You get a consolation prize for your booted Mitsubishi: a lanyard that lets you wander around without getting shot. You also get a private trailer, too, complete with shower.
Trapped but not exactly a prisoner, you explore the complex.
The camp is laid out like an open-air prison, with temporary Quonset huts serving as separate holding pens for men, women, and children. Due to overcrowding, an overflow pen topped with razor wire holds several hundred more people.
Right up next to that pen is a place called Millicent's: a kind of Rick's Café Américain for Kindred, where the vessels are so plentiful it's almost free.
After using your ID to pass the security checkpoints, you poke your head inside Millicent's and count not just well-heeled Camarilla types, but also Anarchs of all kinds lounging among the dazed-looking blood dolls among the low couches and glittering lamps that establish a sort of 1920s French Algeria/1990s Pier 1 store style to the place.
You're pretty sure the biker gang is made up of Gangrel, since there are two wolves among the Outlanders. You also spot some creepy-looking figures in boiler suits that you've heard about but never met: Russian exiles, mostly Rabble if the stories you've heard are to be believed. You listen in on some conversations and learn the names of a few Lunatics, Sewer Rats, and Clanless hangers-on that the new, more aristocratic Camarilla wouldn't normally tolerate.
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Millicent herself is small, frail, and elderly: a peculiar choice for the Embrace by most standards. She looks like a librarian from a black-and-white movie.
But it sounds like everyone is welcome to grab a drink at Millicent's.
All of this easy "living" is built on an engine of horror that the Kindred have fine-tuned for their own needs. The Camarilla didn't create this place, but somehow they've found a way to make a horrible situation even worse.
If you decide to fight Olivecrona, you're going to be fighting not just the Camarilla, but the entire mortal apparatus that opened this place and let it fester. Where would you even begin?
You turn the possibilities over in your mind as you watch a hulking vampire share a hollow-eyed vessel with a hard-looking Brujah in a Soviet captain's uniform. They are, you notice, quietly stealing blood with needles, as well as drinking from their vessel. Maybe that's something you can use.
You head back outside and check the mortal guards.
They're a truly bewildering mix. Some are actual police (state police or from nearby municipalities), others give every indication of belonging to the armed forces, from their kit to the way they carry themselves. Others are just fringe militia types—citizen's patrols, patriot groups, even bikers, loaded up with ammunition and given those cat-skull masks. You see men and women in suits, some of them wearing windbreakers or lanyards that indicate they're with ICE or Border Patrol, the FBI, or even the ATF.
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