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Sheriff Price has seen decadence plenty. Even before this little parade she's been forced on, the Court demanded it of her. She's rubbed elbows with all the Ventrue of Junction, commanders each of their own little real estate and industry fiefdoms and carrying the wealth to show for it. She's met two Princes in the last 24 hours with enough money and influence to excuse their personal derangements -- Tamsen Donner of Sacramento, with all the baggage her name implies, and Prince Vannevar secluded in his estate with all the cognitive function of a midlevel dementia patient. Neither inspired much in the way of confidence in leadership, but her job, her place, is not to judge. Simply to gather.
With that in mind, poised as possible after two nights on the road, her suit only slightly rumpled, she had entered the Metropol Lofts in the heart of DTLA with half a mind that this Prince might be somewhat better. Yes, she had what few stories Biff had been willing to offer her when asked about his former employer to work off of, none of them pleasant, but what could possibly be worse than watching an old man's sycophantic lover dab the blood drool from his lips while she thought no one was looking, or hours of highly specific recollections of intergenerational cannibalism?
She could prepare for a lot. She could not prepare for taking a meeting with the Prince of Los Angeles at the side of his balcony hot tub. And here she stands, far enough away that the steam of it doesn't fog up her glasses, not far enough for her liking. Off the balcony would be to her liking, fifty floors to her probable gory end, but no, not tonight, not over this. Her feet stay stubbornly planted and her back stubbornly straight as Prince Lawrence peers over the most unnecessary sunglasses at her and her two stoic guards, a vicious grin plastered on his face.
"So, Junction's having trouble, huh? Nothing to do with our little... mutual friend, is it?"
"Not at all, sir," she replies. "In fact, he's doing quite well for himself. He may take my job at this rate."
And he'd damn well better, she can't help but think. I can't take another night of this shit.
Prince Lawrence lets out a sharp laugh, splashing the water like he's slapping his knee. "Oh! Little Biff, a Sheriff! Hell could freeze over tomorrow, my god. That might be the stupidest move I've heard of since they tried to put that Napoleonic rat in charge of my city!"
His mirth dwindles with every word, each pronunciation more through gritted teeth, until his face morphs into a mask of deathly seriousness. "It would ruin you, you know. Psychotic enough your Prince lets the Thinbloods proliferate as they do. Giving them the reins of real power would be suicide, at the very least social."
"Respectfully, Prince Lawrence," Price interjects, earning her raised eyebrows but no more. "I assure you the problem is not with Junction or its people right now. This conclave is purely precautionary. Justicar Parr has requested them across several regions to reevaluate our Masquerade conditions, on account of the situation in New Mexico."
"New Mexico?" Lawrence snorts out another laugh and cocks his head. "That whole thing? Have we not papered over that yet? Seems like an easy enough fix. Terrorist attack? Mass Hysteria? Nothing?"
Price clings to her veneer of nonchalance and shrugs as best she can. "Hard to say how well a story will stick so soon. We have ours, the government has theirs. Regardless, it's enough to have people in high places concerned. Given your reputation, I'm surprised you're dismissing this so easily."
"My reputation?" Lawrence's tone turns icy. His eyes lock on hers with a sudden flare. "And who are you deciding to take your rumors about me from? Hm? What lies has our little friend been spinning?"
Shitshitshit. Price straightens as imperceptibly as she can, reminded with violent clarity of the old Regent's scrutiny. Every move was his to read, every slight microexpression a perfectly visible tell. This Prince is no Valentino, though. Any tighter control on her body and she might start to unravel by pure force of its will rebelling, but she's tiptoed the edge of worse threats, she thinks. She hopes.
"I apologize," she says, eyes wide with perfect innocence. "Poor phrasing on my part, sir. I only mean that Los Angeles has a reputation for taking care of its Masquerade problems. With swiftness and, where needed, with violence. As does any proper domain."
She manages to contain the full body nausea the last line provokes in her, the memory of too many acts of needless cruelty in the name of "public safety." And thankfully, Lawrence seems satisfied with her answer, or at the very least placated. He settles back in his tub, eyeing her with a little more suspicion, but not open contempt. He pushes his glasses up his forehead and breaks his gaze from her to look out over the Los Angeles skyline, tapping one hand on the rim of the tub to some imperceptible beat.
"I'll tell you this," he says after several moments. "The world has seen plenty of apocalypses in my time. Live long enough and you'll find them to be perfectly ordinary. Just take the last few decades alone. 1999 had about, what, three? Four of them? All in the span of a year? New York, Bangladesh, Atlanta. And that's just the ones we know about-- BRANDON!"
The sudden outburst nearly startles Price out of her skin. She and her guards turn to see a young man, early twenties, clan in swim trunks and a nearly see-through crop top, whose expression has quickly fallen from the perfect neutrality of a trained service worker to fear for his life. The Prince spreads his arms wide and gives him an indignant look. "Can't you see I'm taking a meeting? Fucking scat!"
Brandon is gone before he can even finish, a blur of neon trunks and beachy waves. Price strains to maintain her composure. Every passing second reassures her that Biff has far more patience and fortitude than she might have believed before tonight, possibly qualifying him for some kind of sainthood.
"Apologies," Lawrence says with a dismissive sweep of his hand. "It's so hard to find good help these days. Gen Z and all that. Where were we?"
