Chapter Text
An old woman wakes inside a young body—tired, alone, and wrapped in rags.
She rises from the cracked wooden floor of a derelict building, spurred into motion by a sudden rush of cold as wind and snow spill through a shattered window. Her stomach sits heavy with stolen sustenance: fresh vitae, rich and overwhelming, drawn from multiple hearts. A feeding. Recent. Violent. And utterly absent from her memory.
This can only spell trouble. She has already killed.
Another body lies behind her—a man who threatened her with violence before she struck him down. She leaves his ruined corpse where it fell and moves into the fractured corridors beyond. There is no room for remorse. Survival demands motion, not reflection.
She has not gone far when agony erupts through her right hand.
Heat floods her veins, surging toward a strange sigil carved into the back of her flesh. The mark ignites, glowing with the residue of some unknown ritual, alive and burning.
And then—a voice.
A male. Anglophone. Unrefined. Muttering from inside her skull.
“Huh… that’s not my voice. Not my mouth it’s coming out of, either.
Her breath catches.
I know the back of my hand like the back of my hand. And that’s not my hand.”
WHO. SPEAKS?
She shouts into the quiet, her voice echoing off the barren walls. She senses nothing in the world around her; no body, no breath, no presence–save for the one lodged firmly inside her skull.
“So you can hear me? Huh! Well, good evening…” The man’s voice remains calm despite her rising desperation. It unnerves her.
Its calmness unsettles her more than any threat could.
“Whatever trickery this is, get out. Now!”
She spins, scanning every shadow, every broken doorway, searching for some hidden form. There is nothing.
“If I could I’m sure I would. But I’m not even certain where I’m in to get out of it!”
The certainty of his presence infuriates her.
It infuriates her.
“Do not play the fool! Explain yourself!”
Something shifts. She feels it—emotion bleeding through the voice. His irritation flares, sharp and defensive, rising to meet her own fury.
“I don’t consider myself a fool. That much I can tell you. Others do, but that’s their business.”
The words rush out of him, sharp and defensive as though forced through a sore wound. Whoever this man is, he has history.
“My name’s Fabien,” he continues. “I am – was? – a vampire – like yourself; a kindred. Malkavian by blood. And I was – and still am – a Detective.”
“A Malkavian!” she hisses. “A dreaded Childe of Malkav. This is one of your mind games; I command you to cease this at once!” The Sleeper snarls the words, eyes fixed on nothing as panic coils tighter in her chest.
“Whoa–hey, calm down!” His tone shifts to placate. “I mean no harm, I promise. I have no idea how I got here. All I can sense is that I’m without a body and I’m trapped here with you. I can see and hear what’s in front of you, and I can tell you’re more wound up than a wire about to snap.”
Despite herself, his steadiness bleeds into her, cooling her rage just enough to keep her from tearing herself apart.
She does not trust him. Not for a moment.
“This mark you have placed on me–this binding.” She says coldly. “You will explain yourself. And then you will unbind me.” The Sleeper steadies herself, though uncertainty still gnaws at her. As far as she knows, every moment remains perilous.
“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions based on very little info.” Fabien’s irritation creeps back in. “I want to get out of this as much as you do, but this is no way to solve a case. Let's start by asking each other clarifying questions. Without threatening violence.”
His voice only deepens her disdain. Even so, she cannot fault his logic. If she is to survive, she will have to cooperate with this nuissance–whether she likes it or not.
She exhales slowly. “Very well. I will start. Where were you before you came here?”
“See, I knew you could play nice. That wasn't so hard, was it?” he remarks, laced with passive- aggression. She snarls. “Let's see… I was out solving a case of my own. An old one, a cold case from years ago. What it was exactly I… rightly can't remember. But the last thing I can recall is… feeling like I was nearing my own Final Death, and then… being kissed by oblivion before blacking out.
“And now, here I am.”
His voice grows somber toward the end, heavy with regret. He believes every word he says.
So does she. “That is…cryptic. Can you really not recall?”
“Not at the moment, no. My turn to ask,” Fabien interjects. “I'll start real small and slow for you. What is your name?”
Just when she's about to give him some consideration he goes back to being a fool.
“You will watch your tone with me. I am an elder of unimaginable strength and power. I have borne many names–the legends refer to me as the Nomad. But here, you may address me as Phyre.”
“Phyre? Pfft.” He scoffs. “Like the band posters? Or ‘fire’ as in ‘fire and brimstone’?”
