Everything in here can be assumed to be IC knowledge for all PCs unless it is posted in orange in which case it is OOC. A lot of this is informational, and consider it will jump around quite a bit, but everything in here happens from an NPC's perspective during the two years of downtime.

Nigel watched the confrontation in front of him with curiosity. He tightly gripped his shotgun. the one with the red tape on the barrel. That meant it was loaded with Dragon's Breath rounds. The shotgun would normally hold five shells, but it only had three in it. Two shots would ruin the gun. Anymore than three and you risked the barrel melting sufficiently to cause it to explode. Nigel knew he was supposed to go out. To help Ignetz, but something in his gut told him that was a very, very bad idea, and Nigel learned a long time ago to listen to his gut.

Ignetz was face to face with John Lee. The Assamite had just left a meeting with Christian. Nigel had no idea what they had been talking about, and didn't care, but he cared about this. Christian was still inside the diner watching with a look of shock on his face. Christian would run. He wasn't a fighter by any means...

Nigel inched forward to get a better view. Maybe to even try to build a little courage of his own. He should be out there. He knew together, he and Ignetz could put John down. Still, his gut told him not to go out there. It wasn't fear stopping him. Nigel knew all about fear. He faced it down all the time. This was something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

John spoke, but Nigel was too far away to hear. Then all of a sudden a miniature Apocalypse happened. Ignetz turned into a flash. A whirling dervish of flashes and bullets. John didn't move. He was in full battle rattle. Kevlar from head to toe. Nigel had no idea where he had gotten the gear, but this was something only military or SWAT teams got hold of. He was covered in bulletproof padding and gear. He didn't have any guns though. Just a sword. A broadsword. Big. Mean. Sharp. Deadly sharp.

Occasionally John's leg would twitch or his head would flinch. The bullets were beating into him. Ignetz used 9mm rounds. Probably jacketed rounds since he knew he was looking for John, but it didn't matter. John was too old. His skin was too hard. Those bullets were just splattering against him uselessly. Nigel didn't move, and he was glad he was listening to his gut. Ignetz was failing...

The Assamite ran out of bullets. The guns dropped to the ground. Ignetz never reloaded, just grabbed new guns. He moved closer to John. Closer to that broadsword and then it happened... John flickered. John hit Ignetz with the sword. Everything came to a halt. Christian balked. Ignetz standing there... Or held there more accurately. The sword was lodged halfway through his torso. John had lowered it, lured the Assamite in, and then ripped the big piece of still upward and caught Ignetz under the rib cage. Ignetz's lips moved. John spoke. Then he pulled the sword out. Ignetz fell. John nodded, and John walked off.

Nigel stepped back into the shadows. For the first time in years he was afraid in a way he had not been in a long time. Not only had John come back, but the rumors from the last few months were true... John was back, and everyone had grossly underestimated him. Nigel bolted. He had to see the Prince...

The Board meets every four months. The Board is a collection of the wealthiest Kindred in Charlotte and they, arguably, have more impact on the look of Charlotte than any mortal institution. Money talks, and The Board controls incredibly large sums of it both to the benefit and detriment of Charlotte.

However, The Board isn't what it used to be. Once upon a time this secret meeting of power brokers was run by John Lee. Every member of the Board had a large stake in his umbrella corporation, Steadtler Dynamics. A company so old it traced its roots back to the very first international trading companies in England. In these nights though, John is no more. He's been banished and presumed to either have fallen into torpor or joined the Sabbat. Either way, the controlling members of The Board scramble to chew up what's left of John's considerable influence and wealth, and tonight they meet...


Miguel looked around himself. Christian, Dora, Lars, Nicolette, and the Prince Himself, were all gathered around a table with fancy folders and notepads in front of them. This looked like the board meeting of countless other smaller companies run by only a bare handful of people. However in this room it was not a small company being managed. It was dozens, maybe even hundreds. It was not millions of dollars moving back and forth. It was tens of billions. Everyone looked collected and a little proud. There was a certain arrogance these meetings awoke in the people attending them. The power to move such insane numbers around on a whim. To bankrupt cities... It was intoxicating. Normally Miguel allowed himself to enjoy it. Normally. Tonight though, he was troubled.

"Before we get into anything major I have a few announcements." Miguel spoke, everyone looked at him. "We're all aware of the economic crisis in Greece?" He waited, there was a murmur of agreement. He nodded. "Everyone is also aware of the roadblocks we've run into trying to increase our holdings in Steadtler Dynamics?" Another murmur, this one a bit louder. This fact was a huge area of contention with The Board. Everyone accused the others of blocking their efforts, but Miguel knew better. "We had assumed John went into torpor and abandoned his stake in SD. We then assumed that he had agents working in his stead. We then assumed that each of us was hampering the others... All of these are incorrect." Another murmur. "John himself has been hampering us. Most of the banks that caused Greece's financial trouble are owned by SD. I think John knocked it over. I'm not sure why, but I'm certain it was him." The murmur built and turned into a roar. "Look in your folders... My evidence is there." Everyone looked and the dull roar slowly faded into stunned silence.


