A line stretches around the corner of the multi-story warehouse that is the Succubus Club, filled with Kindred and kine alike waiting to get in—or rather, Kindred and kine who aren't deemed important enough to be let in. Normally Annie would count herself among that group, which suits her fine since she hates coming here—too many of her own kind in one area always makes her nervous. But tonight, she was specifically invited by Annabelle Triabell herself, and one does not snub the invitation of a Primogen of their own clan, least of all one who wields as much influence and power as Annabelle does in Chicago.
The reason sounds deceptively benign: Annabelle requested Annie to be here for the live debut of a some no-name Brujah Anarch emo band and provide her honest opinion in the next issue of Second City Underground as Chicago's premier underground music critic. Normally, she would balk at being so blatantly used as a pawn in Kindred politics, but Annabelle dangled one of Annie's white whales as payment: an interview with the reclusive Kathy Glens, former lead guitarist of Baby Chorus, which disbanded and never truly recovered after half the band was killed by Lupines in the War of Chicago nearly a decade ago. As a Chicago Kindred punk rock fan, there is absolutely no way that Annie would refuse such a chance at meeting the greatest unliving guitarist of the 21st century.
The bouncers recognize Annie in her black leather jacket adorned with patches and pins. They let her in immediately, to the complaints of those in line. The Succubus Club's interior is an homage to the most egregious stereotypes of 90s industrial gothic, clashing with Millennial minimalist chic: garish velvet drapes, acrylic-topped tables with neon runner lights, cages suspended from the ceiling... How cliché, Annie thinks with a scoff. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and the tantalizing undercurrent of sweet blood that sticks to kine no matter where they are. The Masquerade is thin in the Succubus Club—mortals drawn to the promise of something dark and forbidden, rubbing elbows with the real monsters without ever truly knowing.
Annie slinks gracefully through the pulsing crowd, her petite frame allowing her to weave between the gyrating bodies with ease. The thumping beat of the industrial trash the DJ is playing pounds her like a heartbeat she has long forgotten. She heads straight for the bar. No point in lingering on the dancefloor when she has a job to do. Annabelle wants her opinion on this new Brujah band, so that's what she'll give. Even if it means sitting through some mediocre set of angst-riddled noise.
One of the bartenders, a lanky ghoul with electric blue hair and guyliner, slides over as Annie approaches and slips onto a stool made more for form than function. "Gimme a Jack and Coke," she orders, purely for appearances. Though she's a rare sort of vampire that can keep food and drink down without throwing it up immediately, she can no longer taste it or get intoxicated. The bartender has no reaction to her perceived youth as he moves to make her drink—when you work at the Succubus Club, you know not to question any abnormalities that show up. Anyone who gets in either belongs here or will soon regret it. Enter at your own risk.
Annie drums her fingers against the sticky bartop as she watches the roadies setting up on the main stage. She feels the familiar tingle of her Beast stirring within her at the sight and scent of so much warm blood around her. She forces it back down. There will be tine to hunt later, after she's put in an appearance for Annabelle's little pet project. Who knows, she thinks as she lights up a habitual cigarette. Maybe these Anarchs will actually have some talent for once.
