12:25 AM. Night was the refuge of the Bloodmoon Force. The complete absence of the sun wrapped the Kindred in a long-awaited embrace. The squad moved through what was once Downtown Los Angeles, now a shattered landscape of war. Venture Tower, once owned by Sebastian LaCroix, lay ruined and vandalized since the supposed Prince of Los Angeles met his end—victim of his own ambition over the sarcophagus, a cruel and explosive joke that sealed his fate. Silas, the Brujah, tilted his head up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "I like the new décor." A low, rough laugh escaped him.
"Could it be true? That it was one of the Anarchs?" murmured Jared, the Thin-Blood, his voice shaky, betraying his lack of confidence. When every clan rejects you and you’re a target for the Kindred, hope is the first thing to vanish. "Of course it is, idiot. Did you really think it was one of your kind, Thin-Blood?" Silas mocked, blowing smoke in Jared’s direction.
The Gangrel, Indira, sniffed the air, letting her senses do the talking. "I smell..." she moved smoothly toward the Abandoned Hospital at the corner of Venture Tower. "Kindred." Indira confirmed. Before she could take the lead, Clara readied her M4A1 Carbine; the metallic click made it clear who was in charge. "Follow my lead. Could be Sabbat… or a couple of Anarchs. Either way, neither will be happy to see us on their turf." Clara didn’t look back, confident they would follow.
"A place of death. Oh, my favorite. I love it! Whoever we kill, I’ll interview the little corpses— they always have valuable information. The precious words of a dead body… oh, they’re so beautiful." Baron René whispered, his rasping voice a reminder that he was not just dead, but doubly so, consumed by putrefaction.
Clara spoke into her wireless earpiece, addressing the Operator. "Send a drone inside and show me the feed. I want to see what we’re up against." A snort came from the other end of the line. "Right away. Sending one snort now." confirmed the Nosferatu Operator.
