The demands of the Long Dark grow with each night, Cross reflects. It’s something Priest Paul was fond of saying to him, back in LA. And, as Cross hurries through the darkness of the catacombs, burdened by his own sin, he finally starts to see what the Priest might have meant.

This sin that burdens him. Tonight, it is not just metaphysical. No, it is very much physical. Sin made flesh. In short: it is a man, unconscious—barely drawing breath, but alive. An old man. Homeless, derelict, worn out by years of booze and drugs and God knows what else. But a man nonetheless. And Cross is taking him to his death.

Why? Well, the answer is simple enough: Longstreet is awake after his month-long sleep. And he is hungry.

That’s how the Burned Man had found his fellow Haunt. Having descended into the catacombs earlier that night on the orders of Reeve and Prince, to collect his torpid Family member and bring him to the Nox. The howls of rage alone had told him that it was too late to transport Longstreet as promised. Cross had looked upon him—the mere Beast where his Brother should be—just long enough to satisfy himself that the chains would hold and then withdrawn knowing exactly what must be done.

And so, he’d done it. No other choice. Finding the right victim wasn’t hard. Getting him into the Underground was a little more difficult, but nothing a tarp couldn’t help along. He’d paused in the above-ground haven long enough to text the Reeve, letting her know of the situation, before descending once again.

So now, here he is, following the animal sounds of Longstreet through the dark. A soon-to-be dead man slung over his shoulder. A change of clothes for his Brother held under his other arm. Trying not to think of what is about to happen. Trying and failing.

It can’t be helped, Cross tells himself. It must be done.

In the small cul-de-sac deep in the catacombs where Cross had stored Longstreet’s torpid body it is all the roaring of the Beast and the sound of its struggle against the chains. Cross’s heightened senses allow him a clear view of his Brother, though, and the sight is terrifying. This, he thinks, this is what all Kindred truly are. Deep down. At the bottom of it all. It would be instructive if it weren’t so disheartening. Longstreet writhes. Growling, gnashing his teeth.

Solemnly, Cross crouches, setting down the clothes, before straightening. With a grunt, he rearranges the body of his offering, cradling the man’s unmoving form in his fire-scarred arms. He does not move for a long time. He is praying, but not in language. Not in thought even. He is praying with silence, steeling himself.

And then he approaches. Kneeling beside Longstreet, trying to ignore the increased pitch and frequency of the howls. Trying to ignore the sound of his Brother’s teeth snapping and grinding. For a moment, he locks eyes with the Beast. Its eyes are wide, feral. There is no thought there. No trace of the Man. Only hunger.

Again, Cross shifts the victim’s weight, repositioning his burden so as to offer the soft flesh of his throat to Longstreet, holding the greasy hair, keeping the head steady. All the Beast must do is bite.

”Drink,” Cross hisses. His voice sounding strange, awful, in the dark. ”Drink, Brother. Come back to us.”

And Longstreet does. He tears into the Offering’s throat. And drinks and drinks and drinks. Cross looks away, wishes he could block his ears against the terrible sounds. The worst, perhaps, are the moans made the Old Man. The Old Man, dying in a wave of ecstasy.

It does not take long for the Beast to finish its meal. Such hunger is a void that only Blood can fill. And Longstreet takes it into himself in great gulps. When Cross tosses the corpse aside, disgusted, and stands, Longstreet resumes his struggle against the chains. But the Beast is fat with blood and the growls and the thrashing are not so vigorous anymore.

The Burned Man retreats a few steps and crouches, waiting for his Brother to come back. And while he waits, he ponders his Sin. Unable to escape it.

Degeneration Rolls

Time passes and, as it does, Cross begins to see things more clearly. Are the Damned not Holy Wolves among the living? Is it not true that God has tasked them to be a scourge upon humanity? What, then, has the Burned Man done wrong? Nothing! He has simply fulfilled his Holy task. And helped another member of the Dark Faith in the process.

Suddenly Cross realizes that it has grown quiet. When he looks, he finds Longstreet watching him, eyes calm and clear. And Cross knows that it’s over.

“Brother Longstreet,” he says. “Welcome back.”

And with that he busies himself freeing his Brother from the chains.

Written in consultation with Yumyumcrow and Woland!