Robert Cross Glimpses

[Robert Cross]

“We can show the rich their poverty, we can show the powerful their weakness, we can show the healthy their decay, and we can show the pious their hypocrisy. To all men we can show the misery and depredation of the physical world, so that their souls may yearn more intensely for the kingdom that may be theirs, through the grace of God.”

Tyler Dunn is 32. He is a lobbyist working in the capital city of California. Every day he leaves his wife and two children (ages 6 and 4) at their posh apartment and travels 15 minutes to the offices of his firm, located down the street from the Capitol building. Often, he works late into the night. Just as often, he leaves work at a decent hour, but stays out late all the same. No doubt, on those nights, his wife believes that he is still at the office.

But where does Tyler go? Sometimes it’s the bar, to have drinks with his fellow lobbyists, or with a politician he’s trying to sway. Sometimes his destination is less legitimate. Tonight, for instance, it’s a small, off-the-books gambling parlor in Del Paso Heights.

Mr. Dunn is slumming it. And he doesn’t want anyone to know. So he’s parked his Lexus down the street from the entertainment. And that’s where Cross is waiting for him when he returns from a long night of throwing his money away.

The street is deserted and Tyler walks quickly up to his car, no doubt anxious to get home, lie to his wife, and get some sleep. He’s fumbling in his pocket for his keys when Cross steps up behind him. The blow comes quickly, knocking the mark out cold.

Cross drags him around to the other side of the car, out of the street. The night is clear and the moon is almost full, it’s light allows Cross to examine his meal. Blond hair, blue eyes, handsome. Well built, with a physique that speaks to hours spent at the gym. A suit worth more than all of the clothing his assailant owns. Rolex watch, which Cross takes, along with Mr. Dunn’s wallet.

He’s still breathing, but a trickle of blood is starting to run down the left temple. He’ll feel the pistol whip tomorrow. Not that Cross cares. Especially once he catches sight of that red line inching its way down the side of Tyler’s unblemished face. When he sees that, nothing matters but his hunger.

When he’s finished eating, Cross licks the wound and stands. After a moment’s thought, he crouches down and fishes the car keys from his mark’s pocket. Standing again, he throws them, as hard as he can, into the night.

It seems Mr. Dunn will have to call Mrs. Dunn in the morning and explain himself. As he drives away, Cross wonders how the lobbyist will manage to spin that.

[Robert Cross]

  Cloak of Night

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-07-08 13:04:15		Robert Cross rolls 6 to Cloak of Night: Intel2 + Stealth1 + Obfuscate3 (10 Again)		6, 3, 2, 9, 5, 6		1 success

There are nights where the hunt just happens. You don’t go looking, it finds you.

One moment you’re walking the streets, getting away from the family maybe, or coming up for some air after a particularly long stretch in the Necropolis, and the next you’re following some Breather a little too closely, with a little too much interest.

Who knows what gets the whole thing going. A furtive look in the eye? Some errant movement of the limbs? A barely recognizable scent of fear? Something altogether more mystical? It’s impossible to say. But suddenly, some passerby goes from being a nobody, a face in the crowd, to a mark, to The Mark. Your one and only.

Often, Cross reigns himself in when this happens. It’s too careless, too casual. He’s too pragmatic to follow such a whim.

But not tonight. Tonight he goes with it.

Maybe it’s because he’s wearing the Cloak.

Or maybe it’s the Victim that’s presented himself: a mean looking old man, out for an evening stroll, no doubt eaten up with bitterness at a world that’s already passed him by.

Something about the way he holds himself reminds Cross of his father. The squint to the eyes. The balled up fists. The beleaguered hunch of his shoulders. Anyway, that’s all it takes.

Unseen, he follows the Old Man on his walk to the corner store to buy some cigarettes and lotto tickets.

Unseen, he follows the Old Man back home, a house with structural issues that rival those of the building that serves as the Necropolis’s above-ground entrance.

Unseen, he follows the Old Man inside, slipping through the front door as it closes. And it's immediately clear that The Mark lives alone.

Unseen, he stops and watches as the Old Man lights a cigarette in a living room cluttered with yellowed newspapers and other trash, the beast easily restrained given the pitiful flame of the lighter.