Price recollects herself as quickly as the moment fades. Valentino's ghost still lingers behind her, measuring the length of her spine moment to moment, the precise balance of the grimoire upon her head. He might be no more than dust sweeping across the gutters of Venice now, but at least his lessons will always be there.
"Apocalypses, sir."
"Right," he smiles with all his teeth, licking at an incisor. "Apocalypses. Now, if 1999 didn't cause a mass uprising among the kine or the total cleansing fire of the Second Inquisition with its three or more cataclysms, what makes a year with two measly notable breaches worth a goddamn conclave? All we have this year is a few zombies in New Mexico and that backwater Tzimisce problem from months ago. Does that really sound worth abandoning our own domains for a weekend? No. Something else is up here. What's the real story?"
Price doesn't speak. Truthfully, she doesn't know how to respond. None of the other Princes had pushed back like this in the face of an Archon's command, even through an intermediary. Vannevar's yes men had said their yeses, and Donner? Well, if you're one of the last remaining Gangrel in high standing with the Camarilla, you need to earn and keep your clout even more than most, don't you? Stupid. Should have expected at least some pushback. She had thought about it once or twice on the way, never voicing it but chewing on the strangeness, the suddenness of it. Archon Leo had little to offer her by way of specifics, hitting her with more "classified" roadblocks to her questions than she'd faced since her fledgling days, but assured her that this was not just a reactionary flinch. Something bigger was brewing. It sure would be nice to know what that something is when the lesser powers that be stare her down with a deeply sarcastic expectant look.
Her silence went long enough. Lacking an immediate enough response turns Prince Lawrence's grin positively wolfish. He leans back with both arms lounging against the walls of the tub and laughs, two hoots to the sky.
"You don't know why they're calling this at all, do you? Ha! What a gas. You think just because you walk in here and claim to be the voice of the big boys in Tower middle management that I'll do whatever you say? Backflip on command? Leave my city for anyone to take it?" He looks past Price and her guards and gestures for someone to come. "Get these guys out of here, we're done."
Seemingly from nowhere, two of his own guard emerge from the edges of the balcony, flanking Price's own. They bristle, hands to their sidearms. Price turns on her heel to face them, holding her loaned men back from leveling anything, blood nearly curdling all the way down to her calves at the thought. One cold war is bad enough for the domain; she will not be responsible for a hot one.
The other two are black-clad and expressionless. They don't have weapons, which when factored in with the runes inscribed across the flesh of their necks and arms worries Price more than if they had. Advanced blood magic beyond her years. She can almost feel it sizzle under their skin. She raises her arms in surrender and opens her mouth to protest, but--
"Aht-aht! Wait!"
Price looks back over her shoulder. The Prince holds up one pausing finger, eyes closed in faux contemplation. The two Tremere stop advancing, staring from behind twin pairs of almost offensively stereotypical round glasses. Price wonders if they chose to wear them at all or if the Prince just thought it would be funny to put them on.
For his part, the Prince spreads his hands, all friendship and contrition and smiles. "You know what? I'll consider it. Only so long as my domain is secured. And I want certain conditions when I arrive."
Price lowers her arms and turns back to face him. She gives a curt nod. "Whatever you request, sir, it can be arranged."
"Whatever? Well. I want the finest penthouse suite in the Crossroads. Nothing but the best."
"Easy." Well, the second nicest can be arranged anyway.
"With a view of the Pacific."
"Of course."
"And I want my pick of the food. I know old Harkon keeps a fine collection on site, but I want the prettiest boy in the bunch. Preferably a blonde. Brandon has to stay for night school, see."
Price shows her teeth in something approximating a smile. "Of course, sir. It will be taken care of. Anything else?"
"Hmm... just one last thing."
Lawrence steps out of the tub for the first time since Price has arrived, takes languid steps to her as he drapes a massive towel from the side over his shoulders, musses his hair into a boyish tousle. He's no larger than Price, not in height or even that much in weight, but the authority, no, the audacity, drips off of him with every step into her space and the pinpricks of sensation in the air around her as she can feel him, so close to imperceptibly, close enough that even she doubts herself that he could be sifting through her thoughts, cataloguing her. No, he's not much taller, but boy, does he look down when he makes his last request, and when he does, she can't control the way her gut squirms.
"I want a private meeting with our little friend. A little time to catch up. See where we're going from here in terms of his... employment."
Price will consider this in the car, finally, mercifully, on the way back up to Junction. As the Archon's waiting ghoul drives her and the two guards, men she's never even seen more than the mouths and hands of past their gear, she will turn and turn over the way he said the word, "employment." There was something to it. She will remember the way her elders in the Pyramid would use the word "intern" against the fledglings, until it took on the air of a slur. To serve in a structure like the Pyramid as it was, and under some domains, is to be inherently less than someone else. How tolerable that position could be lay entirely in the superior's control -- do they see themselves that way? Do they like it that way? How much will they take? Will they leave anything at all? Price doesn't believe for a second that Lawrence is the type who will. That type takes, and takes, for as long as the body can stand it.
And Biff. He withstood decades. Thirty years of service to someone like that.
"I'm so sorry," she says to the window, propping her head against the glass. For the past, for her doubts, for what she's gotten him into. "How the hell did you ever survive?"