Here is a link to my DeviantArt. I am posting little pictures I take using the console from Vampire the Masquerade:Bloodlines. Most of the pictures are just silly and for fun, but they mostly show LaCroix in unusual poses. Since a lot of people reading the story probably like LaCroix, I posted them for your amusement.

Have fun, ducklings!

It won't let me post the link, so just search for "rosepetalselectric" on Deviant and you'll find the pictures.

Bad air, bad food, bad water. What a world people had made for themselves. In a sea of minimum wages earners, a select few buoyed themselves in their houses in the hills and offices and luxury vehicles, and there was a despair here. It was palpable, it was oppressive as the sooty yellow clouds that twined like floating chicken livers around the horizon and betwixt the many tall, gleaming office buildings on hot, drawn out, polluted days such as this one.

But she was glad to have landed this little job, glad to be on her feet, glad to be alive. It was a new day and she was thankful. This would be her second week doing secretary work for the Insurrection Baby Formula Foundation, and although she did not think much of the head secretary that was shadowing her, she was good at this sort of thing. She couldn't complain, really. If asked she might even concede that she liked secretary work.

"Well, cutting it close but thank God you're on time! There's a whole stack of paperwork you can start proofreading."

A tall, olive skinned scarecrow pointed flippantly toward a mountain, albeit neatly stacked, of manila folders. When the anemicly thin woman stood up to her full height, she was easily six feet tall in heels.


"It's Diana, Miss Fordyce."

"Right, my apologies. So Diana, you need to stay late this evening. I need someone to finishing packing up for this idiot girl that's leaving the company. I would do it but I have to go get my daughter at five, ok?"

Petite and of milky, freckled complexion with softly curling dark hair, Diana was fresh looking and innocently complacent in her gratefulness to have some stability in her life at the still tender age of twenty-two. She hadn't finished school yet, and the thought of it weighed on her conscience greatly at times. Her mother's side of the family were not shy to tell her that she was a failure, that her parents would be disappointed and that she just wasn't made of the right stuff.

But what did they know? Coming this far had been extremely tough going, and it was all she could do not to lose her mind amidst the stress and terrible pain she had been enduring on a daily basis for so long. To be here now, with the right medication, with decent pay, doing bitch work for an unsuccessful model in her late thirties was just fine in her book for the time being.

"Yes, Miss Fordyce, I can manage that. Where is her office?"

Sucking her teeth in irritation, the head secretary fretted over the lush, fragrant contents of her Italian leather purse that had spilled out. Severely straight, cropped black hair flopped oddly in front of her chiseled face.

"Uhh, let's see...it's room 306, should say "Christine J."...uh, ninth floor... Just put everything in boxes and tape them really well. Then you can go home."

"Good as done."

It was getting dark early. Diana liked the dark. It was comforting to her, like the moon was comforting. And yet, as the elevator carried her past floor six, then seven, then eight, she wondered if this could really be right. Why did this former employee have an office on the ninth floor?

She got off the elevator and headed down the hall in search of room 306. It was rather opulent, with thick red carpet and soft yellow lights. But there was no room 306 to be found, try as she might, scouring the the u-shaped hallway.

This can't be right...well, perhaps I'll go back down. Hah! Was she sending me on a wild goose chase or what?

The delicately built young woman crumpled to the plush floor before she could press the elevator button. Miraculously she did not hit her head again'st the door, but perhaps it would have been better that way because she hurt. And it was a pain worse than child birth, supposedly. Worse than breaking bones.


It felt as if her nerves were curling in on themselves as wood is peeled away by an adept wittler. Searing, white hot fire engulfed her limbs, neck and torso, inducing an aching sort of nausea that strained for release. As she lay writhing and muffling her screams with a wad of her tweed jacket in her mouth, she dimly recalled taking the pill out of the bottle and placing it on the table. She could not recall actually taking the pill.

For at least twenty minutes she lay prone in front of the elevator door. At some point she was able to feel around in her purse for her prescription. It was very much to her relief to find it nestled amidst the other contents. Just barely able to mouth the pill from her trembling fingers and swallow it, the joints and ligaments in her hands screamed in unison with the rest of her body, a dissonant, bleating chorus that threatened to drown her consciousness under the weight of her torture.

Hazy, grey mist smeared her line of sight. However many hours later, for she could not tell, a loud ping sounded. She was dimly aware of someone stepping over her.

"Wake up. What are you doing here?"