it was just too detrimental for the Camarilla to lose that ground- to lose any ground. Especially after MacNeil and Garcia.
He tugs on his sleeveless leather jacket, and runs a hand through his hair.
The main room in the basement is silent, except from the steady sound of military boots. Koschei keeps those unbidden thoughts out of his head. The room is silent because the smaller room is soundproofed. It is not inherently indicative of whatever is happening within that room. What is currently happening in that room does not matter to Koschei right now. It will matter to him a minute or so from now, but not this second.
Koschei clears his throat, the key in his pocket unforgettable. It burns into his thigh, dragging him towards the room. If he dug his heels into the concrete, scrabbling in place, he would still be taken towards the room. There's no point in turning around. It would do no one any good.
He sentenced Zaeth to this fate. He made that decision to punish the boy for his behaviour. It'd be weak minded of him to leave. He's the only one who has the keys to the handcuffs any ways. He has to be here at least for this. Afterwards he can present the keys and cuffs to someone else. He's the Sheriff of San Francisco, he'd be avoiding his own responsibility if he would turn around and leave now.
He'd be rebelling against the Camarilla. That's not a possibility.
Infront of the door, Koschei bids the ghouls who escorted him here goodbye.
His hand hovers at the handle. His stomach heated by the core of the Earth. No use in waiting. There's nothing he can do to avert this fate. For either of them.
Disobeying means final death.
His hand aborts that motion, and raps at the door instead. He pulls away, folding his hands behind his back. The basement is silent once more, no longer having the pendulum of footsteps to fill the sound. If it continues to be so quiet, the bell in his head will start to ring.
He wants the silence to stretch out forever. But it doesn't matter what he wants. He is expected to follow out his orders, and he will do exactly that.
The handle jolts downwards, and the door opens only a fraction.
Behind the door, there's an eye. It's brown in colour, framed by lashes and skin. Hair frames the skin, casting shadows on the face from the light of the corridor. Fingers curl around the door frame, nails painted red.
"Ah," The vampire says, "Koschei Severov, Sheriff of Prince Virkus. Come in."
The fingers push outward, opening the door enough so Koschei can see the room. It's sparsely decorated. The concrete of the walls, both floor and ceiling, are bare. On the far side, there's even some exposed wooden beams, there only for structural integrity. The single light in this room is an exposed, flickery lightbulb, hanging from just a wire. The light-switch is outside the room. A waft of stale air hits his nose, and despite knowing that air is not necessary any more, some primal instinct left from his days as a human causes him to almost recoil at the scent. The door is metal, and all the locks are on the outside.
In the centre of the room, however, is what Koschei came here for. The keys in his jean pocket burn through the denim. Some instinct begs him to flee the flame.
Zaeth is hunched over, with his back to the door. His hair falls past his shoulders, which are brought in front of his body. His jacket fans out around him as much as it can, given its length. It's dirtier than it was the last time Koschei saw him, certainly, and Koschei cannot say that he is surprised.
Zaeth makes no move to acknowledge either the Ventrue nor his Sire. Koschei cannot blame him.
"He hasn't moved since you left him here," the Ventrue intones, "seems completely uninterested in anything we introduce to the room, unless it directly involves him. In those cases, he begins to get verbally hostile. Has made no move to physically fight, but that's hypothesised to be due to the handcuffs, rather than a lack of desire."
"Understood." Koschei responds, nodding his assent.
That doesn't sound like Zaeth whatsoever. The American fits the stereotypes of his people well- he's mouthy as all hell and not afraid to let people know when they've pissed him off. He's more than willing to start a brawl over it, and over the smallest of issues too. Whether that's because he's American, because of his past or because he's Brujah is not something Koschei has ever been able to parse, and he is his Sire.
A complete devil-may-care attitude, to be exact. The devil certainly cares now.
"I'll return with more kindred so we can begin." The Ventrue says before slipping out of the room, the click of heels moving out of earshot.
