Nothing matters. Not the Camarilla. Not the Sabbat presence. Not the people they will kill. Not the people Cliff will save. Not the dead skin monster. Not the Cathedral. Not the Garou. Not the coterie. Not Beth. Not Mom. Not Dad. Dad.

What am I doing here? What is in New York? What am I going to do about these people? Cliff and Hannah are something else. Cliff doesn't know what he's dealing with. If he knew me a little better he wouldn't dare give me orders. That Hanna's got fire. She won't take any shit.

Shit. It's everywhere. Mobea gives me shit. The Cam gives me shit. The werewolves even gave me a little shit, and we aren't even the same species. Not by a long shot.

What am I doing? I don't understand. What is it all for? I have these ridiculous powers and I growl now! This is insane! I'm some kind of monster. Moreso than I was before. How have I gotten here? Brazil. Home. Crap.

Home. The past. It all went to hell pretty early, didn't it? Jesus…I never really had a chance. I never really had a chance. Or is that bullshit? (It's bullshit) I guess I didn't have to turn into a killing machine because my dad was a child-toucher…I could have just turned into white trash, like most of my friends in high shool undoubtedly did…

Shit. Lots of it. Fuckin' Cliff. (He saved your life) How dare he judge me? (Don't forget it) I am not a peaceful man. That's just the way it is. Honor? What is that? I never was taught that. Not at all. I was taught to do what needs to be done. Any means necessary. Follow orders. Honor…The old werewolf's words about dignity…honor. What can that mean?

I've been in it pretty much for myself. If even. Most times I don't think I've even cared about that. Why have I been in it at all? Why do I get such a kick out of killing people? Why are they so dispensable to me?

I may not have started out with very much, but I certainly made a fucking mess out of it. Maybe I should watch the sun rise today.

Parker comes to a tall apartment building that overlooks Flushing Meadows Park. He scales the side, and sits on the edge. The park stretches out in front of him like a shadowy green lake. He hears the sounds of the spring insects coming from the greenery, and a cool, scented wind bolws on his face from the north.

Why did I go into the army? I had to get out. Wasn't there another way? I could have drifted for a while. Bummed around the countryside. Hitched across the desert or something. There's gotta be something cool out in the desert. Nothing but sand and mountains as far as the eye can see. Gotta see desert sometime.

Was there another way? Could I have been a peaceful man? I am not a peaceful man. What was I fighting for? I wasn't fighting for anything. I was killing. I liked it. And now I'm a vampire. Now I get to fuck with people's lives constantly, 'cause they're my food.

There was no other way, I suppose. Does that it mean it's the way I should remain? Maybe I'm just supposed to be fighting. Don't know what, though. There's plenty to fight, but no reason to fight any of it…Why go out and kill Sabbat? Why get myself ripped to pieces when I can just as easily slaughter a few convenience store workers and get that same rush. (No Parker, although both rushes are equally potent, they are far from the same rush. The rush in killing a Sabbat comes from the thrill in overcoming a powerful and dangerous opponent. The rush in killing a convenience store owner comes from the Godlike act of snuffing out a human life that would have otherwise gone on uninterrupted.) I have no reason to fight the Sabbat. Who are the Camarilla to tell me where my territory is? Why should I give a damn to protect it?

The dark purple in the eastern sky begins to fade to deep blue.

I've been in it for myself all these years. Problem being, I'm just not really worth it am I? I don't do much of anything for anybody. Existence for the sake of itself certainly isn't any great shakes. I'm not producing anything, I'm not pleasant to have around. I'm destructive, and short-sighted, and careless, and I have a chip on my shoulder the size of plymouth rock, and I can't entirely be trusted. I wasn't much of a person, and I'm probably going to be one awful vampire before very long at all, if god-damn Mobea is any indication. Maybe I shouldn't even let it happen. Maybe I should let the life-giving sun put an extension on the clock of every poor sap whom I would undoubtedly kill between now and the time I'm too stupid to keep my head on my shoulders. Maybe I should kill myself. (That would make for quite the family portrait, Parker. We can have our own special corner in hell. Suicides, murders, sexual abuse…we're a Freudian analyst's wet-dream come true.) It would be a fitting enough end. One might argue that nothing should get the pleasure of killing me except myself.

Then again there's always immortality. If what they tell me about my blood's true, it might just happen. Eigth generation…Ennoia…There are a small handful of kindred between myself and…something. Another murderer, if the stories are true. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is just the way I should have wound up. Maybe God laid the mark of Cain on me through Mobea.

Parker lifts his eyes skyward and laughs softly. Above him, the sky grows slightly pale. He runs his fingers over the burn scars on his face, already beginning to fade.

