WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
What exactly can we offer to prospective employers? The bottom-rung small fry looking to grab J. Random Shooter to bolster their ranks probably won't get us anywhere fast, so we need selling points to make ourselves attractive to more discerning sorts who actually have clout, even if not at the same level as the big ones.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
I see like three actual votes. I guess I'll leave it open for a while. You guys should probably consider the implications of what letting this guy go are, if you want to take that route. It's an invitation to set up a plan, after all.
And of course more discussion on how you want to go about getting a name for yourself or finding contracts would be a good idea. I mean you can just go over to the Yellow Flag and see what's what, but stunts get you some narrative control and bonus dice so they shouldn't be passed up unless you just don't have any ideas.
Also received some NPC ideas via PM as well, will evaluate and see to XP before the end of the "day" here so you can decide if you want to spend some (if you have enough) tomorrow.
And of course more discussion on how you want to go about getting a name for yourself or finding contracts would be a good idea. I mean you can just go over to the Yellow Flag and see what's what, but stunts get you some narrative control and bonus dice so they shouldn't be passed up unless you just don't have any ideas.
Also received some NPC ideas via PM as well, will evaluate and see to XP before the end of the "day" here so you can decide if you want to spend some (if you have enough) tomorrow.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
[X] Let Claude execute the captive.
-[X] After getting directions to the Yellowflag Bar.
[X] Head to the Yellowflag Bar.
(Please tell me if I'm not writing this stuff right or intruding on GM's territory...)
"One last thing," Pierre said. "Ask him how to get to the Yellowflag."
Claude obliged and made the interrogatee gasp out another stream of words, which Claude translated and Pierre took into memory.
"Okay, get rid of him. He's seen our faces; if he goes free, he might squeal and give us away. Make it look like a normal gangland kill, nothing that can be connected to us. È chiucu ancu a pevaru. Whatever we think of this Suparaman, it's not good for us to make an enemy so early, no matter how small a fry he really is. If Fortuna insists on making us foes, then so be it, but I will not taunt her. Suparaman may have been willing to use him and his as cannon fodder but we don't want to risk him taking it personally."
The captive, sensing his time was up, tried to struggle to his feet, but Pierre kicked his knees in and Claude dragged him into the bush and gave him two to the back of the head. He promptly collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Claude put a few more in him at random to keep up the sloppy appearance.
There was not a lot in the now-deceased thug's wallet - a hundred or so USD, an identity card. Either he really had been that poor or he had a stash which location had gone with him to the grave. No matter now. His sidearm was some crappy pistol - Claude had taken a look at it and burst out laughing.
The ride to the Yellowflag was uneventful; no one paid much attention to yet another pickup.
-[X] After getting directions to the Yellowflag Bar.
[X] Head to the Yellowflag Bar.
(Please tell me if I'm not writing this stuff right or intruding on GM's territory...)
"One last thing," Pierre said. "Ask him how to get to the Yellowflag."
Claude obliged and made the interrogatee gasp out another stream of words, which Claude translated and Pierre took into memory.
"Okay, get rid of him. He's seen our faces; if he goes free, he might squeal and give us away. Make it look like a normal gangland kill, nothing that can be connected to us. È chiucu ancu a pevaru. Whatever we think of this Suparaman, it's not good for us to make an enemy so early, no matter how small a fry he really is. If Fortuna insists on making us foes, then so be it, but I will not taunt her. Suparaman may have been willing to use him and his as cannon fodder but we don't want to risk him taking it personally."
The captive, sensing his time was up, tried to struggle to his feet, but Pierre kicked his knees in and Claude dragged him into the bush and gave him two to the back of the head. He promptly collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Claude put a few more in him at random to keep up the sloppy appearance.
There was not a lot in the now-deceased thug's wallet - a hundred or so USD, an identity card. Either he really had been that poor or he had a stash which location had gone with him to the grave. No matter now. His sidearm was some crappy pistol - Claude had taken a look at it and burst out laughing.
The ride to the Yellowflag was uneventful; no one paid much attention to yet another pickup.