"There's more. Lars do you want to tell them or should I?" He looked to the Ventrue. The childe of John Lee. Lars went wide-eyed for a moment then nodded.

"I'll tell them." He looked at the Prince as he spoke, "After John lost the city to you, Your Majesty, he was disgraced. He fled, as you know, and we all lost track of him. Well, last week he met with Hardestadt to explain himself." He paused and a chill ran through him. "John diablerized him. Nobody is declaring a Blood Hunt or accusing him of any crime either. There is some evidence that has come into light since that Hardestadt the Younger diablerized his sire, Hardestadt the Elder, and has been masquerading as him since. Technically, John did nothing wrong. Hardestadt's Blood was forfeit from when he killed his own sire."

Miguel chimed back in now, "I don't have to tell anyone here that Hardestadt was primarily calling the shots for all of Clan Ventrue. If John killed Hardestadt and nobody is up in arms about it because of this evidence we can assume two things: The evidence is real, and Johns calling the shots for all of Clan Ventrue. That's why I've decided to sell my stake in Steadtler Dynamics. My Sire has also called me back to Italy. This whole thing has made a huge mess."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:44, Fri 05 July 2013.

Phoenix sat at the head of the table.  The walls of the small room were covered in graffiti.  There were posters, emblems, insignia, vests, jackets, and guns.  Lots of guns.  The place smelled like warm beer and cheap cigarettes.  There was a big square dining room table in the middle.  There was a chair in each position.  All of the ranking Jokers were there.  The lights were dim.  Dim except for one.  One light in the corner with a high watt bulb shone brightly on the middle of the table, lighting it up like a spotlight.  Jack was on the right.  Angel was on the left.  They were facing each other.  The rest of the coterie was spread out around the table.  The more valuable ghouls were standing behind their masters or posted up to the left and right of the door.  Everyone was silent.  All eyes were on Phoenix.

Church.

Phoenix let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his smooth bald head.  He picked up the phone sitting directly in front of him.  He looked at it with a bland expression.  His eyes told a different story.  His eyes regarded the phone like it was the Holy Grail.  One click at a time, Phoenix flipped through the buttons until they stopped on one very specific contact.  He pressed the button and listened.  He heard it ring three times and then the unmistakable Welsh voice on the other end.

"Crown."
"I need a favor."

There was a six second pause.

"You have my attention."

The next pause was only four seconds.

"I have some information you'll be interested in."
"Go on."
"It's about the QCLA."
"Go on."
"They're mostly Assamites.  One of them is a bomber."

There was another silence.  It wasn't very long at all.  "You've just confirmed what we already know."
"There's more."
"Go on."
"Rob isn't calling the shots."

There was another pause.  This time the voice responded with a scrutinizing question.  "Are you certain?"
It was Phoenix's turn to pause.  "Positive."
"Alright.  What do you want?"
"In."
"Lars laid down for Dragon."  The response was quick.  It was confident.  The line went dead.

Phoenix flipped the old phone closed and dropped it on the table.  Everyone still looked at him.  He just smiled a big grin like the Cheshire Cat and leaned back in his seat.  "We're in business."

The room erupted into cheers.  It was going to be one hell of a party tonight...

Ryan hung up the heavy rotary phone and scowled. This was bad. Very, very bad. Finding out John was running amok in his city was one thing. Finding out John had killed the leader of the Ventrue and then assumed the position was one thing. Finding out John had taken his Justicar from him... Well that was something Ryan could not abide. Justicar's were in short supply. He snorted in disgust, leaned back and rubbed his temples for a moment. The gesture did nothing to ease his tension.

Sitting forward he called his grand-childe. The Prince of Charlotte. Then he grit his teeth and waited.

Juan Lorenzo.  Perhaps the most majestic warlock to have ever existed.  Perhaps the most powerful sorcerer to have ever existed.  He was lord and master of virtually everything that had ever crossed his path.  He could, and would, have any woman he wanted at any time.  He could, and would, buy and sell businesses just because a janitor looked at him funny.  He was the prince, after all.

But none of that mattered to him.  Right then, Dragon was click happy.  His bounty hunter had just jetpacked up into the air and launched a barrage of missiles at a pair of oncoming Jedi.  One of them threw a lightsabre at him for minimal damage.  The other ran up close.  The bounty hunter landed.  A series of rapid fire rocket blasts and then a flame thrower for giggles had that rushing Jedi in massive need of a healing.

