20 December 2009, Milford Trucking, Lebanon, New Hampshire

Peter Milford hid his contempt for his sire as Gunther gloated a little more about his triumph over the Sheriff of Manchester. The jackass was crowing about it like it was hard to make a Brujah frenzy. After about ten minutes of polite affirmation of Gunther and his deadly deed, he broke in and asked, "Yeah, but how are we going to know if it really did anything or not?"

Gunther looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, Peter?" his eyes flashed a bit, "You think it wasn't important to show that little wimp that we could have his ass anytime we want to take it?"

"Thought the plan was to do something a little more elaborate than what could be readily accomplished by a 10 year old with a water gun and a string of firecrackers."

"What the fuck are you talking about Peter?" Gunther growled in annoyance, "You know the plan as well as I do."

He shrugged indifferently as he gave the Petersen Trucking terminal the evil eye again, "I'm not going to pretend I get this, Sire. It's a stupid plan, one rather more worthy of Byers, not you." Peter Milford knew well enough that the Marty card was a potent one--especially when lead someone toward deriding the inept fool. "The Gangrel in Manchester has proven herself pretty damn cagey."

"She ain't nothin special, Peter. Just another...."

Peter cut Gunther off with a quick, "She isn't 'just another' anything, Gunther. We -all- know that." He met his sire's look of annoyance with one of his own; Gunther was a waste, complete and total, and it was only stupid, dumb luck to get stuck with him as a vampiric parent. Then he precipitously changed the subject, "Anyone see my boy Rodney down there?"

Gunther buried his perturbation somewhat and said, "Nope. Probably hiding somewhere nice and deep. Man, a freak like that one needs to...you sure do make fucked up childer, Pete."

Milford didn't dignify that with anything more than a non-committal nod. It hadn't been his idea to embrace Rodney Stone, was just one of those things that the family wanted done and he got to do it. It was bullshit, complete and utter bullshit, but it got done after they lured him into an internship at the company. Wasn't until after the first good family rumble that it became apparent that the childe was possessed of some flaw that kept him from regenerating like everyone else did. Even as annoyed about it as he was, he had to feel a small pang of sympathy for the way the kid got run out of Lebanon like he did.

Of course, it hadn't taken much time to find out where the guy wound up, in Manchester. Afterall, unlike the near penniless Gunther, Peter prided himself on being able to afford good private investigators. Having the kid in Manchester wasn't a problem for Peter; either he'd be discovered by the kindred there and die, or be taken in and become a vaguely useful tool, bloodbound as he was. It all, in his estimation, was simply a matter of putting the pieces of the puzzle together the way that suited him best.

However, the outright disappearance of the guy sent a subtle shiver down his spine. A 3 million dollar warehouse blew up in Concord once, because he didn't know everything he should have known about the players. Even as Gunther went back to crowing about McClintoch, Peter Milford went back to being troubled. Lots of things could still go wrong and he couldn't totally be sure that he knew all of them.

Sabbat Communal Haven, Kittery, Maine

McCarty wandered into the communal area with one of those annoying looks on his face that everyone hated in an Assamite Antitribu. He was smug, way too smug for the tastes of anyone present, save Skelton, who was perhaps the smuggest of the bunch. He leaned over onto the big table in the middle and said, "You like it? They're doing a good job?"

The look of vicious amusement on Skelton's face told a story all its own. He smirked in a rude way, "Bet the idiots in Manchester have no clue, do they?"

"Not that I can tell, nope."

Skelton retained his smile and asked, "Think we can make a move?" He picked up his shotgun and fingered it quietly, "The Dog wants to hit 'em."

McCarty laughed a little, "Yes indeedy. I don't think that no one is going to be leaping to anybody's aid, now. Probably all think it was each other up there."

Another laugh came from Skelton, "Well, find Rutgers and send him up to tell The Dog that we're in." He considered a moment and added, "We should soften up Concord a little more until it's time. Don't want no trouble coming to bite us later."

"Oh yes indeedy," McCarty said with a smile. Then he stopped and added, "I think that the Knight Inquisitor is dead. That house that blew up a while back in Manchester was the one that I saw her at." Then he chuckled, "Didn't think that she could hide under their noses like that for long."

Skelton again, smiled in that vicious way of his, "All the better, since she was never anything more than a pain in the ass."

24 December 2009, Midnight, Somewhere in Manchester

Fursa sat on the topmost point on the monkey bars, staring aimlessly up at the cloudy sky, watching the infinitely varied snowflakes fall all around her. She had no idea where anyone was, nor did she give too much care to know in that moment. There was much to consider and solitude was necessary work her way through the problem.

She had come to the quiet conclusion that the several events of recent weeks were less related than it looked. Now was the time to fathom -why- it was so. A hundred little factors danced before her and a hundred others wanted their turn. There being no good way to separate the disturbing intimacy of the mental contact from the raw facts, the information she'd gotten from the mind of Peter Milford's childe was still unsettling in her mind. It was possible to learn too much and get too close; in this case, she had and images from within his mind, half terror, half frenzy, crept into her head when she lingered too long on the experience.

Yet in the end, it came back to not having confirmation of Sabbat capabilities. Had it been lack of ability or something actually blocking The Sight? She had no honest way herself. She needed Sandra to ask one simply question, and get one simple answer, before more answers would be apparent. Since trying to find the source of shooting and the bombing had proved fruitless, it was time to search for the Tremere Antitribu and see if she could be located or not. Sandra, or someone very like her, appeared to be a linchpin in the game. It was time to ask for a rare favor.

With that thought in mind, she tossed her mind into the void.