Hook, Line, and Sinking Feeling

The revolver rattled across the table, its weight apparent in the deep tones it pounded out of the wooden surface.

"Is Enchanted," the thick, Russian accent of the man known to Michael simply as "SVD" informed the prospective buyer with the tired air of someone who was repeating himself.
"I know that, that's why I'm here," the young Ventrue across the table from the Russian answered with the agitation of someone who was repeating himself, but valued his time very highly.

The Russian chuckled, unimpressed by the pale man's tone of voice. He reached for an open bottle of vodka on the table, and took a deep pull from it without breaking eye contact with his buyer before using the less-full bottle to indicate the briefcase Michael had opened toward him across the table.

"That's money," SVD told Michael, as if the neonate might be unaware of what he had been given to bring.
"I know that!" Michael answered, his agitation growing. "I bring you money, you give me the gun. I counted it already, it's five thousand dollars. Look: my boss swears by you, ok? You're the best, he knows that, he raved about the power, accuracy, and untraceability of the rifle he bought from you. Now, I'm trying to buy on his behalf. Five thousand should more than cover your costs."

"Is Enchanted," the Russian repeated himself one last time.
Michael's Beast kicked against the perceived insult, and his eyes flashed with vampiric power as he rose from his chair to look down on the impetuous mortal. His words subtly echoed with the inertia of centuries of obedience as he stopped the mortal in the middle of grasping the grip of the revolver to retract it, commanding, "Put the gun in the briefcase."

For a moment, SVD remained still, still looking up at Michael, still holding the gun, still maddeningly unreadable. Michael stood his ground, glaring at the mortal, waiting for him to obey.

The table seemed to move before SVD did, its broad, thick wooden surface rising up like a tidal wave. Michael shouted with surprise before he noticed one of the Russian's legs continuing to rise after pressing up from the table's underside, but by then he was being forced backward as the tremendous force of the weapons dealer's movement flipped the sturdy table toward him. Unpracticed at evading surprise attacks, especially ones resulting from a mortal - a mortal! - overcoming the force of his will, Michael stumbled, fell, and cried out again at the weight of the table crushed down on one of his legs. His pain compounded as the bear-like Russian walked across the table's underside, military boots crushing down on the trapped limb while arms burly enough to now be noticed through the weight of a fur-lined coat slouched at the man's side.

SVD took a knee at the edge of the table, his rugged face and dark eyes utterly dispassionate. The hand holding the revolved hung from a wrist resting atop his knee, and its knuckles were covered in dark blue tattoos; Cyrllic symbols whose meanings eluded Michael's panicking attentions at multiple levels. The wrist rotated, and the gun's polished metal glinted despite the hulking frame of its owner and maker casting it in shadow away from the single lamp overhead.

"Money," SVD lectured his captive audience, "Is for normal weapons. Normal weapons require that which money can buy: metal, rubber, silicone, oil. Enchanted weapons require that which money can not. Enchanted weapons require that which you can not understand, except if I say this word: Vitae. You want weapon. I take Vitae."

Michael's eyes widened with horror, and his mouth opened in protest, but both were ignored as the Slav simply slipped his wrist off his knee, and the barrel of the revolved fell onto the vampire's thigh. Michael leaned forward, hands outstretched, and SVD's finger curled, pulling the trigger.

Michael had never been shot before, but he had seen his sire laugh at a failed assassination attempt by a gun-wielding ghoul. He tried to call upon the preternatural resilience in his blood as his sire had taught him, but the bullet from the revolver never gave him the chance. The young businessman screamed as what felt like unfiltered sunlight pierced the meat of his thigh, shattered his femur, and sent displaced Vitae fountaining from entry- and exit-wound alike. Something glinted in the arms dealer's eyes that hadn't been there before, and he leaned forward, his free hand outstretched. Its bare palm pressed into the growing puddle pooling on the floor from beneath Michael's trapped leg, and then the Russian's face became a mask of anger, and he let loose a string of curses in more languages than Michael could recognize through the vitriol.

When the cursing abated, the hand pulled out of the blood puddle. It reached forward and grabbed Michael by the hair, then used that grip to help SVD shift forward off the table. Michael was still terrified, and in unprecedented pain, and he knew that the effort he was having to spend on keeping his Beast caged was preventing him from reacting with full faculties against the mad Russian's actions. SVD twisted Michael's head by his hair, forcing him to contort his body until his shin was pulled out from under the table, and his face was forced into the blood pooled in the small crater left by the bullet's impact. "Drink," SVD ordered.

Michael obeyed. His fangs extended, his mouth opened, and he supped on his own Vitae, eager to restore the lost strength. He swallowed once, and then became wracked by spasms as his body rejected the sanguine sustenance. Bewildered, he tried turning his head as he vomited up his own vintage. SVD laughed cruelly, and then threw Michael's head down into the puddle before rising to his own feet. At height, he dropped the heavy revolver onto Michael's back, adding more trash to the heap.

"Vitae is now blood. Enchanted... now is not. Was wasted on lesson. Tell your boss that I require Vitae for every transaction he sends you on, in addition to regular price - cost of making me deal with a bitch. Also, do not arrange for future meetings with strangers in secret places; you never know what night hides, da? Korosho," the Russian set terms as he adjusted his coat. With the meeting's business concluded from his perspective, and part of the proceedings involving him establishing that his perspective was the only relevant one, SVD left the room.

Michael remained still, letting his own blood stain his pale face and fine clothing, until he was sure the overwhelming arms dealer was gone. Then, he reached a hand into his breast pocket, and extracted the cell phone that had spent the meeting tucked within. He hit a button, and the cracked screen illuminated. "Hello?" he asked the broken display of random colors.

"Michael!" a male voice on the other line answered anxiously, "Michael, what happened?"
"You were right, sir," Michael answered begrudgingly, "We won't have to worry about that Gangrel if our man has SVD's 'special stock.' But... Are you really sure about dealing with this maniac? He didn't even blink when I Dominated him."
"Don't question me," the voice responded angrily, "I didn't have you act as bait for nothing. We're seeing this through. Every man has his price, this arms dealer was just now kind enough to state his directly, and it is one that is practically free for us to produce. I'm sending a car around to pick you up, everything will be fine."

Michael tried to sort through the distractions of the Beast to recall the sounds uttered when the Russian was cursing. He could recognize English naturally, along with Romantic languages and Slavic syllables, and suspected some Oriental syllables as well. Somewhere in the middle, however, were several syllables that he could not recall, save for the deep unease with which they instilled him.

Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.

You have a way with words, Vicar!

Loved it!

Very interesting character in the Russian arms dealer there! Extremely well written too!