Which was exactly what Dragon wanted.  Instead of finishing off the first Jedi, the Bounty Hunter darted over to the second.  Hit with a rocket punch.  Then set off a series of rapid fire blasting shots that both slowed and stunned the healer.  Another rocket followed by a rail shot dropped the first before good healing could kick in.

Dragon had this battle in the bag.

...

And just then, Ryan had called him.  Dragon knew it was Ryan.  Ryan was the only one in his phone who had Darth Vader's Imperial Death March as his ringtone.  Shit.  He only needed 30 more seconds!

Phone
Star Wars
Phone
Star Wars
...
Fuck!

Dragon quickly answered the phone.

Juan entered a seldom used wing of the Chantry. The big old building had undergone constant renovations since the Tremere took it over, most of which was to the interior and basements.

Ryan's wing was hardly touched though. The old wooden floors were still here. Solid timbers hewn into splinters of their former glory and laid as flooring then smoothed and polished until they shined like glass. The walls had an old paper on them. Ornate fleur de lis decorated the paper to a point that it was almost gaudy. The whole place was clean though, and calling it the Pontifex's Wing was a bit of a misnomer. It wasn't a grand arm of the structure like it's name implied. Instead it was a peninsula of four rooms. A private library, an office, a sitting room, and an old sunroom that was seldom used. Underneath, of course, was part of the labyrinthine structure of the basement of the Chantry. This portion contained Ryan's personal quarters, and had barely been touched since the late 40s when it was installed as a fallout shelter. Security precautions had been updated slightly. The large, heavy door that sealed Ryan in every night now required a biometric scan of his right index finger instead of turning the heavy dial to put in the combination.

It was always a weird moment coming into the office. One knew immediately that they were somewhere they should not be. Ryan smoldered and glowered from behind the desk, "We have a serious problem." He didn't wait for Juan to ask, "We've lost our Justicar."

"What? The Tremere? No... You mean Alabaster." Juan worked through it. "How? I thought he was fixed?"

"So did I." Ryan sighed, "John happened. He's capitalized in the wake of losing the city. On top of that now that he's assumed Hardestadt's duties he's entirely shifting focus for the Ventrue onto North America. He's being fought tooth and nail the whole way, but he'll succeed. This isn't bad of itself. What's bad is Alabaster is useless to us now, and we have no Justicar."

Michael left the room first.  Then, one by one, the others had left too.  It was the Malkavian elder, Andrew Foley, the Ventrue who had his eyes set on Praxis, Sabina Giovanni, and Francesca, Riley's own sire.  Riley had to take a minute.  Several actually.  She needed time to think, and to recompose herself.  In spite of the blue cocktail dress strappy heels and tasteful jewelry, Riley did not look her best.  In fact she looked like somebody had just pissed in her cornflakes and shit in her cake.

When Michael had come back, she looked better, but still not spectacular.  This only made the tension in Michael's face even easier to read.

"What are we going to do?" The older broodmate had asked?  "This is insane!  There is no way we-"  Riley cut him off.

"Settle down.  We are going to do exactly what our sire wants us to do."  Riley gave Michael a stern look.

"Bu-"

"I said, settle down."  Michael took a step backwards and immediately regained his composure.

"Okay."  Michael stopped.  He made a face and voiced his concerns in a different way.  "It's just...Trying to rally against Prince Lorenzo was going to be the death of us already.  We both seen what he did to Nigel.  We've heard the rumors of what he did to Rowan.  Even if she did manage to get rid of him, there is no way she'll ever be the Prince.  Foley would have been problematic when that came up."  Michael's tone had started to raise with his nervous excitement.  He took a split second to turn and look away.

Riley said nothing.

Michael shook his head and turned back.  "With John here.  Especially with John here..."

"Are you done?"  Riley narrowed her eyes.  She liked Michael.  Like everyone, he had his flaws.  Like most Toreador, he was dramatic.  Sometimes it wasn't the most useful of traits.

"Are you done?"  Riley asked again.

Michael sighed and nodded.  Slowly.

"Good.  C.Y.A."  Riley said the three letters like they were very specific words.

"C.Y.A?"  He looked confused.

"Yes.  Cover.  Your.  Ass.  It doesn't look like we can move up.  We certainly can't draw attention to ourselves, and moving backwards doesn't help either of us accomplish anything.  But we can still move left and right.  So now at this very moment, we need to cover our asses and prepare to weather this storm.  That's exactly what I am going to do.  You should too."

Michael's eyes narrowed.  He slowly lit a cigarette.  There was still the nervous tension.  His mind was racing.  Riley could see the gears working in ultra-high-speed.  He was a devious man and an even more devious kindred.  That was why she liked him.