I'm so powerful. (Yes you are, get over it, and stop using your powers like a god damn three year old. It's time to grow up, Christian Parker.) Fuck You. (No, Fuck You. I'm right. You are a vampire. You have been given something that very few receive.) Though there is little discrimination amongst sires, based on some of the vampires I've met. (Despite that, we have something that was preserved forever.) Yes, and we've determined that Mobea undoubtedly embraced me so her powerful blood and my cracked mortal psyche could create for her a powerful childe with whom she would have a much better foothold in this age. The first thing she told me to do was work a car for her. I will not be her servant. That's the only reason I accepted Angel's blood bond.

Ah, Angel…(You fucking moron) She's the only one worth trusting. (Maybe so, but you're leashed now.) Mobea would have had me otherwise, for certain. (She may well have had too much respect for your autonomy to do that to you.) Perhaps, but that wasn't worth the risk. (Perhaps.) Decisions like that need to be made. (I know.) She is wonderful, though… Powerful… beautiful… kind…trustworthy. Hm. And to think, they say she's a Toreador.

Maybe it is time to grow up. Maybe there is some "good" that I can bring myself to do…Maybe there is something at all that I can bring myself to do.

('atta boy, Parker. That's a good start. Do something.)

Below, a gray-haired woman pushes a shopping cart laboriously along a street that cuts past the park. Parker, alerted by her squeaking wheels, picks her moving form out of the stillness below with an eagle's eye. He slowly runs his tongue along his lips, then his fangs, as they push through the soft tissue of his gums, almost reflexively, at the thought of

Blood.

Parker leans forward on his haunches ever so slightly, a guttural rumble rising in his throught like rolling thunder. The beast, fat and greedy on this particular night, rolls over and stretches in the back of Parker's mind. Hunger wells up in the young vampire like dark water. He briefly calculates the height of the apartment building, the position of the woman…six stories…ten feet out…he could pounce directly on top of her. God, he loves doing that. Death from above. His eyes brighten, a pale golden glow piercing the late night shade. She flares into full vision. Her white hair is pulled on top of her fragile old head. She is slightly hunched over, wearing a brown coat. She is not very clean. She is shivering. She would collapse with the impact. Her blood would run like streams. He pushes himself back, away from the edge, and holds his head. He forces his teeth into place. Commands his eyes to return to normal. He stops growling. Parker struggles to momentarily reassert what scraps of his humanity remain.

God, dammit Parker…this is when you have to think…She's just some old woman. There's better blood to be scared up out there. What the hell am I going to do? (You want a purpose, Christian Parker?) I...

His thoughts run silent for a moment, as he sees the eastern sky. The dark clouds of the night sky have become a light pink, with the first few traces of gold on the horizon.

Shit.

Survival instincts kick in, eradicating any thoughts of suicide on this night. He springs from the rooftop, and lands in a heap on the pavement. A moment later he drags himself to his feet, and with a moment of concentration, heals the minor leg damage from the fall. He runs.

I must get better at doing that… (So? Do you want a purpose, Christian Parker? That's half the battle.) What? What am I going to do? (That's not the important part right now. All you have to do is decide to do something with yourself…then just wait for it to come along…Stop being such a crybaby. Just do something. )

Parker runs across the park, his skin warming uncomfortably to the touch of the encroaching glare of the morning sun. Seeing no shelter, he acts without hesitation. Dead blood sparks into action, transforming fingers into claws, and driving muscles to peak human exertion. Parker tears through the moist clods of earth effortlessly, securing himself a momentary grave in between some trees. He begins to feel the searing light on the back of his neck just as he covers himself. A cold weariness spills into Parker's muscles as the sun breaks through the trees.

Just a few feet under, but I should be fine…(A purpose, Parker?) Yeah…if I find one…(You will. It's almost time.) I don't understand…

Sleep comes. The daytime death. It steals into Parker's mind with its promise to ease the disquiet for a few hours. The childe sleeps in his earthen coffin, precious feet away from certain death. He sleeps, and dreams. Faces dance through his unconscious thoughts. The face of a monster with the conviction of a crusader. The heart of a monster with the face of an Angel. The years-dead face of a man who had slate-gray eyes, blond hair, and ancestral, German cheekbones, inherited from his own father, who had come over on the boat. Parker would toss and turn at the sight of that face in his dreams, if he could move. He would weep all of his stolen blood onto the ground if he only had the tears. He sees those eyes with hheir fixed stare - dead. Accusing him of his first crime. Cain. Biblical slayer of his

Father.

The word screams in Parker's dreams. Those eyes. Once so like his own. They are not his eyes anymore.

The dream begins to shift, to quiet. Deep in Parker's breast lies a heart, cold, still, and shriveled. It is the heart of a lion. Not dead, but sleeping a long sleep. The day that heart stirs, its roar will deafen the world.