Chapter Text
Damsel was not sentimental, but she recalled some moments of her afterlife with warmth. The first hunt, the first encounter with other Kindreds, the first tests of what she is now capable of, the first blow to the face of the leader of the anarchs of Downtown...
When you are still a neonate, you need to obey the elders, for not to get stuck anywhere. Even despite their rebellious nature. But everything has a limit.
A bright red can of graffiti paint twirled deftly in Damsel's hand as she traced the slightly clumsy letters "Fuck Cammy" on the wall. The jet of paint stopped for a moment, because of which I had to shake the can.
"What the hell are you doing?” came a male voice from behind her. "Have you lost your mind? It's the masquerade breach!”
Damsel turned in the direction of the one cursing at her. The face looked familiar, but she didn't know the name.
"Don't be crazy. This can be easily painted over,” she snorted back and nodded towards the other two cans of spray paint, a gray color that perfectly matched the color of the wall. “I'm not an idiot, after all”.
“So, bonnet,” he called her according to the principle of the first detail of the image clinging to the eye, “You take the paint and quickly paint over everything!”
“It is a beret,” Damsel chuckled, but did as he said anyway. "Are you going to be the warden here?"
Exactly. She had seen him among the other anarchs, but had not yet had time to get to know him better. Sire acted by the method by which children were usually taught to swim: “if you want to live, swim, if you don’t want to, sink.” Only in the anarch community: get to know them by yourself, find out everything by yourself, no one will especially babysit you.
“Until you get rid of the inscription. What is your name?”
"Damsel," she muttered. The hissing sound of paint squeezing out and air escaping from the can slightly offset her emerging annoyance, like typical ASMR from the internet.
“Nines,” the warden introduced himself. "Panama hat, paint over there again”.
Her teeth gritted.
“It is a beret,” she corrected him again and squeezed the paint can too tightly in her palm. The pressure caused it to burst, causing the paint to splatter onto the pavement. "Shit”.
“Hat and hat,” Rodriguez stepped closer to help her already paint over this ill-fated inscription from another balloon.
Sometimes you don’t know what can easily piss off a Kindred, and what he will have a fierce trigger for. As it turned out, for the glory of Che Guevara - a hat, a bonnet and a panama hat - the very things that were not worth saying.
Nines realized this when Damsel's fist landed squarely on his cheek, knocking him to the ground.
"THIS IS! A! FUCKING! BERET!” the Brujah snarled at him aggressively, stamping her foot so hard that the asphalt cracked.
" A beret. OK. I understood.” Nines was in concrete confusion, looking up at her. It was the first time he'd been punched in the face by a neonate like that in his entire unlife.
But, nevertheless, he realized for himself: firstly, Damsel can perfectly stand up for herself - this, obviously, is a huge plus; second, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Stopping her lightning bolts at Nines, Damsel held out her paint-free hand to help him up. In the end, the inscription itself will not be painted over.