Riley flipped through some numbers on her smart phone while she watch him.  She dialed the number.  It picked up after a few rings.  "Hi.  Mary Jane?  Yeah.  I need to talk to Edge.  Now.  Yes, now.  I know.  Yes.  Yes, I know.  Now like, yesterday now.  I know.  That's why I am calling you."  Riley smirked and smiled.  She hung up the phone and looked at Michael with a raised eyebrow.

Michael looked at Riley with a pair of raised eyebrows.  "Edge?"  He reached for the ashtray with his cigarette.  Riley closed her eyes and casually nodded.  "She owes me."

Michael shook his head and chuckled.  His nervousness was still there.  It very closely guarded, but things just started looking up.  "You are a very devious woman, Miss Ishikawa.  That's why I like you."

"I know."

"Hey Toots!"  Phoenix looked Sera up and down.  He whistled at her.  Little backless black dress, cute choker, fishnet stockings and calf high leather boots.  Yuppy, sexy, slutty, and all in an appropriate way.  The Englishwoman was gorgeous and carried herself very well.  Sera was the rising star of clan Ventrue.  She had one of those archaic looking fencing swords.  It was in front of her and on the table.  No wonder the prince had a thing for her.  If he didn't know better, Phoenix would've been trying to fuck her too.  The way he addressed her caused Sera to sneer and look away.  Phoenix loved doing that.

Phoenix lingered against the door for just a few more seconds before letting it fall closed.  Lars was standing, stoically, in his black suit, cropped hair, and well manicured nails.  Both arms were folded.  Phoenix thought he looked like a faggot.  The big man was seated behind the glass table with his hands pressed onto the arms of a rather expensive looking brown leather chair.  The chair looked older then him.  He didn't budge.  He didn't blink.  He didn't speak.  This usually made kindred nervous.  Especially if they knew him at all.

Lars was the one to finally speak.  He pushed himself off the wall and unfolded his arms.  He (im)politely cleared his throat.  "Phoenix."  Lars had said in a forced, neutral tone.  "This is against all protocol to even be meeting with you tonight.  We-" Phoenix ignored Lars and came over next to Sera.  He stood so she couldn't look away from him.  "I said hey toots.  Now you're ignoring me?"

Lars cleared his throat again.  "Phoenix."

"What's the matter split tail?  Mouth full of the prince's cock is it?"  Phoenix cackled at Sera, intentionally taunting her.  He mocked a Manchester accent.  Her lips curled into a snarl.  She bared her fangs.

"Phoenix!"  Lars raised his voice.  Sera and Phoenix both looked at him.

"Like I was sayin-"

"Can it bitch.  I know why I am here."  Lars's face reddened.  He didn't say anything though.  That would have just given Phoenix what he wanted.

Phoenix opened up the black duffel bag and pulled out a Kevlar vest.  Then he pulled out another.  The first was standard police issue.  The second was high grade body armor.  "Alright.  Listen up.  Pay attention because I am only going to say this once."  Phoenix pulled three pistols and a sawed off shotgun out of the bag.  The first pistol was a Glock.  It was the Glock 17.  The second was a Colt 1911, .45ACP.  The third was a Ruger Blackhawk, .44 magnum.

He passed the pistols around the table.  Sera touched them, barely, holding them like they were all icky and passed them to Lars.  Lars looked at them like he was familiar enough with them, but he only held them to be polite.  Phoenix could tell he didn't actually know what to do with them besides pull the trigger.  The elder on the other hand, he leaned forward and looked at them with curious scrutiny.  He seemed to like the revolver, but he also looked clueless as to their actual functionality.

The guns all came back to him.  Phoenix lined them back up on the table.  Then he passed the body armor around.  This got a similar response from the other Ventrue in the room.  "Note the difference.  The first is lightweight and can be worn under normal clothing.  It's standard issue to police and is available to the civilian market with only minimum difficulty to acquire.  For those of you who remember the days of armored knights on horseback, consider it the modern equivalent of chainmail.  The first gun I showed you is a Glock.  It's a nine millimeter.  It's effective against unarmored targets.  Against a police officer's vest, it'll leave a bruise, maybe crack a rib or two.  Against Ventrue or Gangrel, it's like a bee sting."  Phoenix paused.  Nobody was impressed.  Good.

"The second I showed you is a .45.  It's extremely effective against unarmored targets.  It's effective against light body armor too.  A good shot to the chest will break some ribs and can put the mortal in the hospital.  It most likely won't kill them, but it isn't something they will volunteer for again.  Against a tough Ventrue, it isn't enough to cause a great deal of concern, but it isn't something any of us should look forward too either.  Getting shot in the face will still ruin any of our nights."

Phoenix paused again.  He looked around.  Sera was pretending not to be interested.  Lars already looked bored.

"Now.  The revolver.  A .44 magnum.  Police issue body armor?  I wouldn't even bother.  The armor might have a chance on it's best night, on the gun's worst night, and with luck on it's side."  Lars raised a single eyebrow in response.