Last edited:
- Location
- Southern Virginia
Nah, that's fine.
Anyway looks like killing the captive is winning. Update tomorrow if lucky, by Thursday for sure. I'll leave voting open until the morning. Might want to stunt the reception at the Yellow Flag, or maybe some opportunities. The fight club is actually a pretty good idea if someone wants to expand on it. If not I may incorporate it anyway, but again, more dice on any required roll and narrative influence is good.
Anyway looks like killing the captive is winning. Update tomorrow if lucky, by Thursday for sure. I'll leave voting open until the morning. Might want to stunt the reception at the Yellow Flag, or maybe some opportunities. The fight club is actually a pretty good idea if someone wants to expand on it. If not I may incorporate it anyway, but again, more dice on any required roll and narrative influence is good.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Huh.....well I didn't think I'd be contributing anything, but I may have a stunt. May not be as wise as it could be as it advertises a hidden strength, but it's what came to mind for making a statement.
Yellow Flag was infamous for many things. Its clientele, its drinks, its legendary repair bills. It also had a solemn invoked rule.
Take out the trash without bloodying up the bar, and your drink is on the house.
One can imagine why it's never used. One can speculate that it's related to the perennial lack of a bouncer and abundance of twitchy trigger-fingers that would much rather be wrapped around a bottle of beer.
Which is not to say that the trash doesn't get taken out. It's just that these things tend to resolve themselves. Eventually. Often at the time, expense, and frustration of the owner.
Tonight was different.
On this night when one maybe-mercenary and his two definitely-posse started stirring the shit, the situation was not resolved by a roomful of tired, drunk, universally armed killers for hire.
It was resolved by one quiet frenchman. Who executed a textbook perfect bitchslap across maybe-merc's jaw, slipped an arm under his shoulder, and hurled him towards the front door.
To maybe-merc's credit, he knew how to take a fall. Despite hitting the floor a few dozen times as he rolled out the door.
He did not fare so well when one of his associates, who did not know how to take a fall and whose exit was credited entirely to the aim and arm of the Yellow Flag's newest patron, was sent flying after maybe-merc and hit him full in the stomach.
He just started puke his dinner and drink over his buddy when the last of their trio came flying out. Two knuckleheads collided in a sticky, smelly, thoroughly disgusting pile of limbs.
Lucky them. All that bile made it just a bit less likely that someone would be less inclined to put a bullet in their heads and/or riffle through their pockets. If they got up in the next five minutes they might even walk away with little more than bruises and humiliation.
In the bar, Pierre settled into his newly vacated seat, chuckling to himself. "Just like bowling."
"So," he said amiably to Bao. "What's good tonight?"
Bitchslap wasn't a sissy smack. It was the Openhanded Slap, and maybe-merc didn't see it coming. Didn't think to use ROundhouse Kick, although I suppose Power Attack may have been viable.
Narrative direction I was aiming for was becoming a bouncer, getting free drinks, and making a good starting impression. Probably gonna be modified because the maybe-merc and two total mooks may be too optimistic, as well as taking them down so easily and then hurling them out the door, but this is what popped into my head.
If we got brought on as a bouncer, we may even get free room and board out of the deal. Plus a fairly well connected employer. Granted, probably won't be trusted nearly that easily, we are new and just pissed off the Tigers, but it may be something to work to and pursue later. There are worse ways to make contacts.
Yellow Flag was infamous for many things. Its clientele, its drinks, its legendary repair bills. It also had a solemn invoked rule.
Take out the trash without bloodying up the bar, and your drink is on the house.
One can imagine why it's never used. One can speculate that it's related to the perennial lack of a bouncer and abundance of twitchy trigger-fingers that would much rather be wrapped around a bottle of beer.
Which is not to say that the trash doesn't get taken out. It's just that these things tend to resolve themselves. Eventually. Often at the time, expense, and frustration of the owner.
Tonight was different.
On this night when one maybe-mercenary and his two definitely-posse started stirring the shit, the situation was not resolved by a roomful of tired, drunk, universally armed killers for hire.