It's only now that Koschei chooses to approach Zaeth.
He telegraphs his movements, letting his heavy boots thud against the ground rather than trying to be silent. He fishes the key out of his pocket, and if he were a lesser man he would flinch at the cool metal. The key is small in his hand, almost humorously so. There are no adornments to the ring it sits on, aside from a threadbare small rope tangled in the hole of the key which is the only reason why it hasn't fallen away.
Moving to a crouch in front of Zaeth, he grasps the younger kindred's wrist and brings it towards him. The man doesn't shake, nor makes any move to run. Koschei tightens his hold regardless.
The key slides into the lock easily, and the room's only sound is that of the mechanical nature of the handcuffs. They fall, clattering to the ground. Koschei pockets the keys, and then pockets the handcuffs into one of his back pockets. Zaeth's arms are still bound, zip-ties limiting movement, but Koschei knows he is capable of ripping those off himself. He doesn't need any help with that.
"Koschei," Zaeth whispers, "you have to get me out of here." The fellow Brujah has leant into his space, and Koschei can't remember when that pressure against his shoulder started. He does not push Zaeth off, but makes no moves to reciprocate.
"You're the Sheriff," Zaeth continues, his voice growing louder, "you have to be able to do something- You can't leave me here." The American's hands now grip the front of his jacket, the leather pulled taut over his back.
"I'm your childe," Zaeth's voice is quiet again, "you're my sire. Do something."
Koschei pushes Zaeth off of him, and immediately returns to the door.
"You know I can't do that." Koschei's voice sounds distant to himself, but that's because it's the only sound in the room. The sound of footsteps, more than one pair, is growing closer though.
That's good. He'll be easier to handle once it's not just him in here.
In the time it takes the Ventrue and the others kindred they bring with them to close that distance, Zaeth pulls himself back to a sit. His shoulders' are lower then they were, and there's a tense line to them. Koschei supposes that makes sense. Zaeth might not be the most observant person, but he definitely knows enough to know what is about to happen to him.
Koschei's focus travels to the corridor, watching the three kindred approach the room. Zaeth stays in his periphery. He doesn't move at all.
The Ventrue from before is now holding a clipboard before them, and is in rapt but hushes conversation with the other two vampires approaching. The one on the Ventrue's right is dressed similarly, both of them wearing formal wear. This vampire has a toolbox in one hand, and a bundle of fabric in the other. Koschei cannot help but raise an eyebrow at that. The attire seems out of place, considering what's about to happen. Maybe the cloths are supposed to be a change of clothes, or perhaps boiler suits to protect the clothes they are already wearing.
The third vampire, at least, is dressed appropriately. Dressed in a hoodie and joggers, both of which having seen better days. Their boots are heavy duty- clearly work boots of some kind. In their hand they hold a bundle of thin strips. Some are leather, some are cloth. One of them is a chain. Another is barbed wire.
Koschei rips his eyes off the arriving Vampires. This is all necessary. This is the will of the Camarilla. Zaeth kept toeing the line. He had to get punished for that or else the whole masquerade is in jeopardy. Every kindred would be in danger if Zaeth was left unchecked.
This is all necessary.
"Has he done anything?" The Ventrue asks pointedly, taking the pen tethered to the clipboard in hand.
Koschei takes a moment to respond, "nothing."
The Ventrue's eyes bore into Koschei's, before writing something down. Koschei doesn't bother looking.
"Get yourselves set up," The Ventrue turns to their colleagues, and the two quickly move into the space.
The one with the cloth hands one to the Ventrue, and Koschei realises that the cloth is an apron. Not as affective as a boiler suit, but definitely easier to remove. The toolbox hits the concrete with a resounding thud, echoing in the small room. As the lid folds open, more types of tools than Koschei ever thought were real unfold before him. The vampire grabs a pair of scissors, curved to be flat on one side, and approaches Zaeth with them.
