"You must be a real smart neonate, Krarr," Pattermuster says, "because I've done everything I can for this place, and we're still just barely hanging on. And we won't be hanging on for much longer because of the new director, Carelli. She's spoken with the city about a full renovation. Windows, Krarr! Floor-to-ceiling windows! And worse, a remote administration system. If that happens, half the Kindred here are doomed. I don't want that and neither does Prince Lettow. Director Carelli's already installed cameras upstairs. Her monitoring station is right down the hall. She fucking knows who I am! Not what I am, but what if she figures it out?"
You wait for Pattermuster's offer. Technically you've already done your job.
"The information Lettow sent me is enough to get rid of Director Carelli and return the hospital to my direct control. There won't be any renovations, any threats to my people or to Lettow's base of power. But I need help. My people, they're all right, but look, they're fucking worthless when it comes to this kind of work. I'm going to need help getting this information onto the director's computer so we can make sure she's stopped. And of course, I'm willing to pay. A thousand dollars once it's done, plus there will always be a place for you here. It's not much, but a vault in the morgue is better than a morning in the park, you know? Are you in?"
"And who are you, little neonate, to give me orders?" Pattermuster says.
"I'm someone who hasn't let this hospital fall apart, for one," you say. But that only infuriates the Brujah.
"I'll run my own domain, whelp," Pattermuster snaps. "And you'll do as you're told while you're here."
The black rotary phone on Pattermuster's desk rings.
"Hello? What? Well, the blood can't be 'everywhere.' Surely that's an exagger—okay—okay, fine. Okay. Okay, I'll get—okay. Five minutes. What? No, Sissy Spacek. No, Sissy—you're thinking of Rosemary's Baby. No, Carrie had the prom scene. With all the pig's—yes, it was Sissy Spacek, I'm sure. That much blood? Jesus. Okay, hold—five—okay, five minutes."
He hangs up.
"I need to go deal with a thing," he says. He opens an art deco bureau in black lacquer and brushed aluminum, pulls out a stack of scrubs, sizes you up for a second, then tosses you a pair. He rummages around in a bin until he finds a lanyard with a picture that looks kind of like you. "Wear these, and no one will pay attention to you. You're in the top left."
"Top left?"
The lanyard has an aluminum key attached to it.
"In the morgue. Don't worry, it's not cold. No sunlight, and everyone down there works for me, so you're safe. Get a feel for the place. Director Carelli's office is guarded even at night, so I'm going to need you to look around for a way in. Once you're ready, we'll sneak inside and plant all this incriminating evidence on her computer. Right now I need to go deal with something. Show yourself out."
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