Bribery is a complicated business, and you hang around waiting for your opportunity. After the EMTs lurking outside deal with the arrival of a new ambulance, you approach one and "explain your situation." He seems friendly and willing, so you hand him $50 and walk in through the emergency entrance. But just as you do, he heads for a guard and whispers in the man's ear.
You bolt deeper into the hospital. The guard rises and shouts, excited to have some action. You manage to lose the guard by hiding in a break room as he runs past. They're going to be looking for you now. You display your lanyard prominently, hoping it will be enough. At least you're inside now.
Once you're inside, no one bothers you, though the guard presence is heavy since you drew their attention. The stone walls of St. Basil's are unnaturally cold for an Arizona autumn, like they imported the chill and damp from some nineteenth century mental hospital in London or Massachusetts.
Though painted lines on the linoleum floors are supposed to lead to Intensive Care, Orthopedics, Radiology, etc., according to the paper maps on the walls, they have a way of fading out or vanishing, turning the near-windowless corridors into a labyrinth. Even your meticulous prep work was not enough, and even your sense of empathy, numbed by years of surviving as one of the living dead, can feel the miasma of sorrow and regret that hangs over St. Basil's.
You just shake your head in disgust. This place is a nightmare.
There's a stretcher in one hallway that looks like it's been unattended for days. Flies swirl as you pull the blanket off the corpse. You can see the chew marks on the neck and wrist. You're not sure it's your job to bring the local Camarilla back in line, but you instinctively recoil at such an obvious violation of the Masquerade.
You finally find a sign that says Morgue, but as you trot down the hall, you hear hushed and panicky voices from a side corridor. St. Basil's is full of quiet, desperate sounds, but you know the smell of fresh blood. You poke your head around the corner.
"We should get a doctor," a thin woman with a thin voice says. "Oh shit, his neck!"
Next
A dying man lies on the desk of a low-ceilinged office, blood pumping from wounds on his neck and stomach. You recognize the man's Arizona Diamondbacks jersey from when he and Carlos were in your parking garage. On the far side of the painfully thin woman, also helping to hold the dying man down, is the Brujah you recognize as Pattermuster.
The photo only hinted at something you see clearly in real life. Vampires do not age, but some people are born old, and their spirit keeps aging as their flesh remains immortal. Pattermuster should be a good-looking Black guy: midtwenties, athletic, short black beard, and close-cropped hair. But somehow he looks old, as if there's a bald, fat, tired old man where his shadow should be. Crinkled lines around his eyes and a slowness to his step reveal Pattermuster's true age: in real life, he'd be stepping into the grave around now. And it's like he knows it.
He looks up and his hands, previously holding onto the dying man, slacken. The thin woman wheezes and stumbles backward into a trash can.
"Shit," he says. You can almost see the vitae crackling through his veins as he prepares to unleash some Brujah power. Before he can bolt across the office faster than a cheetah and punch your head off, you hold up your duffel bag.
"Courier," you say.
"Whatever," Pattermuster says as the dying man thrashes. "Come here and hold Miguel down."
You don't give Miguel good odds.