She frowns sharply and bares her fangs in warning. She slips out a hiss through clenched teeth. “Do not mock me. I chose the name Phyre. You abide by my choice and respect it.”
Fabien chuckles, low and snide, clearly unimpressed by her needless hostility, and her ridiculous ego.
“Sure thing, boss. I’m sorry–Phyre.” he drawls. “Whatever you say.”
Phyre wishes she could strike him across the face for his insolence. But for now, she must rein in her rage to allow for his assistance. She will find an opportunity to fully end him when she is more secure.
Fabien, able to perceive the edge of that thought, resents it greatly.
“If you are finished, childe,” she says tightly, “we must find a way out and seek safe harbor.”
“If I may,” Fabien cuts in quickly, “I know of one such place in Seattle. Assuming that’s where we still are.”
“See…attle?” She repeats the word slowly. She knows not where it is.
“Seattle,” he clarifies. “You know–the Emerald City. The City of Flowers. Queen City. Unless…” He trails off curiously. “You’re not from around here, are you? Your accent sounds… vaguely European. Might I ask where you came from?”
She considers her answer carefully. She infers she must be far from the deserts of Damascus. The storm outside tells her it is winter, likely in the Northern Hemisphere. Fabien’s accent and idioms suggest a poor American taste.
She has never been to America; never once entertained the notion, not even in recent memory. How then, did she cross into the New World? And how long has she been gone?
“We are in America?” she asks. “What year is this?”
“Yes, we are. And judging by the way you’re asking… I’d say you’re a long way from home. It’s 2024–last time I checked.”
“It has been… one hundred years.” Dread settles into her stomach–heavy and suffocating. One hundred years since her last moment of danger, and now she wakes in a foreign land, marked by strange sigils, and a stranger bound in her head. A cold chill creeps through her heart. “I was in Tunis when I was betrayed and cast into torpor a century ago. How did I awaken all the way here, in America?”
“Tunis,” Fabien mutters. “That’s not in Europe. But still, a very long way from here. And a very long time to be asleep.” His tone is gentle and earnest. “For what it’s worth, I can promise you I had no way of getting anywhere near you. If you still suspect me of wrongdoing.
“And you’ve never heard of Seattle, you said?” he asks.
“I have not,” she admits. “I had no plans to cross into the New World.”
“We’re in the northwestern corner of the country–bordering Canada and the Pacific. Closer to Asia than Europe and the Middle East; no easy way to get you home unfortunately,” he says softly, “but I can help you navigate through this city.”
Something in his voice has changed. He is gentler now, more calm and touched with concern. He wants to care for her, despite her hostility.
It surprises her–and does not anger her.
“Very well,” she says at last. “We will discuss more later. Now guide me out of here.”
“Will do, Miss Phyre,” Fabien replies, tipping a metaphorical hat she feels rather than sees. It’s somewhat charming, but not enough to relieve her irritation.
She snarls, but says nothing more as she begins her ascent through the ruined building.
—-
“There, up the staircase and to the roof-”
Phyre weaves through a tightening gauntlet of policemen and rogue Anarch ghouls, all of them swarming the premises in search of her. Even in her post-torpor sluggishness, she moves silently and precisely, helped in no small part by the incessant detective lodged in her mind who won’t stop talking.
When she finally makes it to the top, she snaps the lock on the final door and shoves it open.
At last, she steps into the New World. And what a world it is.
Light assaults her from every direction. Beams slice through what should be the dark of night, streaking the air with dizzying unnatural colors; bright reds, blues, yellows, the entire spectrum flashing and pulsing across towers of metal and glass that claw at the sky.
“Ah–!” She recoils, shielding her eyes. Artificial light has never sat well with her since its first invention, and to see it multiplied a thousandfold after a century makes her skull throb. Her synapses feel as though they are tearing themselves apart.
“Ah… we are in Seattle. That’s a relief– ” Fabien starts with a comforted sigh before he notices Phyre’s reaction. The pain. The confusion. The fear. He feels her fold inward, hissing like a cat plunging into water, and he can’t help but rush to her aid.
“Phyre? Hey, it’s all right. I know where we are now. We’ll get out and find shelter. We’ll be safe, okay?” His voice lifts with urgency. “Just listen to me. Listen to my voice.”
She feels something like an attempted touch from within–his voice reverberating through her, steady and patient. It threads through her panic, cooling it just enough to bring her back.