Phoenix continued.  He picked up the shotgun.  "Now this baby right here.  Mossberg 500, chopped down for practical, tactical purposes.  Standard police issue armor is completely useless.  Even a Ventrue or Gangrel should be very afraid of the business end of this.  For those of you who still remember, this is the modern equivalent of the blunderbuss, which we all know made platemail useless on the battlefield, which again, we all know, is why knights quit using it.  After all, what's the point of carrying around an extra 80 pounds of metal if the weapons being used against it will pass right through?"  Phoenix looked around.  He put the shotgun back on the table.  "All of these weapons are commonly available to the average Joe civilian.  Any of us could get them with minimal difficulty if we were so inclined.

Sera leaned forward.  Phoenix had her attention.  She was looking between the guns and the second set of body armor.  Lars actually checked his watch and yawned.  The elder seemed relaxed, indifferent, impossible to read.  But Phoenix had his attention.  He had already figured out where Phoenix was going with this.

"Now.  The second set of armor.  Modern plate mail.  None of these weapons are effective against it.  The shotgun gets reduced to the bad night, the 44 gets reduced to the bee sting.  The other two tickle."

"So what's the point then?  A Ventrue or Gangrel, using this has nothing to worry about?"  Sera looked a little confused, still thinking like an Archaic kindred would.  Phoenix nodded at her and smiled.  She spoke.  His smile grew broader.

"I'm getting to that, babe.  A demonstration."  Phoenix picked up the heavier piece of armor and tossed it to Lars.  There was enough weight to catch Lars completely off guard.  "Put that on, Homo."

"You can't be-"

"Serious?" Phoenix interrupted.  "I am.  And this demonstration isn't for you."  Lars looked around the room.  "Don't worry Lars.  It's only a demonstration.  I'm not going to embarrass you or anything.  I'm only picking you because it isn't right to pick the Lady or him."  Nobility.  What a joke.

Lars looked pissed, but the elder nodded.  He pointed at Lars.  "Do it."  Lars sighed and made a mess of himself taking off his coat and putting the armor on.  He fumbled with the straps until he got it to fit.  Phoenix had to coach him through it.  When he was done, Phoenix continued.  "Now."

He pulled a final weapon out the bag.  He loaded a clip and removed the safety.  Without a word, Phoenix acted with surprise and initiative.  He opened fire.  There was a loud echoing R-Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-kat!

Sera had jumped to her feet and grabbed her sword.  She was hissing.  The elder's eyes were wide.  Lars was slumped on the floor.  His foot was twitching nervously, a reaction to damage.  Blood and bone were splattered on the wall.  Chunks were missing.  Smoke and dust had filled the air.

Phoenix looked back at the elder.  His hands were white and he gripped the arms of the seat.  He leaned forward, a cat ready to pounce.  Phoenix lowered the gun.  "Kalashnikov.  Commonly referred to as an AK-47.  It's been in production for over 60 years.  That's not much in our terms, but in a weapon's terms, especially a gun's, that's ancient.  Note what it has done to your childe, Mister Lee.  It cut through the best armor we can get and his Fortitude as though he were a mortal."

Phoenix paused.  "You were using that armor when you confronted Ignetz.  He was using the Glock, the first pistol I showed you.  I mean absolutely no disrespect, sir.  I'm just bringing you the facts.  Had you not had surprised him, and had he been using one of these.  We wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

John didn't look angry.  He just looked from Phoenix to the gun, to Lars, to the wall, and back.  "I see."

"When it comes to resources, influence, and politics, the clan of kings has no equal.  When it comes to modern technology and forward thinking, we are dreadfully behind.  Now I respect tradition and pedigree as much as any proper blue blood, but our rising stars are still equipping themselves with archaic fencing swords for Christ's sake."  Phoenix confidently took a step forward and tipped his head to John.  He was just about to speak when Lars caught everyone's attention.

Lars had started to stir.  To his credit, he picked himself up off the floor to his knees.  He was still bent over, using one hand to brace himself while the other was clutched to his chest.  "You fucking asshole!  I'll!  I'll have your head on a plate for thi--"

"No faggot.  You won't.  Especially since you laid down for Dragon.  Part of the reason our clan is in this mess in the first place is because you're a worthless cunt."

"You lie!"  Lars snarled, painfully dragging himself to his feet.

"No.  I don't.  I never lie.  It's bad for business."

Lars had hit his breaking point.  He snarled, eyes glazed, fangs bared.  He was just about to leap for Phoenix's throat when John finally spoke.  "Lars.  Sit down and shut up.  Your incompetence is becoming most taxing.  You will not be an embarrassment again."  Lars stopped directly in his tracks.  He sat down on the floor and shut up.  John didn't need to make eye contact to make the command work.  He didn't even need to make physical contact like it was rumored only some elders needed for their Dominate to work.  Phoenix was highly impressed with that trick.  He had just started to wonder what he had gotten himself into when John turned his attention to him.

