Molotov

You’re the sort of lick beleaguered Anarchs turn to when they can’t shake a Prince or Bishop off their asses: You come into town and stir up shit until the locals can’t stand their superiors’ security failures any longer. The Anarchs you work for disavow any knowledge of your activities, calling you a “foreign agitator,” but when the local big shot finally eases off of them or sits down at the secret bargaining table, your attacks coincidentally die down. In short, you’re the designated bad guy, and brinksmanship is the essence of your art. You specialize in guerrilla actions dramatic and disruptive enough to force action, but not quite damaging enough to merit a declaration of war. If you go too far, you know your employers will gladly leave you out to dry —that’s part of why they pay you — so you have to be ready to cut and run whenever things get too hot. Your existence is necessarily peripatetic and lonesome, but you do maintain some largely online acquaintanceships with people you’ve collaborated with in the past who turned out to be simpatico. You also take active part in Anarch Internet policy-wonk culture, though your contributions are made under a separate, cleaner-nosed pseudonym. You’ve certainly visited many different Anarch and sect domains, learned a lot about how they actually work behind all the fluffy rhetoric — and you happily spill the beans about it, though usually with identifying details removed. You maintain ties with several Sabbat and Camarilla Nosferatu, trading information and favors. After all, in your line of work, a clear picture of how the enemy will respond to your provocations is vital.

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