With two swift cuts, Zaeth's denim vest is ripped from his body. The scrap fabric is thrown to the other side of the room, metal buttons and rivets clinking against the concrete floors.
The American tenses at the noise, and cannot help but turn to face what was once clothing. Koschei turns to directly face the Ventrue, and crosses his arms over his chest.
"When to start?" Koschei asks, mouth dry.
"We can start right now, mr Severov." The Ventrue responds.
"Да," is the only thing Koschei can think to say.
Koschei's gaze returns to the scene in front of him, and a muscle in his jaw twinges.
Zaeth is dragged to his feet by the other suited kindred, a knot of rope tied to the zip-ties. The kindred throws the longer length of rope over one of the wooden beams hanging just shy of the ceiling. The rope falls down, and the kindred yanks on the rope. Zaeth jerks at the motion, his arms ripped upwards and the veins on his neck dance. The kindred pays no mind to him, and ties the rope to itself. The rope is just slack enough so the American isn't pulled up onto the tips of his toes. There's no amount of adjusting that can be done to become comfortable though. Nevertheless, the American tries.
"Is Virkus too broke to have any more rope?-" Zaeth asks, and Koschei can hear the smugness of his smile.
A resounding crack echoes throughout the room. Borrowed blood wells up across his back diagonally, from his left shoulder to the right-side of his hip. Skin splits across the line, fragments cling to the chain now weeping onto the grey floor. Denim blooms from blue to a deep maroon.
A strangled gasp follows the crack; a dying sound, spluttering like an engine failing to start.
Koschei swallows against the lump in his throat.
The American's head is tipped between his arms, and the pre-mortem instinct to breathe through the pain has kicked in if the heave of his shoulders means anything. Blond hair cascades in front of his shoulders. His knuckles are white, fingers clinging to the rope keeping him standing.
No one says anything. The silence envelopes the room, almost louder than the crack itself. Only the unfamiliar sound of breathing can be heard in the quiet.
The weight of the metal in his back pocket is keen against Koschei's mind. He digs his digits into the meat of his biceps. He squares his shoulders, and sets his jaw. The American had to learn somehow.
The breathing stops, and the American's grip on the rope has eased. He hasn't let go completely, he knows better than to do that, but his fingers now rest on the cord instead of clinging to it like a lifeline. His head no longer hangs, instead it rests against the crook of his elbow, turned away from the door.
"-Sure feels like it." The American breathes, that same self-righteous tone stealing the silence from the room.
Another snap rings true. Another gasp is wrung out of the American.
"That's enough," The Ventrue chides, "We haven't started the proper protocol yet!"
Koschei's shoulders' drop, "that alright, can do now." His grasp on English hasn't faltered so much in decades. Crescents dig painfully into his biceps.
The Ventrue clears their throat, "Zaeth Bondana, of Clan Brujah, you have been sentenced for harbouring Anarch sentiment. Your punishment details re-education until you entirely recover your loyalty to the Ivory Tower. Is this understood?"
The American chooses not to say anything, spitting on the ground.
The American stutters a groan before Koschei can even process that he's been struck again. His body weight leans almost entirely on the rope keeping him upright, the rope beginning to saw into the wood under the pressure. The top of the American's jeans is entirely maroon now, with the colour spreading like an infection.
"Is this understood?" The Ventrue repeats, tone more forceful than before.
The American groans again, though no crack follows. His back is splitting apart, estuaries of blood meeting the stagnant air. Some parts of his skin are peeling back, revealing in places raw muscle.
Koschei cannot bring himself to look. He also cannot bring himself to look away.
"In yourrrr-dreams." The American responds, words slurring together as arrogance weaves itself into his tone.
The next sounds that fill the room are married; the sound of metal hitting flesh and the yelp of a mortal animal writhing in pain. Their childer follow next, panted breaths that swallow the room whole.
The wrists of the animal are raw now, any more jerking against them will bring even more blood. It's already begun to stain the floor.