"Tell me what you want."

"To replace him."

"It is done."
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:38, Sat 06 July 2013.

Michael looked around the room.  A nice lounge.  Very nice.  Victorian.  Classy, stylish, vintage.  Not too much.  Not too little.  Kelly had done an extremely impressive job.  Master of Elysium.  She wasn't just a Keeper.  She was a Master, a title of respect and accomplishment.  Kelly had earned it.  She was world renowned for her skill in such arenas.  Too bad she wasn't here tonight.

Instead it was three of the most powerful women in the city and one of the most powerful men.  Dora.  Catrina.  Nicolette.  And then Virgil.  Four Primogen.  Two Brujah.  A Toreador.  A Nosferatu.  All elders.  All held in very high regard to the prince, Juan Lorenzo.

And then there was him.  Michael was just an ancillae, older broodmate to Riley, oldest childe of Francesca, an accomplished actor, violinist, and most importantly, kindred bookkeeper.  Most kindred either ignored him or accepted him as a respectable, if not devious Toreador.  The wisest listened to him and made note when he spoke against a plot or idea.  Most also knew to keep their secrets very well guarded, especially now, because Michael was also in the enemy's camp.

Francesca had thrown her lot against Dragon's rise to princedom.  Francesca had been granted the position before Dragon took it from John.  She really had thought she would be prince in the event of the coup that was coming.  The other elders had carefully manipulated her, and then when Dragon took the seat for himself she was rightfully insulted.  Rightfully angry.  That wasn't important.  Not now.  It wasn't why he was here tonight.

Dora put her crystal goblet down.  Nicolette and Catrina put theirs down too.  Virgil held onto his, but he lit up a sweet smelling cigar.  He didn't bother to hide his hideous image, either.  It was time for business.

Michael leaned forward in his seat and put his cigarette out in an ivory ashtray.  Everyone was looking at him very keenly.  "I apologize for being here in Riley's place.  I know you all were expecting her.  I will do my best to make amends, and I hope none of you find insult."  Appropriate grovelling.

Dora nodded.  Everyone understood Riley's position.  She had fed them all information from time to time.  In spite of being Francesca's whip, Riley was not one of the conspirators against Prince Lorenzo.  But because of her position, she couldn't be seen as disloyal to her sire either.  It was a well kept secret.

Virgil, the most difficult member of the group accepted Michael's apology in his own backhanded way by being the one to ask the question.  "So what the fuck are you doing here whelp?"

Michael swallowed.  "I'm here, because I am with Riley."

Virgil didn't budge.  Nicolette spoke instead.  "How can we know that?"

"Because..."  Michael looked at Nicolette squarely.  "Because I know what my sire is planning.  I also know who Riley has called on.  I also know the when and how.  I'm going to share all of that information."

Neither Dora nor Catrina spoke.  But the silent signal was given.  Nicolette relaxed and Virgil took over again.  "So tell us boy."

Michael nodded confidently and relaxed.  "Riley is calling in some debts from Edge.  It will give us some influence on the decisions she makes.  We already know Phoenix's allegiance to the Anarch cause is questionable.  He's being pressed on by either Team NOS or the QCLA.  The obvious conclusion is the QCLA unless someone is somehow controlling those two.  They're too disorganized to be any threat to him.  With John coming back, Phoenix needs to move.  The last thing on his mind is being a black sheep in a clan we all know is going to go through some major reorganization.  He needs allies and position.  Most of us can agree he'll come back to the fold."

Silence.  All of the elders could assume that.  "So?"  Virgil asked.

"So," Michael said confidently.  "My sire intends to recruit Phoenix to her side.  His loyalty can be bought."

"Fat chance."  Nicolette said apathetically.  "Assuming we all agree Phoenix is going to come back to the fold, John will own him."

"True," Michael said.  "But that won't stop Francesca from trying to remove our prince.  It works out in her favor to pull it off, and there is no reason for John to prevent her from trying.  So Phoenix is still useful as a recruit to her."

Another few seconds of silence.  This time it was Dora's turn to speak.  "Alright.  That makes sense.  That can be stopped easy enough."

"I beg to disagree," Michael said sheepishly.  He was good at grovelling.  "Francesca can, and will, give him something nobody else will.  Sponsorship as an elder."  Dora scoffed.  So did Catrina.  Nicolette snickered and looked away.  Virgil's eyes narrowed.  He inhaled from the cigar and exhaled while tapping ashes.  Then he took a sip from his tumbler.  None of the elders approved of that notion.

