---

The 10 gauge double barrel shotguns in question had been a hassle because Clara had refused to use anything other than Belgian models they'd had to ship from New York. It had been a lot of extra work for, maybe, not much more benefit, but she'd cut down the barrels herself, took two inches off the stocks, made it so they could be packed away without being super obvious. She had made them into violent art and boy did they pack a punch. In the end, it had almost kinda been worth it. She'd dumped hers afterwards, but she'd kept the Schofield and she'd used it ever since. It had been trapped in the cave with her and thus dragged out of the cave so it's with her to this day.

Real pain in the ass to restore after a hundred years of corrosion, of course, but the less said about that the better.

"Why, Miss Alice," she says, voice low and frank. "If I were to stab you, it'd be from the front while my eyes held yours. Respect you too dang much to dry gulch ya." She grins. Maybe that's just a line, maybe she doesn't even know what she'd do. Vampire sh*t. She follows Faith's introductions, giving a little nod to the others as they go. A few new faces. Sergine surely gets around, but she'll play her part for now and pretend they aren't acquainted. "By Jiminy, ain't that happifyin'! Are y'all havin' a house warming? I'll bring somethin' nice." Her attention wanders as her sharp ears pick up 'Ybor City' and she surreptitiously holds up one finger to signal for silence as she side-eyes Geoffrey and his rootin', tootin' rival.

---

And she does. Toreador or not, Maynard had taught her how to play second fiddle and she'd gotten pretty good at that. Being underestimated, ignored. Picking her moment, lining up the shot. Bang.

"Well, blazes, that who I think it is?" A faintly familiar voice behind Faith. The individual it belongs to is dressed in bootcut jeans, filigree Justins and a plain black shirt with long sleeves. Not too dissimilar from how she'd dressed a century ago and change, except the individual items are all designer now, expensive brand names stitched onto 'em, just missing a cowboy hat from Gucci. She's missing the matched brace of Bisley race guns she'd brought with from the Bill shows, but those are long gone and even if they weren't there's no way she'd be allowed to bring them into Elysium.

There is space for her, recently freed up, to drift into before the circle closes but she waits for acknowledgement, arms folded. Waits for the conversation to stop, and the spotlight to drift onto her. Even in life she'd been a showman, that was what had made her Sire convinced that she had to die. The blood had made her, perhaps, a bit worse. It made all of them worse.

---

Dio gives Faith a distracted little wave, digesting Sergine's reply. In time, perhaps. Good enough, no need to force the issue. If she doesn't want to be there then they don't want her there, really that's for the best, one less problem to worry about in a town that has plenty of them. And if she does come, she'll get the full tour. Things aren't actually so bad but they can look even better when your tour guide only shows you the nice bits and leaves out the garage with the drum barrels where they dissolve the bodies.

Abel gets a grin that goes on a bit too long, too much eye contact. It's wholly insincere. "Yeah, hopefully." She taps the side of her nose. The implication is clear: if the Sabbat ever goes all out, and they're left to their own devices, there's always an out. Just step aside. Let them pass. And maybe take their chances with the whichever faction's left standing after that dust-up.

Then the moment passes and she's clapping Travis on the back as he makes his own little withdrawal. Geoff's blunt question gets a disbelieving laugh, catching her a bit off-guard. She doesn't advertise her Clan but probably someone could figure it out if they dug. Most people assume Brujah, from how she dresses, how she acts, who she reps. But if she'd really been one of Troile's special babies he might've caught an ass-kicking for that question. And maybe that's the idea, because then she'd get thrown out of here on her ass in a best case scenario. In a worse case, it'd be a fighting retreat and then back home to circle the wagons and see how Brighton and her posse do in a real fight.

But then she blinks. Smiles. Shakes her head a little bit. "Nah. We'll be fine."

---

The Anarch lets out an obnoxious laugh, purposefully loud, such that it gets more eyes on her and fewer on her 'friends' as they maneuver about. Not that they're really up to anything particular tonight but they're not used to the kind of pressure she is, the scrutiny, the thinly-veiled contempt. "Awww, but I like lurking," she offers to Abel in feigned protest, before ultimately relenting and heading over to join the crowd surrounding the Toreador. It's rare enough that anyone at Elysium would actively invite her participation and not make some sort of attempt to politely shoo her away.