She attempts to open her eyes again. With her head turned away, she winces at the glare in her peripheral vision and forces herself upright despite the discomfort. She steadies. She endures.
“Get me out of here,” she growls through clenched teeth.
“Down that way, then left. We’re not far,” Fabien answers, guiding her with vague impressions and directions echoing into her mind.
It is enough. She chooses an edge and leaps down into the night.
—
The barefoot journey through snow-filled streets proves grueling and punishing. This city–this century–is like nothing else she’s encountered before. Mortals have found a way to make manmade lights shine bigger and brighter than the stars themselves in the dead of night. Glowing store signs, glass and metal facades, and moving images in full color float and pulse without rest.
Phyre feels exposed wherever she goes. Clinging to shadows offers no refuge; there is always a denizen nearby, standing alert from the noise and stimulation around them–whirring mechanical noises surround them no matter which direction she turns in. In the end, she abandons stealth entirely and sprints past gasping onlookers, tearing down sidewalks like a frightened animal.
She eventually reaches the haven Fabien described: an apartment choked with junk, trash, and foul, dastardly smells. The entry room is mercifully warm from an unseen source of heat. Relief floods in and through her at once.
“Oh good, the heat’s on. We can get thawed and clean up–” Fabien begins, only to be cut off.
“--Heat,” Phyre calls out with a hoarse voice. “Is there a pit nearby? A fireplace?”
“No no. No wood or coal or anything like that. The heat’s electric, I believe. No danger of burning the place down.”
He assures her, realizing more and more how in the dark she is in regards to technology.
She groans, lacking the energy to ask how. Instead she stumbles toward the nearest couch and collapses onto it, eyes closed. Her aching muscles and weary bones sink into the sagging cushions in mere seconds. She remains awake, merely getting a head start on her daysleep and recovery.
Fabien, watching idly from the back corners of her mind, still has time to kill before sunrise. He’s not used to being alone in his own thoughts for this long. He may not have a mouth anymore, but he can’t stop his mind from turning its cogs.
“So… not a fan of Seattle I take it?” He thinks aloud, testing the waters.
Phyre answers with a loud groan, thrashing half-awake and pounding the cushions.
“Must you always speak? Are you this bothersome to everyone you meet? Is it not apparent I am trying to rest?!”
She snarls with her face buried in the cushions, masking the volume but not her fury.
“H-hey! I’m just checking on you. I know you’re having a rough time, and I’m trying to soften the edges,” he says exasperatingly. “You can’t fault me for that.”
“You are in my head, are you not?” she snaps, rolling onto her back. “Do you not feel my pain? The skin peeling from the soles of my feet? The migraine boring into my skull? My bones cracking and rattling in fear? Why must you torture me with needless interrogation?!”
She drapes an arm over her eyes. An exasperated moan escapes her, then falters into a sad whimper.
For a moment, Fabien can only listen. He doesn’t get angry at her, only sorry for her as she reacts so negatively and strongly to the lightest provocation. He reminds himself that she’s been through hell and back before this, only to wake up in a new world with no answers or way back.
She's vulnerable and she despises herself for it. And he despises the part he plays in her suffering, however unintentional.
He wishes he could do more. Even within her own mind, his influence has never felt smaller. All he can do is remain, watch, and offer as much care as he can provide.
“I’m sorry, Phyre. Truly.” he says quietly. “I’m only a backseat driver here—a passive observer. I can’t feel what you feel–not in terms of nerves and sensation. Not even your pain. Your body is still entirely your own.
That’s why I ask questions. I’m here to look after you, no matter what our circumstances are. I want you to be okay.”
Silence follows. Phyre continues lying still, frozen in place. It’s hard for him to guess what she might be thinking, though he takes the lack of immediate retaliation as a small mercy–a victory. Progress.
“Do not speak again until tomorrow,” she murmurs at last. “I must sleep off this pain.”
She delivers her parting words with a biting edge. The fact that she offers them at all shows a level of courtesy she has not shown him before.
It catches him off guard.
“Good night.”
She finally shuts herself off by flipping to her side with her face toward the cushion, burying herself in it.
So she can be civil after all, if he says enough of the right things.
Fabien honors the request by leading in silence and finally, letting her be.
Then, with the slow passage of time, the apartment settles into stillness. Her body ceases to move and her breath dies. Her pain dies. Then mercifully, her mind falls to day torpor, taking Fabien with her. They drift together towards a welcoming darkness in a calm note.