|
|
For his part, Klaus wasn't bothered by the quality of moral fiber (or lack thereof) around him. His fights brought him money enough to weather the Depression, but most of all he showed a single-minded zeal for his talent almost unheard of in his stratum of criminal society. Where others were in it for wealth or bragging rights, Klaus lived for the fight alone. He neither weakened to the debauchery around him nor showed quarter to his opponents; "Killer Klaus" became known for his cold ferocity and for beating several men to death outright.
This continued into the '40s, and the Depression gave way to World War II. Klaus received flak for his German ancestry, and bigots and old mob rivals alike began targetting him as a scapegoat. He took on all comers, and yet his simple, violent existence was touched for the first time with concern for the future… eventually, he realized, the odds were going to catch up with him.
And they did. Klaus had caught the eye of two prominent power-brokers of New York's underworld, both Brujah: Zachary Jacobs, a cutthroat Iconoclast, and Leo Tremane, an Idealist. Jacobs saw in him a useful foot-soldier… and Tremane sensed a long-buried curiosity and yearning for change that he hoped to foster.
Tremane got to him first.
Unfortunately for Tremane, Klaus could not quite be molded to match his sire's expectations. Though he leapt at the opportunity for academic education and an escape from his dead-end existence, he resisted assimilation into Kindred society almost to a fault. The dream of Carthage, the war with the Iconoclasts and the grand dance of the Camarilla itself held no appeal to him... as he saw it, he was being strong-armed into trading one underworld for another.
His reticence and love of fighting defined his passage through the decades. Tremane became a mover-and-shaker constantly plagued by his rival Zachary Jacobs, while Klaus spent the years in isolation. He took blood from the kine and honed his martial skills to a razor's edge, incorporating Shoto-kan karate into the burgeoning bag of dirty tricks he'd accumulated over the years. Only once did his sire convince him to attend an Elysium party; he was such a nonentity there that a Toreador branded him with the nickname "Zero."
That was more than enough to convince him to return to seclusion (and cement his resentment of Clan Toreador). He grew apart from Tremane, fortifying his lonely dojo-haven against the advances of time. He never saw a movie, never owned a telephone, never experienced the Civil Rights movement… and never knew who killed his sire.
Zero got the news from an emissary of Zachary Jacobs, who expressed his condolences and beckoned him to join the Iconoclasts in the same breath. Refusing to be caught in the political gears that ground up the closest thing he ever had to a father-figure, Zero left New York that night, never to return.
Over the years he wandered south, staring the real world in the eye for the first time in nearly half a century. The fight no longer satisfied him. He was alone, without friends or purpose. At length, he came to settle in the university city of Morgantown, taking a job as the night-shift groundskeeper for Channel 5 News and setting up a haven somewhere in the tenement buildings on High Street. Zero was content for the time being, believing this place to be far removed from the interests of Kindred.
How very wrong he was.