Unseen, he follows the Old Man down a narrow hallway and into his darkened bedroom.

Cross takes him just inside the doorway. A single blow to the back of the head with the butt of his 9mm. Wishing this Old Man really was his father. In the dark, foul smelling bedroom, the burned haunt drinks his fill, kneeling and bending over the Old Man’s prone form.

Not enough to kill. Just enough to stave off the hunger for another night.

Before he stands, he picks the still-lit cigarette up off the filthy carpet, not wanting anything to catch fire. He takes a drag, filling dead lungs with smoke and pushing it out again, listening to the rattling breath of his most recent victim.

And then it’s time to go.

He let’s himself out the back door, flicking the butt off into night, to land in a yard overgrown with weeds. He checks his surroundings. Clear. And so he pulls the cloak again.

  Cloak of Night

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-07-08 13:04:48		Robert Cross rolls 6 to Cloak of Night: Intel2 + Stealth1 + Obfuscate3 (10 Again)		5, 3, 5, 1, 9, 1		1 success

And now he’s really gone.

[Robert Cross]

Family.

It's a word that his clan uses a lot. That his soon-to-be former Priscus uses a lot. A word that Cross has come to take very seriously since arriving in Sacramento.

Family. The anchor and object of his sense of duty. Of purpose. Of meaning. And now a source of doubt. The domain matters, of course, and Cross has done his best to serve it. Will continue to do so.

But Family still comes first, even if he would never admit that fact to anyone outside of the Necropolis.

The Deep Kingdom is quiet tonight. Especially after the uproar of Court. Only the sounds of rats, and other things scurrying in the gloom, find Cross through the open door of his sepulcher-office. There, he sits behind his desk in the dark, his supernaturally heightened vision allowing him to see as if it were noon-day. The stacks of papers close at hand. Notes, plans, proposals for the continued safety of his Regent's domain and his Family's holdings. His gun, his knife. His now-worn copy of the Testament of Longinus given out by Gilroy at the Moore House after a lecture. That seems like a long time ago now.

It's Gilroy's choice of Reeve that won't stop bothering him. Victoria Stamford. Cross goes over what he knows, despite his lack of contact with the Seneschal's choice: A Lord. Invictus. Recently returned to the domain. Old--or at least possessed of a potent beast. Beautiful, obviously. And obviously just as deadly. On paper, a good choice both politically and practically. Anyone can see that. She would surely please the Prince, and she no doubt possesses the power and savvy needed for the job.

On the other hand, there's the question of Family. And Cross is having a hard time seeing how Gilroy's choice helps their cause. He's tried to tell himself that there must be some angle, some reason, some explanation that is escaping him. He cannot know the mind of his Regent, his Bishop.

But it just won't sit.

In the dark, a scarred hand reaches for the Testament but pauses upon touching it, fingers resting on the book's cover. Wait, Cross. Wait and see. Give him a chance to show his thinking, he councils himself. Not quite believing it.

[Robert Cross]

  1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-08-09 09:18:28		Robert Cross rolls 5 to Cloak of Night: Intel2 + Stealth1 + Obfuscate3 - 1 (second attempt) (10 Again)		5, 4, 9, 3, 6		1 success

Cross sits, cloaked by shadows, on the roof of the shared haven that serves as the entrance to the Necropolis. He's been working on the building all night, reinforcing doors and windows, clearing rooms of debris, attempting to make more of the structure habitable. The results are acceptable, even if there's more work to do. As always.

That's where Greenberg's letter reaches him.

Now, it's getting late, and Cross has climbed up here, invisible to the eyes of world, to survey the neighborhood and consider the contents of his new Priscus's missive (which he'd torn into tiny pieces and thrown into a storm drain, swollen with rain water, after reading).

So the decision has been made. Again, Gilroy has acted without consulting him, or any other family member (or so Cross assumes). He's chosen Greenberg to lead them without giving them a choice or a say in the matter (even if their opinions didn't actually make a difference). Cross understands that this is the Seneschal's right. But he also believes that a good leader, a strong leader, has to involve his subordinates in decisions of such import. Or at least provide the appearance of doing so. Is the High Worm trying to sow discord in their ranks? To what end?

