Sacrifices 

A quiet song plays in a dimly lit bar, entertaining no one but the bartender, who was meticulously going over his glasses behind the counter.

He catches his reflection as another is dried, seeing the tired lines on his face, and the dullness in his eyes. 

"Thought we weren't supposed to change," he whispered, "but I swear I'm getting old these nights."

With a sigh he sets down the glass with the rest and leans on the counter, gazing over the currently empty bar. "Maybe I'm just getting tired."

He turned to look at the mirror on the wall to his right. Like always, he had the same black hair, the same freckled copper skin, the same sharp olive eyes, and the exact close cropping of stubble he had ever since he was turned, as unchanging as the stars in the sky.

But he knew it wasn't the same. Time can stand still, but the heart does not, and Fausto's heart had long since lost the fire.

"Ugh, it'd be better if I couldn't see my reflection." He mused. Turning to the rest of the bar, he saw all his memorabilia from the time "his father" opened up the bar. All of the memories of allies, friends, and comrades in arms against the oppressive hand of the Camarilla, and all the memories of battles they had won.

On this night, however, there wasn't joy to be found in those memories. Not even some sense of accomplishment.

On this night, all he had was an empty bar, and a few quiet seconds before the door was violently swung open.

"FAUSTO! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!?" Shouted the familiar voice.

"Behind the bar, like always." He responded as the door slammed shut from the wind.

"Hey, we've gotta get a fucking move on! Those Cammy fucks made a move pushing in from Fife, they hit Marty's joint!"

"I know."

"We gotta reach everyone and," the frantic pacing of the young man stopped, "you know?"

Looking up at him, Fausto saw bronze skin the same as his, a bit rougher, as well as the same black hair, albeit longer, but with hazel eyes that were full of a raging wildfire, versus the smoldering sparks within the older of the two.

"How do you know? Everyone just found out over at the rock!"

"Because I was there, kid. Now sit down, catch your-"

"THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU WERE THERE!?" the young kindred bared his fangs and slammed his fist on the counter.

"Why didn't you stop it!? Marty's been one of us since even before you took me in, we're already losing places left and right, why his!?"

"Because if I didn't give them Marty's turf then they would have taken his, Silva's, Oscar's, Oenone's, and even the bar."

"Really? That's where we're stooping?"

"What the fuck would you have me do, kid!?" Fausto shouted, matching eyes with his apprentice.

"Ain't it better to fight for everyone's sake than cut up what little fucking territory we have to save our own asses!? I thought we were better than the fuckin Cam, better than the other assholes here who only wanna grab power!?"

 "And then what happens, huh!? We rush in, guns blazing, and they fucking mow us down, because there's more of them, they have more gear, and they have less of a shit to give about the safety of others around us!"

All the memorabilia around them made Fausto's words sting even more, although just for himself.

"I've lost too many people with strategies like that, and where has it left us!? Struggling in an eternal fucking stalemate without even a slight sense of order! Tell me, where's our Baron, kid?"

The room fell quiet, as the young kindred gritted his teeth.

"This isn't some turf fight that we can win with muscles and influence. This is a fucking war, and in wars you have to be strategic, you have to be fucking prepared, and you have to grit your teeth to take some losses so you don't lose everything. Sacrifices have to be made to win!"

"So, why not sacrifice this place, then? It was on the list, right? If you gotta sacrifice shit why not make it even!?"

The response came in a slap across the face, with Fausto's eyebrows nearly touching from the furrowing of his brow.

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Without another word, anger boiling on the verge of tears, the young kindred turned and stormed out of the bar, kicking the door open, nearly off the hinges, on his way out.

As it slammed, Fausto could hear the screams and the sound of some of the wood outside breaking.

"Hard to believe I was ever that green."

But he was at one point. His hand stung at the force of his slap, and it brought back a similar memory, where his long-dead sire and him had gotten into some generic fight, he couldn't even remember the details.

But she left him to his own devices, and sure he cooled off, but that was when there wasn't any trouble to cause.

"Shit, guess I gotta be a parent about this."

Closing the bar and throwing on his jacket, he lights a cigarette and rouses his blood to breathe it, and exits the back door of the bar.

Waiting in the back alley of the bar, the young Kindred stands defiant a few steps away from the door.

"Figured you'd still be around."

No response.

Fausto lets out a sigh, releasing some smoke and the last bit of anger from his lungs. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said in there."

"Don't be." The young kindred begins. "You were right."

Fausto's eyes widen in shock, and a small grin grows on his face. "Well, glad you think so. Now, let's-"

He couldn't get another word out before the young vampire closed the distance between them with brutal force, and shoved a broken piece of wood into his heart.

"This is a war," it was driven deeper, as Fausto's limbs locked into place, his cigarette falling out of his mouth. "and sacrifices have to be made."

In that moment, a million thoughts of rage and regret flashed into Fausto's mind, and he wished that staking a vampire really did kill them.

It would've saved him the pain of watching his apprentice douse the bar in whatever flammable liquids he could get his hands on, and drag his body into the floor of his own bar.

It would've saved him the feeling of seeing the apprentice ignite it all.

And it would've saved him from the burning sensation as the fire crept up and charred his body, and the sight of seeing his young protege steel himself to be burned, for whatever reason.

But as the fire burned into him for his final death, he would be spared seeing his bar turn to ashes, his memories fade to dust, and seeing his burned apprentice burst into the meeting grounds of their gang, and tell them all about the horrible deed the Camarilla committed against their dear friend, Fausto.