Basingstoke by night.
Slightly dishevelled ex-student, who never had a chance to get out of it. Almost always in casual clothes, because why should appearance matter? It's what's inside that counts.
Quote: There’s something rotten in this town. You can hear the people crying out. The blood of the oppressed cries out from the streets. Can’t you hear it? CAN’T YOU?
Prelude: Timothy always saw things at the edges. Those things were generally people. The homeless, the depressed, the marginalised. While he had a very comfortable upbringing in North Waltham, once he was old enough to start volunteer work in the city centre he spent much time there, trying to help the people at the edges. They needed to be brought into the light.
Once Timothy was out of school, this matured into fully-fledged activism. He became a permanent volunteer – whether handing out hot drinks at the soup kitchens, helping with the Sunday school at church. Timothy’s parents didn’t understand, and nor did the rest of society. Over time, he realised that they were part of the problem. But he needed to change the system. When the Occupy movement began, Timothy dropped out of theological college and you knew he’d found his home. He headed to London and absorbed all of the rhetoric of the movement, mixed with the milder but similarly-toned pronouncements of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The smartphone became Timothy’s weapon of revolution, and he camped out with the rest outside St Paul’s to protest the injustices in the world. He was particularly taken in by the evening talks of a particular curate that served at the cathedral. He spoke of justice under God, and of a perfect world that had existed before, in North Africa. Where there was nothing but the natural order, and all lived in harmony.
That was until things turned ugly. Timothy wasn’t prepared for the riots that precipitated the end of the Occupy movement. The evening marches were the worst, as angry entitled students joined in with the honestly disenfranchised. Timothy hated them, although the irony was entirely lost on him. But that wasn’t much of a concern for him until he was clubbed over the head by the riot police. The last thing Timothy remembered of his breathing days was the curate dragging you into an alleyway. And then the Hunger. H tells himself it was for justice, but he knows that was for something else. There were reports of a police officer found dead the next morning. Timothy was too busy disagreeing with everyone at the Occupy squat to care. He knew they were scum, they were out of line. He didn’t know where these ideas came from, and it terrified him.
But he had to do good. London was too hot for him; it had bad memories, and Timothy had been seen at the riots. He ran back to Basingstoke among his old friends at the soup kitchen, the homeless shelter and the church youth groups. It was away from his sire, but the clamour of his stories stayed with him, as did the blood of the poor innocents who would sustain his crusade. You would fight for the justice of ancient Carthage.
Concept: Timothy could always see the injustices in the world, and now he can hear them in the voices of those he feeds from. He will continue to work for them, and the cries of their blood will help him. He hates what he has to do, but clearly it was meant to help him. He revels in the voices of the common people. They give him direction, drive him on. It’s always hard, though. He needs absolution. But he has to do what’s right. Has to. Because if not, what’s the point?
Derangement: Sanguinary Animism.
Equipment: Smartphone, thermos flask, pocket Bible, Che Guevara wallet with parents credit card in it.