"And, Primogen Armstrong, your own feud with Mr. Washington makes him a ripe target for recruitment to her cause as well.  Naturally, it is nothing for you to defeat him.  But this would certainly force him into her camp, which by itself is not such a big deal.  Especially if he is elected to host the Midnighter's Ball, as I have reason to believe will be done."  Michael stopped and looked around.

Dora picked up her goblet and took a sip.  Michael took that as a cue to do the same.  "But Washington, even as a failure, is still tied to the Reichart bloodline, the same as other elders of note.  Given that John hasn't moved against that bloodline, we can safely assume they are protected."

Catrina looked between Michael, Virgil, and Dora.  Virgil nodded once and puffed on his cigar.  He confirmed the suspicions.  If Washington was protected, presumably by John, along with Phoenix, and they both were recruited to Francesca's side, even Catrina's victory would be hollow since it only made the prince's rival for power even more powerful.  She would have added two more elders to her clutch, both disenfranchised with current leadership, both willing to play her game, and it would cost her nothing.

"Bold."  Catrina said, almost complimentary.

"That's not all,"  Michael said.  He had once again regained some confidence in the face of the elders.  "She also plans to move against you."

"Indeed.  Bold."  Virgil added, not so complimentary.

"I apologize.  You misunderstand."  Michael reached into his coat pocket and pulled a cigarette from his pack.  He lit it carefully, glancing at everyone before looking directly at Nicolette.  "I mean you Miss Cain."

Nicolette's eyes narrowed and she made a truly angry face.  "That dirty cunt!"

Virgil actually laughed.  "I couldn't have said it better myself."  He laughed again.  Moving against Nicolette was very unexpected.  It was also insanely clever.  It was only a mostly kept secret she was blood lover to the prince.  It was a kind of kept secret that she was one of the weakest primogen.  It was no secret that she was in no position to square off against another elder, especially one like Francesca while still weakened.  By picking on Nicolette, it would force Dragon to act, only making Francesca stronger...

It was Dora's turn to speak again.  "So what exactly do you want from us Mr. St.Claire?"  The elders already knew, but Dora had to ask anyway.

"Protection."  Michael said.  "C.Y.A.  Cover yo-"

"Ass."  Catrina said curtly.  "Yes.  We know.  Just how exactly do you expect us to do that?"

"Two things."  Michael wasn't confident.  But he wasn't grovelling either.  "First, I'd like for you to consider a different patron for the Midnighter's Ball.  One that will surely disrupt my sire's plans.  Annnnd... Sponsor me as an elder."

Nicolette nearly burst into laughter.  She covered her mouth.  Catrina sighed and shook her head.  Virgil remained silent.  He just exhaled a line of smoke.  Dora smoothed her hands on her dress.  "You know I--"

"I'll do it."  Virgil said before a snicker broke into a cheesy grin.  "I'll do it."  He said again.  Michael looked surprised.  Ashes fell off the end of his cigarette.  Nicolette looked shocked.  "You can't be serious?"  She asked Virgil with a raised eyebrow.

"Sure."  Virgil said matter of factly.  "Like you said, Francesca's a dirty cunt.  I loves me some dirty cunt.  I'll do it just to fuck a bitch."

"Thank you."  Michael said, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Don't thank me yet.  This still needs to play out, kiddo.  And you're going to owe me.  Owe me big.  I mean owe me to the tune of three major boons to be called in at a date and time of my choosing."  Virgil shared the ashtray with Michael.  This caused Michael to lean back in his seat.

He thought about it for three whole seconds.  "Two major a moderate and two minor?" He asked a little sheepishly.  Virgil considered.  He finished his tumbler and set it on the table.  "Still covering you ass?"

"Always."  He said.
"Fair enough.  Deal."

Everyone made note.

"So who would you recommend as the host to the Midnighter's Ball then?"  Dora asked.

Michael grinned slyly.  "Martin Paris."

"You mean Primogen Paris?  The Malkavian?"  Catrina asked with a wicked look.

"The blind, Malkavian Primogen, loyal to Francesca because of a partial blood oath?" Michael responded rhetorically.  "That's the one.  Yes."

Everyone except Michael burst into laughter.  Catrina had to control herself.  "Oh this is too good."  "You are a truly devious man," Dora complimented after recovering herself.

"I know."  Michael said with a smirk.  "I've heard that before..."

Nigel cuffed Irish Rob on the ears with his palm. Hard. The Brujah spat, but he was too beat up to put up anymore of a fight. Nigel had Rob's number from minute one. Rob, who was a well known fighter, and quite the bad ass in the Anarch circles had done what all Brujah do when they're cornered: Burned Blood. Precious, precious Blood. This turned him into a wrecking ball for anything he came into contact with.