It's a good thing Jack isn't here to see this... And isn't that convenient? Cross refuses to allow himself to wander down that road. Such paranoid thinking only brings trouble.

Still, there are patterns emerging. Things that seem to be more than coincidence. For example: this makes two members of the Invictus that Gilroy has elevated to positions of importance in the domain. Is this some secret alliance, or just an attempt to curry favor with the Prince? Cross hopes it is the former, at least Gilroy would gain something in that instance. The latter comes off as nothing more than simpering or slavish.

Cross watches a car roll slowly down the street. Watches the wind blow trash across the yard. Thinks.

Could he serve under Greenberg? Does it really matter? For one, it's not his choice. For another, no matter who the Priscus is, Cross was named Sheriff by Regent Gilroy, not Priscus Gilroy. But how should that be handled?

The night slowly unwinds as the Burned Man ponders the sudden changes to the outlines of his unlife. To the dynamics of Domain and Family that have offered him a stability that he sorely needed. One way or another there's nothing to do but keep going. Weather whatever upheaval would result from Gilroy's decisions. And to help his Family do the same. That doesn't mean he won't continue to harbor his suspicions.

Cross will serve. But he will not forget.

[Robert Cross]

Undeath forces a man to do things he'd never thought he could. Sometimes these things are supernatural, but just as often they are mundane. Take tonight, for example. Cross is attending a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, something that--in life--he would never have considered. Despite the fact that, when he was breathing, he'd been a raging alcoholic. Indeed, the only thing that kept him from dying in a bottle was the taste of Sick Vic's blood.

Funny how things work out.

So, here he is, at his first AA meeting. Of course, no one knows he's attending, thanks to the cloak of shadows that hides him from the eyes of the Kine. He sits in the back of the church, one of those small houses of worship that crop up in strip malls these days, that use their space for services and meetings such as this one.

  1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-08-11 10:29:23		Robert Cross rolls 6 to Cloak of Night: Intel2 + Stealth1 + Obfuscate3 (10 Again)		8, 6, 1, 4, 7, 3		1 success

He sits, impassive, listening to their stories of woe. Watching them weep, try to be strong, drink coffee, fidget with their fingers in their laps. He watches them confess their sins to one another, seeking comfort, absolution.

At the end of the evening's events, the woman leading the meeting, Brenda is her name, stands at the front of the small gathering and unfolds her own litany of transgressions. Broken friendships, lost marriage, abandonment of children, homelessness, theft, self-abuse. The whole laundry list of someone who gave their life over to the bottle.

Unseen, Cross watches, and he listens.

The woman ends her story and the meeting itself with that prayer, completely useless, that serves as one of AA's many mantras, her pathetic flock joining in with her:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

With that, the walking wounded file out to chain smoke in the parking lot. To spend another night wondering whether they have the strength to resist temptation. Only two remain: Brenda and her invisible friend.

Cross watches her clean up, humming to herself. Watches as she picks up trash, straightens chairs, and then moves the coffee thermos into the adjacent kitchen, cutting the lights in the main room when she does so. In the darkness, he pulls down the black ski mask he's been wearing, rolled up, as a hat, breaking the cloak. Confident she can't see him anyhow, not in the gloom that has descended on the main meeting area. He watches her for another moment, through a cut-out in the wall between the kitchen and the rest of the church, silhouetted by the fluorescent lights.

Then, he kicks over a chair, a clattering explosion of sound in the darkness. He moves quickly after he does so, taking up a position to one side of the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.

"Who's there?" Brenda calls, her voice tight with anxiety, even if she's trying to hide it. "Who's out there?" Cross doesn't answer. He waits.

Eventually, the doors swing outward and Brenda emerges from the kitchen. "Hello?"

Cross reaches out and grabs her, spinning to pin her against the wall beside the door, his scarred lips a hair's breath away from her ear. He pulls the gun from it's holster at the small of his back and slams it against the wall, besides her head. "Don't make a sound," he whispers.

She does, but it's only a whimper as she begins to cry.

"That was some performance tonight," Cross continues. "Do you imagine that, because you do this, all of your sins will be forgiven?" A choked sob is his only reply. "Well, I'm here to tell you that you aren't. Forgiven. You will never be forgiven. Repentance is not enough. It's never enough."

