Robert Cross

Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.

On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition).

This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.

Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.

Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Requiem, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.

Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.

When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.

All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.

Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.