Impulse fills Koschei. He kills it as soon as he can. Impulse will only end in doom here.
The Ventrue seems inflamed, as they stalk over to face the animal strung up. In their freehand, they grab the animal by the chin and forces it to face them. "For the last time, is this understood?" Each word is punctuated with emphasis, malice dripping from the Ventrues tone. The grip appears to be bruising.
Koschei bites his tongue, keeping his lips pursed. Maybe the pain will distract him.
The animal's right leg is twitching from underneath him. Blood stains the concrete floor.
"If it makessssyou happpy." The animal indulges, the slur more prominent than before. It's wrists are weeping blood now, black plastic carving into skin.
Another split of skin opens across the animal's back. It's legs give out from under it, if only for a second. A guttural shriek is choked out, never truly leaving the animal's throat but unable to be contained either. The maroon has almost hit the mid thigh of fabric.
"Do you want to try that again? Zaeth Bondana?"
It begins more like a hum, low in the throat, before becoming anything resembling speech. "Nnnnnot-particularly."
The animal's face is wrenched to the side, and the Ventrue's hand is splayed out.
"He clearly understands," the Ventrue spits, "get on with it. Give him everything you've got."
A sound dies in Koschei's throat. He tenses his entire body. Impulse rattles at the bars of it's cage.
When one sound dies, many rush to fill the space.
The cacophony conducted blends together. Shrieks of pain and small booms of sound become one in the same, each one signalling condemnation. The dissonance is undercut by the silent-in-comparison steady drips of blood onto the ground, working almost like a metronome.
The animal jerks in place, clasping the rope a rosary in prayer. It's knuckles are sheer white, stark against the creeping red. Straw is soaking up that same red- it is only at the tips now, but it won't take long for the red to soak into the fibres and stain the blond scarlet. It's legs shake, no longer strong enough to sustain it's weight.
Koschei's eyes ache to close. He ignores impulse. He tastes blood.
The blows do not let up in the slightest. Despite the desire to bolt Koschei cannot even lift a finger. He's rooted to the spot, a tree unable to avoid the axe.
There's not an unmarred spot on the animal's back now. Skin sloughs off in big chunks, unfurling to reveal parts of the animal that should have never seen the light of day. Blood continues to coat Koschei's mouth. For the first time in 84 years, the taste of metal makes his stomach churn.
He swallows against the nausea.
The Ventrue returns to his side, and takes off the apron. The cloth hits the ground, free of blood. Clean, aside from flecks of red. The fabric is still mostly spotless, the few blemishes are sparse, and barely noticeable.
"Mr Severov, sir?"
Koschei turns his head to face the Ventrue, his eyes ripped from the apron.
"You have a meeting with the rest of the Primogen in 30 minutes."
Right. He remembers that being scheduled. He should end things here and get ready.
"Let him down." Koschei orders, throat tight.
"You heard the Sheriff!" The Ventrue passes along, loud to be heard above the harsh orchestra.
The other suited kindred reaches into the toolbox, pulling out a box cutter. They begin to saw at the rope, paying no attention to the animal strung up.
With the movement the animal sways, no longer having the strength to keep itself up on its own. It breathes, despite having no need to do so. It performs a duet with the rhythmic saw of the blade against the rope, still clasped tight in its hands.
The duet ends when the animal hits the floor.
Koschei knows the animal is not dead. It can't die, not from something like this. He knows it can withstand more hurt than this. The animal has told tales of battle, of glory, of combat. Koschei knows the animal has survived worse than this.
And yet, as it lies still against the concrete, Koschei cannot help but panic.
"Get tidied," his own voice rings in his ears never-ending, "I have other places to be."
Koschei does not check if the animal starts to move. He turns on his heel and leaves the room.
The coterie that returned to Purpee, without their Prince. Koschei doesn't trust them to follow the orders of the Camarilla without guidance. They need someone to keep an eye on them.