Her eyes move over each of them in turn, lingering a moment longer on Sergine and making no effort to hide the fact that she's being sized up. A sense of game recognizing game, followed by a respectful nod. She can appreciate a fellow brute, someone who wears it on their sleeve like she does. And while she has some muscles beyond the obvious ones to flex that means there's just as much chance for the other woman to take her by surprise as well. Not so much with these others, who don't look like much and will probably just bore her to death with the usual Kindred powers of the mind or spirit or whatever.

There's a lot to be communicated in just a single glance.

Geoff and Abel warrant less scrutiny, and they don't get an approving nod but she doesn't exactly flip them the bird and give them swirlies either. Instead, she just introduces herself: "Dio. From Clearwater." She can't say much more than that openly without opening herself up to reprimand, but just giving her 'hometown' says enough because that town is known as a place where *certain individuals* enforce their own lawless brand of order. She announces it loudly enough that other groups within earshot can overhear it and get bees in their f*ckin' bonnets about it.

Loud enough that the odd cowboy prowling nearer can hear it as well because she's not going to say it twice if he jumps into the conversation. "But don't let me interrupt. I'm a great listener."

---

"Hm, I thought that was fish." She shoots a smirk over at Lena before pulling back onto the highway. "Omega 3s or whatever. Guess I wouldn't risk it with gas station fish either though." The blonde is clearly busy eating like she's about to pass out from low blood sugar so she leaves it at that, concentrating on the road and flipping another somewhat-spicy ring of fried dough into her mouth.

After a minute or so of silence after the questions, Regina answers, "Probably both. I mean, my old friends should know I flipped and I'm gonna be kill-on-sight for either faction right now." The unspoken truth is that they don't have any old friends, just people who had tried a lot harder than she had. "Nobody knows who you are, so you're kinda my secret weapon.

"But anyway it shouldn't really be risky. You'll be in and out in like, five minutes," she continues, virtually guaranteeing that this will turn into an absolute sh*tshow.

The sky is starting to get lighter, even though the sun isn't out yet. Out in the desert, there's great visibility all the way to the mountains. Trees, scrub brush, and tall friend-shaped cacti wave at them from the murky sands to either side of the road. When you're driving through Arizona, you've got a whole lot of that to look forward to. In the distance, to the west, mountains rise from the earth lazily, like sleepy giants who don't wanna go to school, Mom. The Ireteba Peaks. They're getting close.

---

There is a certain low level of familiarity in Regina's actions, but that could just as easily be from thirty years of trips to convenience stores, and a lot of those being while on the run from some major force or another. As for this one... "I don't remember. It's close but not that close." She puts a shoulder into opening the door to make for less effort on her arm, and almost falls out as a result. "Woulda drove right by it if I ever took a trip down to Phoenix for something."

With the green light being more or less given, they tuck the Beretta into its inner waistband holster. "Pumps are on the other side, so I guess we just gotta make sure to use this door to get back out." They narrow their eyes slightly. "And avoid standing near the other one." But Lena is already off by then, unable to resist the siren call of snacks. Chuckling, they go after her, making no haste to catch up. Maybe if they come in separately, that's for the best.

Catching the door before it closes all the way, she at least avoids a second chime, and slips in largely unnoticed. It takes effort not to spot out all the cameras, because doing so would present her entire face to them and give facial recognition software a much easier time of it. Even if, academically, she's sure that Lena was right, that sense of unease follows.

It will follow for a long time, even if they pull this off.

She scoops up some Flamin' Hot Funyons and heads for the drink fountain to mix up several different kinds of soda, spritzing in a light amount of cherry flavor add-in as almost an afterthought. Then, before catching up with the blonde, she makes a circuit of the store, pretending to browse everything from politically-charged trucker hats to shitty plastic toy cars with American flag paintjobs. Made in China, of course.

Abandoning the obscenely marked-up shelf of Vienna sausages, they make their way to the Chorister at last, to see what booty she has scored.

---

She blows air through pursed lips, not quite a whistle. "I wouldn't hate hearing more about that sometime." But an in-depth analysis is probably more than they have time for here, in this stolen moment beneath the stars, with the cooling engine clicking beneath them.

They pull their hand away, finally, giving Lena a tiny nod. "I get it, makes sense. I always..." They grimace. "I think I always moved too fast anyways." They roll onto their back once more, then pop up to a sitting position, perched on the fender.

"What it's worth, I'm more ashamed about all that kinda stuff than I am about the blood." She hops down, turns, extends a hand to help Lena to the ground as well. A bit overly chivalrous. Maybe even a bit mawkish. "Do you wanna get some snacks before we hit the dam? Bet I can hit a truck stop or somethin'."