Martin van Rubinden was a very patient creature. He spun his plans far into the future, he certainly had during his entire time in the world, both alive and not. He'd created several progeny, which was rather a misnomer, they would be more accurately called projects. He had all the time in the world anyway, barring any missteps. However over his decades of existence, he had managed to avoid the deadlier faux pas' that could befall his kind.
Because of this, he also had little truck with Kindred Society as a whole. He was not one to be scrutinized or judged. Before his unlife, he was a solitary watchmaker in Providence Rhode Island who refused to take an apprentice. He didn't give up his secrets to anyone. His sire came in the form of a young man who wanted to learn the watchmaking trade... needless to say, Martin learned more from his sire about being undead than his sire ever learned about making watches. Some things remained unchanged in his base habits from life to unlife... he ever wanted to be left in peace to pursue his projects in his own time and in his own way, without any interference. He was Ordo for the learning, but figured he'd learned enough and had put up with their rules and supervision for long enough.
His favorite creation, Elisabet, the little pianist... discovered her whe she was 8 years old, already a prodigy. Groomed and cultivated carefully, as were all of his projects, he embraced her when she was 12 years old. Her blonde locks and green eyes were captivating, and the way her fingers danced over the keyboard created magic... but the Embraced happened at far too young an age and she turned on him, meeting her own final death just a year after her debut into Kindred Society. He had truly treated her as a hothouse flower. Was it too much? He didn't know, but he certainly tried to learn from his mistakes.
His next prodigy was the delicate Leila. She had a beauty that surpassed any he had seen. She was pure and innocent, destined for life as a nun until he put his hand on her fate. One by one he murdered her family and drove her mad and embraced her at the age of 15. Unfortunately, her delicate state of mind made her a poor candidate for life among the kindred and he was forced to destroy her himself. He felt remorse at having to take that step, but it was better that he do it than another. Once again, he learned from the mistakes he'd made.
And so his attempts to create the perfect progeny continued, each ending with the same fate, except for Joanna, his most recent Childe. She was a qualified success as compared to her sisters. She had a good launch into Kindred society and was getting on well in Kansas City. She had established herself as a songbird of sorts and understood the culture well. It seemed that the 5th time was the charm for Martin.
Georgia, his latest work, was perhaps his greatest. 19 years of time invested in her was nothing to Martin, but it surpassed the time taken for any of the others before her. He would never forget that summer night that he first saw her, mousy blonde hair wisping around her face, brown eyes bright with extreme intelligence and concentration, upturned nose sniffing itchily at the gnats hovering under the porch light where she sat. With a book balanced on her knees, obviously very young, she was reading aloud in a clear childlike voice, not missing a word. He didn't know what she was reading, but it was certainly something beyond her years, though perhaps not more than a few.
She did not know that he was there, of course, at least no consciously, but she looked up-seeming to scan the area in which he was standing. The glance was only momentary and she quickly resumed her book. In Martin's unbeating heart, he was sure Georgia felt him... but perhaps that was just a flight of fancy, even his kind were occasionally prone to such things.
As Georgia grew older, Martin kept close tabs on her... via his minions during the day and personally by night. He attended every move she made from that point on, from her mother's house to foster care situation and back again. The cycle seemed endless, fueled by Liz's myriad attempts at sobriety and inevitable relapses, which he fueled anonymously, of course.
His coup de grace came when Georgia was nearly 8 years old... she was living with her mother once again, this time in a run down flat in South St Louis. It was an October Saturday morning, much like the one on which she was born... fall's splendor faded under the wet & overcast of the previous week. She was watching cartoons with a box of cereal in her lap and her mother on the couch next to her, or so she thought. It was not unlike other mornings Georgia had spent in her mother's "care" until she arose from the couch and shaking it more than she meant to, causing Liz's head to roll back and reveal eyes--open and glassy. Immediately sensing something to be wrong, bile rising in her throat, Georgia quickly regained her compsure as she had on so many occasions during her short life, she systematically felt her mother's head and hands to find them cold. She tried to shake Liz, but she was non-responsive, body limp. Then she tried to look for breathing but saw no chest movement. Last of all, she put her ear to her mother's chest and heard no heartbeat, which had been the one comforting thing her mother had ever done for her, though not as often as would have gratified her childish emotions.
Georgia sighed, and walked calmly to the phone and dialed 911. She'd see it on the phone book and on billboards and heard about it in at least one of her many schools.
The universal operator's voice answered, "911, What is your emergency?"
"My mother is dead," Georgia replied calmly.
"Honey how old are you?" The nasal voice inquired gently.
"Almost 8. Can you please come?"
The voice continued, "Honey, the police are already on their way. I'd like you to stay on the line with me, okay?"
"Yeah, I can," said Georgia flatly.
"So honey, what makes you think your mother is dead?" asked the operator, bemused by the lack of emotion in the child's voice.
The child continued in an almost clinical tone, "She's cold, not breathing and I can't hear her heart. She also didn't answer when I shook her and her eyes are open."
Taken aback by the child's cool vocal demeanor, the operator found it hard to direct her questions, "Is there anyone else there with you?"
"No, it's just me and momma, usually...," Georgia trailed off as the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, but nearing. "Can I go now? I think they are almost here."
The concerned woman was still finding it hard to choose her words in reaction to the child's apparent uncaring manner, "Are you sure you want to do that, honey? Those sirens might not be for your mom."
Georgia answered clearly and soberly, "I'll be okay. This is better than having to clean her up after she's been partying." The sirens continued to grow louder, apparently stopping at the child's house from the cessation of noise and the click on the other end of the line.
Maria, the 911 operator, said a prayer for the nameless child on the other end of the phone, gut wrenching as she realized she hadn't asked the little girl's name.
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