He lets the words hang in the air, let's her breathe them in with her ragged gasping. "Please..." she starts, but he's already bringing the butt of the gun down on the top of her head.

Brenda crumples. And Cross pulls up the bottom of his mask, crouching down to feed, licking the wound when he's finished.

When he leaves, her body is an indistinct mass on the floor. The only sound in the room is her breathing, shallow and fast.

Outside, the parking lot, littered with cigarette butts, is empty.

[Robert Cross]

Cops can be assholes. Cross knows this. As a former cop, he’s a long-time asshole himself.

He’s often wondered whether it’s the job that does it to a person, or if it’s just that the profession attracts assholes. Real chicken or the egg shit. Not that it matters—the result is always the same.

Tonight has offered fresh evidence of this fact. Evidence he really doesn’t require. He’s been making calls, trying to rustle up some evidence concerning “The Volunteers,” that group of vigilantes stirring shit up in the city, dropping bodies and asking about things they shouldn’t.

  failure

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-08-19 08:15:24		Robert Cross rolls 3 to Manip2 + Persuasion1 (1s Subtract)		6, 6, 3		failure

His first “friend” on the force hangs up on him when he mentions their name.

  failure

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-08-19 08:16:14		Robert Cross rolls 2 to Manip2 + Persuasion1 - 1 Second Attempt (1s Subtract)		2, 7		failure

His second wants to know who he’s working for. When Cross demurs, he’s told to “find a client who knows how to show a little money” before the line goes dead.

  1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-08-19 08:16:46		Robert Cross rolls 1 to Manip2 + Persuasion1 - 2 Third Attempt (10 Again)		10, 7		1 success

Finally, there’s old Phil. When the drunk picks up, Cross is surprised he could hear the phone ring, given how deep he’s crawled into the bottle. A slurred greeting: “Well lookit, Bobby Bacon!” Cross grits his teeth, imagines ripping the fat fuck limb from limb. “Evening, Phil. You got a second for a question?”

Heavy breathing over the phone slowly becomes a chuckle, “Sure, anything for you, Bobby.” Cross can’t tell if he’s serious or not. He decides to play it like Phil’s being genuinely friendly, as unlikely as that may be.

“Thanks, Phil. Listen—you heard anything about these Volunteers? I’m working for a lawyer representing the family of a victim. They’re trying to get any information they can about these assholes.”

Phil’s snort is appropriately porcine. “Oh them? Yeah, I heard about that. You ask me, they’re doing the city a favor.” Cross finds himself rubbing his forehead, as if he could still get a headache. Bad company brings back bad habits.

“Yeah, I get it, Phil. I do. But these humps they’re dropping, they’ve got families, you know? Kids. Mouths to feed.” For a moment, Cross feels like he’s getting across to the guy, but then comes a long, wet burp. “Yeah, so?” The fucker.

“Okay, listen here, you asshole. You don’t care about them? Fine. Do it for me. As a favor. You know I’m good for it.” He tries to keep his voice even, but the anger is right underneath the surface.

“Woah there, Bobby. No need to get all worked up. I’ll do it for you, then. Why didn’t you just say so?” Another snorting laugh.

But, for what it’s worth, Phil does deliver: “From what I hear, they’re focused on the east side. That’s where they’ve been dropping all those corpses. And that’s where they’ve got this storage unit.” Cross scribbles down the address. “No unit number though, so good luck there.”

A moment of silence. “Oh yeah, and a couple of the thugs we’ve brought in, compatriots of the deceased, have mentioned someone by the name of Augustine. They claim he’s not a member of the Vol-un-teers, but that he still knows shit, that he’s got information about them. Sounds like a bunch of street-rat crap to me,” Cross can hear the jaded shrug of Phil’s shoulders in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good Phil. Thanks. I owe you.” Cross looks down at his notes, thinking everything over.

“No problem Bobby. Anything for a sweet piece of meat like you,” the Pig snivels over the line. “Even if you are a little well-done.”

“Oh fuck off.” Cross hangs up the phone and starts to dial another contact, this one on the other side of the law. Looking to corroborate some details. He expects the criminal will be a little more civilized.