It was resolved by one quiet frenchman. Who executed a textbook perfect bitchslap across maybe-merc's jaw, slipped an arm under his shoulder, and hurled him towards the front door.
To maybe-merc's credit, he knew how to take a fall. Despite hitting the floor a few dozen times as he rolled out the door.
He did not fare so well when one of his associates, who did not know how to take a fall and whose exit was credited entirely to the aim and arm of the Yellow Flag's newest patron, was sent flying after maybe-merc and hit him full in the stomach.
He just started puke his dinner and drink over his buddy when the last of their trio came flying out. Two knuckleheads collided in a sticky, smelly, thoroughly disgusting pile of limbs.
Lucky them. All that bile made it just a bit less likely that someone would be less inclined to put a bullet in their heads and/or riffle through their pockets. If they got up in the next five minutes they might even walk away with little more than bruises and humiliation.
In the bar, Pierre settled into his newly vacated seat, chuckling to himself. "Just like bowling."
"So," he said amiably to Bao. "What's good tonight?"
Bitchslap wasn't a sissy smack. It was the Openhanded Slap, and maybe-merc didn't see it coming. Didn't think to use ROundhouse Kick, although I suppose Power Attack may have been viable.
Narrative direction I was aiming for was becoming a bouncer, getting free drinks, and making a good starting impression. Probably gonna be modified because the maybe-merc and two total mooks may be too optimistic, as well as taking them down so easily and then hurling them out the door, but this is what popped into my head.
If we got brought on as a bouncer, we may even get free room and board out of the deal. Plus a fairly well connected employer. Granted, probably won't be trusted nearly that easily, we are new and just pissed off the Tigers, but it may be something to work to and pursue later. There are worse ways to make contacts.
Last edited:
- Location
- Southern Virginia
DAY 1, EVENING
"One last thing," Pierre said. "Get directions to the Yellow Flag Bar. Then dispose of him. No need for loose ends."
Claude nodded, and another rapid fire exchange in Thai took place. Their captive actually looked to be shaking a little, but relaxed as Claude told him something. He started to stand up and walk over to the truck. As soon as his back was turned, Claude whipped out his pistol from a shoulder holster in a single fluid motion. The crack of the shot resounded in the clearing and a portion of the man's heart was blown out of the front of his chest just before he toppled bonelessly to the ground.
This time he wouldn't be getting up.
Pierre and Claude carefully picked up the body and tossed it into the vegetation for the humidity and jungle predators to dispose of. There was little sign anyone came by here regularly; no obvious trails leading further into the interior from the clearing, in any case. And a quick check of his pockets showed he was a nobody, with only about $100 in cash on him, and a cheap pistol that Pierre tossed away in disgust upon handling.
[+ $100]
Pierre pulled out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and offered one to Claude. The other man declined, which Pierre answerd with a shrug before lighting up. The taste was harsh as always but the nicotine fix helped to clear his mind. Amid the squawking of the jungle, as he finished his smoke and flicked the butt to the ground, he made up his mind about what to do next.
"I'll drive us back into town and drop you off at the hotel. Then I'll check in at this Yellow Flag bar. It sounds like the place to make a proper impression. Call me once you have a lead or if you get into trouble," he said.
"That should be fine," Claude answered. "I have less need of an auto at the moment. And I'll steal a nicer one than this old clunker when I need one," he smirked.
Pierre shook his head wryly. "It performed quite well out in the jungle. And the Hilux is indestructible. I once pulled one out of the Rhone after it had been lit on fire and it still ran after drying out. Simplicity and ruggedness are always better in our line of work than styling."
"Maybe on your end," Claude commented as he opened up the passenger's door. "But on my end, and that of the boss, a veneer of class is important."
Pierre got in the car and started the engine. "Are you implying that I am not cultured?"
"Far be it from me to say so," Claude replied lightly. "Anyway," he said, getting more serious, "I expect some results from my studies within a couple of days. I may need to call on you for some black bag work later, so try not to get too tied up."
