Even after midnight, it feels dangerous to run across the wide, palm tree-lined boulevard that leads to your destination. You need a car. You're itching like earlier when you needed blood, only now the need is to move fast, to stop fighting the shape of this city and start flowing through it the way it wants you to. By the end of tonight you either need to buy a car or learn how to turn into a bat because Tucson is no place for pedestrians.
Covenant Pawn Shop is wedged between an auto repair shop and a nail salon, across from a TitleMax. Signs read Cash For Guns, We Buy Gold, and Closed.
You step into the sad, dusty spiritual void of the pawnshop. You pass PS4 games, bedazzled purses, a glass case full of rings (¡Regalo Perfecto!), and enough rifles to conquer Belgium. The first thing you do is stock up on a few necessities of your trade: a few duffel bags and rucksacks, a mini crowbar, a small folding knife, a folding shovel, a hacksaw, some lock picks, matches, cord, electrician's tape, a flashlight, a blood and tissue kit, spare USBs, and a portable tool kit.
You stop at the knives, because you recognize the silver knife in one display case. Jasper Knowles was holding it before he was killed. Or maybe it's just a knockoff of some movie prop or something, you can't be sure. But…that's weird.
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Image Description: Elena Prodan, Pawnbroker
Behind the display case with the knives is a pretty young woman with choppy blond hair and Victorian replica railway glasses. She's peered over those sunglasses to watch you like a hawk since you pushed past the Closed sign and walked in. You know that reaction: she recognizes a predator but doesn't know exactly what kind. So this place is only tangentially connected to the Tucson Camarilla. It, and she, are independent and kept that way because they're useful.
"Small world," the young woman says. "You haven't changed, Krarr." She enjoys your attempt to hide your confusion for a moment, then says, "Radu was my brother."
Radu—that takes you back. You and he fought side by side against your sire, Elin Olivecrona. He was the only one of your people who survived. After the fight, you handed him a roll of hundreds, and he split. You thought he went back to Romania.
"Elena," you say, dragging the name out of memory. Then, "Was?"
She shrugs. Her bare arms are covered in HR Giger tattoos—sinuous biomechanical figures in shades of black, gray, and green.
"His boyfriend shot him," she says. "So I got his boyfriend's place." She waves a hand around Covenant Pawn Shop. "It's a long story, and no part of it is interesting. Anyway, Miguel sent you."
It's not quite a question and not quite a statement, and you have no idea who Miguel is. Maybe one of Dove's servitors. Whatever. You nod.
"Let's get you set up."
She throws a red leather jacket on over her tattoos. She makes sure you can see the Glock in the shoulder holster.
The cars are waiting out back.
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A rusted chain-link fence divides Covenant Pawn Shop's parking lot from a row of rusted Quonset huts. The huts, and the slightly taller buildings on either side, serve to hide a full parking lot of parked cars that probably shouldn't be here.
"Miguel says you need wheels," Elena says.
She steps into the shadows and starts messing around on her phone, but she keeps her eyes on you above the railway glasses.
These cars are shit. "Miguel" either hates your guts or doesn't care if your mission for Prince Lettow succeeds or fails. You instantly dismiss the vans, economy cars, and anything covered in rust or that would require more cash to repair than buy. That leaves you with four mediocre specimens: a Mitsubishi 3000GT with too many aftermarket mods, a little Honda S2000 with electrical problems, an ancient but still-rolling BMW 3 Series, and an ugly but functional Nissan Frontier.
"Prices are as listed, inside and out," Elena says. She props the back door open.
Wealth: $603