As he waits for someone to answer, he throws the note pad in the passenger seat and starts the car. The engine turns over, Dave Douglas starts playing. Might as well do a drive-by of this storage unit facility, see what’s what. And what isn’t.

[Robert Cross]

First Garrick, Whip.

Then Greenberg, Priscus.

And finally Gilroy; Bishop, Regent, and Seneschal.

The last one hurt the most. Gilroy, despite their rocky start, had become a central point for Cross's unlife in the domain. Everything seems uncertain in his absence: the Burned Man's position above and below ground, his spiritual development, all is suddenly thrown into question. Somewhere, deep down, he feels a fire still burning, one he thought extinguished long ago: the flame of his anger and resentment toward Gilroy suddenly springing back into existence. And he knows it will be hard to put out.

Cross, Constable no longer, obsessively reviews the departures in his head as he does his rounds of what used to be the Deep Kingdom. There's no point in the matter anymore, other than habit. And a desire to make sure that he and Alice stay safe. Still, down here in the dark, away from all other eyes, he is at home. He wears nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans. He doesn't mind the grime, the fetid water, the feel of filth on his scarred flesh.

All of them gone in a matter of weeks. Some permanently, some not-so-permanently. Or so they said. It amounts to the same thing: he and Alice are alone. Alone in the dark of a Necropolis falling into disrepair. Alone in a world of Monsters that would always see them as less. Alone in their quest to keep the prospects of their Family alive in the domain despite critically diminished numbers.

Alone. But alone together. There's that at least.

Cross had freely given her the position of Priscus. Because she arrived in the city first. Because he truly believes she's the better representative for Clan Nosferatu. Because he knows she can do it. And because he would rather serve her than have it the other way around.

Whip is a better title for me, anyway, he thinks.

The night stretches on, though the darkness underground never changes. And deep inside Cross a fire burns.

[Robert Cross]

When involved in an investigation, or stalking prey, Cross has always been methodical. It's just his way: to gather all of the information possible, to watch and wait until the moment is just right, to understand the patterns and habits of those he observes, stalks, and eventually takes. At times, he has to force himself to stop, to move beyond preparation into the realm of action.

Tonight is one of those nights. He's decided it's time to send a text to a special friend.

Since finding the Cell Phone beneath the ruins of the Crone's Farm House with Alice, he's been examining it. Often, the Blind Doll would find him sitting in their sepulcher, or out in the Caldarium, scrolling through text messages. Reading missives from the mysterious B. to their fellow conspirators over and over again.

At first, he was looking for clues, hints as to the Brood Cell's organization and intentions. But then, a plan began to form: if he could learn B.'s style, their manner of texting, their habits of communication, the Burned Man might be able to impersonate B., thereby fooling one or more of their cohort into a meeting. He'd settled on Trudi, who seemed to be on the outs with the rest of the group, figuring she might more open to a meeting without the rest of their cohort and therefore more vulnerable. The hope is that they can incapacitate her and take her captive, thus gaining a source of information. But if all else fails, Trudi will just have to end her nights a pile of ash. One more pawn off the board.

So, he's sitting in his car, parked down the road from the entrance to the Necropolis, where the reception is good, when he sends the first message:

Trudi, it's me. Where are you?

  failure

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-09-30 09:12:52		Robert Cross rolls 4 to Intel2 + Subterfuge1 +1Modifier (10 Again)		7, 3, 7, 3		failure

The response is not encouraging:

Who the fuck is this?

Taking a moment to consider, Cross decides to go for it:

Who the fuck do you think? It's B. Stop fucking around. I've got something I have to show you. Can we meet?

A few minutes of radio silence. Cross sits in utter stillness, staring at the phone. And then:

  1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-09-30 09:26:24		Robert Cross rolls 3 to Intel2 + Subterfuge1 +1Modifier -1 second attempt (10 Again)		4, 8, 1		1 success

Where?

Cross can't help but grin; a cold, predatory smile, all scarred flesh and flashing teeth. Got you, asshole.

Our spot beneath the farm.

Might as well take the first steps toward finishing it in the place where things began. More than poetic justice though, the location is isolated, and both parties know how to get there.

Now it's time to recruit back-up and set all the pieces in position. Cross has to admit, he's starting to like this.