A combat game. Not a lot for a young Tzimisce to do. Well, an old Tzimisce who just entered play.
Found a few pertinent clues and turned them in to my superiors. Had them dismissed. “We’ll take care of it.”

(Of course you will. You’re the Elder, I’m the Neonate, you’ll take the toy from my hands and have fun with it. This isn’t the Sabbat; it’s the Camarilla-Painted-Black.)

Met a charming young lady. Talked. And talked. And talked.

I think Mr. Finger will be re-locating soon. Far, far from Los Angeles.