Problem with that was Nigel was expecting it, and Nigel can take a hit. They tussled for a bit, Rob got a lot more hits in than Nigel was comfortable with, so when the wrecking ball caught him in the ribs, picked him up, and smashed him into a wall he was almost grateful.

The wall crumbled and gave way. Nigel swore. That was not part of the plan. Rob skidded to a halt and shoved the former Sheriff turned Scourge off of him. Free wheeling Nigel fell back into a rusted railing. The bolts holding it to the floor protested and then wrenched free from their soft moorings. The falling continued again. Then it stopped abruptly. Nigel groaned and rolled over. He had fallen two flights of stairs. Not quite the whole length of two floors, but enough to hurt. A lot. Not the best of positions to be in, but good enough. Rob appeared at the top of the stairs. Nigel scrambled to his feet, pulled a flashbang and dropped it at his own feet. Rob leaped down the stairs and crashed in front of Nigel just in time to Watch the Malkavian turn and cover his eyes with both hands.

The explosion picked Nigel up off the floor a good foot. The sound was absolutely deafening. In fact Nigel was fairly certain he was legitimately deaf until he could focus a minute to repair the damage the flashbang had caused to his ears. Rob though. Rob was deaf, and blind.

Nigel whirled, pulled up a double-barrel sawed off shotgun, leveled it at Rob's thigh and pulled the trigger. The first blast shattered Rob's femur and nearly blew his leg off. If Nigel had been another foot away, it probably would have. The Brujah roared that protest to death. Nigel had just a split second to drop down as a haymaker flew over his head. It caught the wall and busted pieces of bricks. Rob was blind but he was an old hand at fighting. He didn't need to see to kick someone's ass up around their ears, and unfortunately for Nigel, there was no where to go.

The Scourge cursed and caught an uppercut that made his eyes bulge out. If he had been a mortal that would've probably knocked him out. He narrowly blocked a blow to the head and he was certain his forearm was broken where Rob's rock hard fist hit him. A third blow immediately caught him in the temple on the other side of his face. Nigel swore again. Muscled up and hit Rob on the nose with the butt of the shotgun.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Four hard, cracks to the face with the shotgun caved in Rob's face and taught him some manners. The Brujah stumbled back and fell down. Blood poured from the hole in his head that used to be his upper lip and nose. He looked up in Nigel's direction, still unseeing, but broken. His eyes seemed sad. He knew he was going to die. He staggered back and Nigel snarled something unintelligible between the blood in his mouth and his Cockney accent. He leveled the shotgun one more time and pulled the trigger.

Pontifex.  Pontifice were bad motherfuckers.  They were the Tremere who told the Tremere that made the impossible happen what to do.  You didn't fuck with, let alone fuck with a Pontifex's plans.  You certainly didn't do it on purpose.  It was a death sentence.  Not a death sentence, THE DEATH SENTENCE.  It was the motherfucker, Hell froze over, Satan just got his ass whooped, end of the universe death sentence.  Ryan had had problems before.  Dragon had even solved a few of them from time to time.  Ryan's problems usually consisted of not having enough time to cast a ritual, or needing a component to finish a ritual, or a Chantry in a nearby region was having a systems malfunction and had gone dark for an hour.  They definitely did not consist of him losing his pet Justicar.  They most definitely did not consist of him losing his pet Justicar and leave him looking like a disheveled mess.

That is exactly what Ryan looked like.  He wasn't in his favorite robe.  Papers were strung about his dusty office.  One of his magical staves was broken into numerous pieces.  His hair was a mess and he wasn't wearing his glasses.  Ryan was not Ryan.  Ryan was not a pissed off Pontifex.  Ryan was not God.  Right now, Ryan was a concerned Grandsire, and this was far far more disturbing.

Immediately sensing the disturbance in the Force that tied the Tremere universe together, Dragon snapped to focus.  He was in top form, and right now, not even God could come down out of Heaven and force Dragon to do anything but take Ryan very very seriously.  He was grateful that he wasn't to blame...

Dragon said the only thing he could at this time.  "Sir.  I got this."

Ryan narrowed his eyes.  His lips were curled into a downright scary snarl.

"I got this."  Dragon said again.  "Trust me.  Like you always do.  I wouldn't be here now if you didn't."

There was a really uncomfortable pause.

"I do. Not. Fail."  Dragon said the words with as much gusto he could manage in that moment.

Ryan leaned forward.

"Then get this.  Do. Not. Fail."  Each of the words came with a heavy thud as Ryan stamped his index finger onto his desk.  The only possible reassurance he was going to get was that Dragon did not fail.  When Dragon was as serious as he was, it meant he was going to pull a rabbit out of the hat.  He was going to do the impossible.

Ryan wasn't always convinced Dragon could, or would do the impossible.  But he knew Dragon was convinced that he could and would.  And right now that was the best he could offer...