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My Destiny is my History


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There was no way seven men could put this together, but that is what would go down in history. Faith MacLeod had been there, sitting in on meetings and speaking up despite the urge against it. Hold your tongue, they'd told her. She would have, if they hadn't been so ignorant in their planning. They were lucky to have her, but they would never say so. And they would certainly never tell a soul that a woman was responsible for the fine tuning of their greatest masterpiece.

They never would have to.

By December 1916, Faith MacLeod disappeared. The Easter Rising would go down in history as the greatest achievement of the headstrong seven.

The Tan War
Cogadh na Saoirse
The Burning of Cork
11-12 December, 1920

Mackenzie Brooks had been living in the southern half of her country, a stark difference from the north. The posters featuring crude drawings of her face didn't reach her here, if they still existed. Not even the faces of those she lost or left behind could reach her.

She kept a small flat just outside the city center, at the very bottom of Middle Glanmire Road, and then further down another street after that. Really, calling it a flat was kind. It was a boarding house, run by a stubborn old woman that would insist Mackenzie to be a spinster. At least once a week, she'd hear of how she would surely die alone.

What a pity, she'd say. Such a pretty young girl, she'd tsk. And then, just when she'd gotten the tips of her claws beneath the girl's fragile skin, she'd tell Mackenzie that she'd never get anywhere in life staying inside all day. Every day.

Mackenzie, knowing her time here would soon be up, would give the woman a look before excusing herself from the presence of her meddler.

This situation was short lived. Being so young in her condition, Mackenzie held fast to her morals for only weeks before killing everyone on the house. After that, it was everything she could do too keep up appearances... until the Tans reached her.

She was out that night, edging the city centre along the quay when the fires started. Martial law had been implemented in the past few weeks, and just the night before, a curfew. It was a nightmare for a vampire, with no means of escape. In hindsight, attempting escape would have been equally as dangerous to her actions that night.

It started at Dillon's Cross, working it's way down until the burning stench and heat of flame felt so close that she could feel it lick at the back of her neck. It was slow moving, taking several hours, but for someone like Mackenzie - it was quick as a heartbeat. Senses heightened and out of control, she heard the whispers of soldiers and policemen and the scraping of thin soles against pavement as her people rushed and crept to avoid the certainty of death. Every so often, just above the crackling of the city she calls home, a depraved chorus of 'God Save the King' would erupt before gunfire and a sickening silence.

With so much death and destruction already, she would stave her thirst. No blood would be on her hands tonight.

Only later, when the city was left to smoldering ash and ruin, did she hear the rest. The torture, the killing, the sick and twisted way her brothers and sisters at arms were tortured. Sick of Ireland, Mackenzie made a tired choice.

She was off to America.
March 24, 2017 12:16 pm


The Prohibition Era
Philadelphia, America
17 March, 1929

"Yea, the dame is a doll, but that one's a real bearcat."

Cool blue eyes stand out against the dark contrast of the black liner and shadow, seeking out the voice on the other side of the bar. A roll of her bare shoulders settles her amusement, a coy grin touching the corner of ruby painted lips.

Fit in. That's what she had told herself she would do upon arrival in America, and that is what she has continued to do. Being her plain self had garnered too much attention, and so Mackenzie made it a point to fit in the rest of the crowd in her temporary home by matching the standard of all women.

Stick straight dresses with drop waists, plenty of leg, heels, and short hair. Pouty lips. Bright eyes. Fun.

Realistically speaking, she rather enjoyed this time of her unlife.

A thick accents reaches her, flat and uneven in tone just like all Americans, declaring Saint Patrick's Day with an insane insistence that they are all Irish.

"Are you?" The question tumbles from her lips in that broken lilt of hers, catching the eye of the man who has a very real internal crisis at the sight of her. "Yer off yer nuts if y'think that."

That's when it happens.

A flash of gold, the show of that telltale band hidden under a coat jacket.


Soon chaos erupts on the other side of the bar as police barrel into the speakeasy. Women scream, men scramble, and Mackenzie is left to be caught red-handed as the gentlemen who employ and accompany her behind the bar leave her in the dust.

She is taken, removed from the premise as the ungodly flash of the media's cameras taken pictures of the carnage, and of her. She'd be on the front page the next day, next to a photo of moonshine being dumped into the street just outside the entrance door.

Never mind that, now.

Subdued as she is, the men find her to be little to no challenge. All it takes is enough trust to have one man guarding the prisoner. Once she achieves that, the heathen vampiress strikes out.

For weeks to come, hers would be the picture next to a different headline:

Wanted: Suspect Flees Murder Scene.
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