Seth Shield
12th generation Brujah neonate
Appearance: A slim 20-something black man in a department store
suit. His eyes are bloodshot and his chin is slightly cleft, the
result of a broken jaw he sustained in a fight when he was 13.
He is intelligent and observant, but his temper is very short.
Born in 1940 and raised in Hamtramck, Seth saw more than his
share of trouble and jail cells. He dropped out of high school
and was fired from two factory jobs for fighting, and was arrested
four times for “vagrancy”, violating curfew and resisting arrest.
His run-ins with the police were brought to a premature end when
he was embraced two years ago after his entire family died
in a house fire. Arson was suspected, but the police only
performed a cursory investigation.
After becoming a neonate, Seth has tried to fit in with kindred
society without much success. It's as if the old prejudices from
his mortal life have followed him into this one. He spends most
nights in his old neighborhood, fencing stolen goods and keeping
a low profile from the mortal police. He often becomes angry for
little or no reason, and has failed to keep his patience many times,
even though he knows better. He constantly dreads losing control
of himself.
It has been a hot July in a heated town, and Motown is boiling over.
The blacks are rising up and showing the city how they feel. None of
this is a surprise to you, because the current troubles have been
generations in the making.
In Detroit in the 1960s, the “Big 4” (or Tac Squad as they were
officially known) roam the streets, searching for bars to raid and
prostitutes to arrest. These elite four man units frequently stop
youths that are driving or walking through the black neighborhoods.
They verbally degrade these youths, calling them “boy” and “nigger”,
ask them who they are and where they are going. Most of the time,
black residents are ordered to produce identification, and after
suffering their share of humiliation, are allowed to proceed on
their way. But if one cannot produce “proper” identification, this
could lead to arrest or worse. Several times, police stops led to the
serious injury or death of those who were detained.
Detroit has also had a long history of housing discrimination stretching
back to the turn of the century when black migrants first arrived in
the city and middle-class black workers tried to integrate themselves
into predominantly white neighborhoods. During the 1940s and 1950s,
white Detroiters sought to block the entry of blacks by legal and
extra-legal means, in one instance building a six-foot high, one-foot
wide concrete wall along Eight Mile Road, to separate themselves from
potential black neighbors. Today in many areas, the quality and cost
for housing differ substantially between blacks and whites, with black
residents often paying considerably higher rents than their white
neighbors for comparable housing.
The shortage of housing available to black residents is further
exasperated by “urban renewal” projects. In Detroit, entire neighborhoods
have been bulldozed to make way for freeways. In 1960, the Paradise Valley
(or “Black Bottom” neighborhood as it was called by its residents) was
razed and cleared to make way for Interstate 75. As the oldest black
enclave in Detroit, “Black Bottom” was not just a “slum”, or “blighted area”
as the newspapers called it, but the heart of Detroit’s black community,
commercially and culturally. The loss for many of Detroit’s residents was
devastating, and the anger still burns strongly today.
Since your embrace, you have learned that Fredrick Marzano, the kindred
Sheriff disguises himself as a cop and patrols the streets with three of
his ghouls, also police, looking for “anarchs” to brutalize and execute
as the whim suits him. Twice you have had your Plum Street pawn shop
searched and had merchandise confiscated by him, even though as a kindred,
he should have no right to interfere with your personal business.
Earlier this week, a motorcycle gang came into town for a rally. A group
of bikers walked into your shop around midnight. Immediately you saw that
their “leader”, a black woman with a southern accent, was kindred. While
her mortals were browsing, she quietly indicated that she might be able to
help with your police troubles, and that she would like to speak to you
privately. You decided to hear what she has to say, and agreed to meet
her in a bar on Twelfth Street.
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