Monica Johnson
Species: Vampire
Bloodline: Caitiff
Pronouns: She/Her
Plotter: Plotter
How to contact me:

First Impression: If her physical features have been frozen by her Embrace, her style is a work in progress: eccentric multicolored clothing will give way equally dramatic dark garments, depending on the night; her shorty cropped hair is often covered by a variety of wigs - except when it's not. This, at least, her public persona; the one that matches whatever event is going on at her club. When in private, on the other hand, her looks are the very definition of unassuming; no make up, comfortable clothes hanging on her petite frame; making even more apparent that her public façade is just a part of her job.
Year of Birth: 1971
Year of Embrace: 1999
Concept: She used to be the barkeep. Not just any barkeep, mind you; a skilled one that could set the right mood for the night, keep up with the latest drinks trends, make patrons believe she was almost their friend. Her boss was one of a kind; an aloof man who only showed up at night - but then, he owned all sorts of businesses who-knows-where, you could not blame him for having little time.

Until he let her in on her secret. She laughed, at first. If someone tells you he's a vampire, of course he must be joking, right? A rather stupid joke, too, but then if one's your boss you just laugh anyway.
Except, he was serious. Please don't say 'deadly serious', come on. He was serious, and as he told her to drink some of his blood, she could not help but comply. After which, she would have believed whatever he told her, done whatever he'd asked.
It was sick. Monica was not a fool, she could recognize a sick twisted relationship when she saw one. Except, of course, she could not get away. She needed his blood, and even more she needed his approval.

It lasted for a year, roughly. At that point she had her name on the papers of his club, and all the rest of her life was as ruin. Then in a hot summer night everyone went crazy. The news reported that maybe a demigod, maybe an alien was wreaking havoc somewhere in India. Once again, it was not some poor joke.

Her boss ran in covered in gore; restless, demanding her blood. He seemed to only enjoy feeding from his employees, and she was the closest at hand.
Apparently it was an accident. That was her best guess, at least - that he drank too much, and out of guild or confusion or something he chose to turn her instead of letting her die. He wasn't there when she woke up, however. He didn't ever come back. It's safe enough to assume he died, although she'll never know exactly how.

So many people died, that week. Monica died as well, except she survived; she survived both her own death, and what she later learnt was the end of their world.
Her time as a Ghoul proved useful, at least: she had a decent grasp of what she needed, of what she had to avoid. She hid in the basement by day, by night she pretended she was fine; she skulked around looking for drunkards, hobos; or claimed all that chaos had made her lusty, a very poor lie but easily believed. She got her fix of blood, somehow. Good news, she wasn't as picky as her Sire.

Surviving wasn't enough, however, she needed something to rebuilt. The new world was a fightening mess, but also ripe with opportunities if you could see them. She sold the old establishment (for a number or reasons both businessy and personal, that had to go) and opened a new club in Westside. She had ideas, and her new business partner had even more. It catered to vampires, and to people who consorted with them. It wasn't just a shady excuse to get preys, it was thought and felt as a place you could enjoy; a place where you could belong. Of course, a good number of customers would go there just to have some oh-so-strange story to tell, but they pay good money so one can't really complain.
Disciplines: Presence 1 (Awe), Obfuscate 1 (Cloak of Shadows).