Vic had been undead for over 300 years.  Over three hundred years of assholes, imbeciles, lazy buffoons, all so boringly and utterly predictable.  Her migrations every 10-15 years were at first an attempt to keep herself safe from suspicion, both from her lack of aging and the vampire clans she put at risk in each area she ended up in.  But even through different countries, different languages, different cultures, people tended to remain the same.  Nothing she found surprised her.  No massacre or generosity… not even mass hysteria could elicit a true response of shock from Victoria Mossberg.

So, her migrations to new homes started to grow out of a third reason, too: boredom.  It wasn’t until a little over 10 years ago, when she heard about White Crest and all that it might offer in terms of jobs for her, did she really feel interest for the first time in a while.  For the better part of her time there, Vic had kept to herself, the wildness of the outlandish town doing well enough to keep her intrigued enough to stay.  But then, something changed, something pulled her in, and it wasn’t the vampiric activity she had sought out there.

Vic was never one for making friends, not after she was turned and her trust and innocence was ripped from her.  Despite claiming that she did to the vampires she came across for the good of humans, the human race as a whole seemed wildly untrustworthy to Vic, and it was thanks to her lack of guarding that she hadn’t been aware of it before.  Friendship and close relationships, as was proven to her, ended in despair, and so if you asked her how she allowed herself to begin to get close to the people of White Crest, she couldn’t tell you.  First it was a zombie.  Innocent enough, she thought, up until Morgan insisted on weaseling her way in, asking questions and making Vic second guess her way of life for centuries.  But infuriatingly, the friendships continued, and somehow, there was even a vampire in town she considered a close friend now, too. 

She hadn’t turned anyone in to a hunter in almost a year. 

So yes, the friendships and relationships were shocking.  Maybe it was her old age making her soft, or perhaps it was some sort of sickness, growing slowly inside her so that loss could eat her alive the way it did the day she died.  But the shock of the friendships was nothing compared to the shock of where she found herself now, in the middle of armageddon, watching over a peacefully sleeping baby from the threshold of her bedroom.