They continued to banter a bit as Pierre drove out back through the jungle path, down the unpaved road into the outskirts of town. He kept an eye out for any sign of a PLO presence but saw no sign of it, at least this close to Roanapur. But as the sun began to set and the afternoon shifted into evening, they quieted down and the atmosphere grew pensive. By the time Pierre dropped Claude off at the hotel the sun had set and the streetlights had turned on, bathing the trash-strewn streets in a soft artificial glow. There were few other cars out, even as he turned into the downtown district where the Yellow Flag Bar was located.
The directions they had gotten out of the ganger were good enough, at least. The Yellow Flag Bar was on the ground floor of a stately two-story building, with a turn-of-the-last-century tropical colonial façade and a banner strong out over the entrance announcing the place and beers on tap. Pierre turned into the parking lot on the side, and to his mild surprise saw that it was pretty full. That was not what he had been expecting based on the state of traffic. The evening crowd must have come in early, he thought as he slid into an empty space between a motorbike and a Mazda.
As he entered the bar itself he was greeted by the smell of cheap cologne, cheap tobacco, and cheap booze, with a faint coppery scent just barely lying underneath it all. The layout was pretty typical, a very sturdy-looking bar at the far back of the building, with wooden tables laid almost haphazardly to the sides, a billiards table to the far right, and a large screen television blaring a football match to the far left of the room. And it was packed, with all but a handful of tables filled with diverse arrays of dangerous looking characters, all of whom were staring with murderous irritation at the spectacle going on in the center of the room.
It was some kind of cowboy, Pierre thought. A man dressed in ridiculous rodeo attire, complete with a ten gallon hat, was practicing quick-draws with a pair of silver revolvers. "Ohhh, yeah, Two Gun Mike is the baddest badass in this town," he said, waving around his guns seemingly without a care. Beside him a pair of thugs from one of the gangs were watching the regulars nervously, and trying to interject, but their boss kept blowing them off. "Who's got the stones to face Two Gun in a draw? I'll murder a man in a blink of an eye, so fast is my…"
For all his boasting about his reflexes he did not even dodge the backhand that Pierre gave. The force of the blow sent his head reeling, and he barely had time to spit out the crown of a tooth before Pierre was following it up with a punch directly into the diaphragm. Two Gun bowled over as the air was knocked out of his lungs, and he didn't even see Pierre's leg sweep in and behind his ankle. With a quick motion forward the buffoon was sent sprawling to the floor, and Pierre followed up with a vicious kick to the man's head.
His hired thugs were already reacting, of course. Pierre blocked a clumsy punch coming in from his right side with the guitar case strapped to his back, and the turn let him slam a foot into the groin of the other thug as he lunged forward with a knife. Pierre followed through with a roundhouse kick that connected to that thug's head and sent him reeling down to the floor, and spun around using the momentum imparted by the kick to face the other one.
This thug, looking down at his prone boss and the heap of his comrade, started to back away. Pierre grinned, then turned his back to crouch down to clear the others out of the room. That led the thug to regain his courage, which is what as Pierre had expected. In a fluid motion he slipped the guitar case off his back and swung it directly behind him, catching the thug in the stomach. A swift motion thrust it further into the thug's head and the blow lifted him up briefly into the air before he, too, was unconscious.
Pierre swiftly tossed them all out the door. They made an amusing heap, like in one of those American cartoons.
As he stepped back in most of the customers had turned away from their murderous stares to talking among themselves, creating a low buzz. But a few looked at him appraisingly. At the nearest table, a blonde wearing a bikini top and jean shorts raised an eyebrow in his direction.
"I wanted to hear the match," he answered the unvoiced question, and she shook her head ruefully but did not follow up.
It was even true. The TV had on a replay of a Madrid match; it wasn't his favorite Barcelona, but it would do. But it was also a falsity. That clown had offended his sense of professionalism, and he needed to make a name. A brief display of his martial arts prowess might have given away something of his capabilities, but it was also an advertisement. And from the way members of the crowd had been looking at the buffoon, Pierre had done him a favor.
He found an empty chair at the bar, and the bartender came over to join him quickly. "At least I won't have to mop that idiot's blood off the floor," he said in a weary voice. "What'll it be?"
Pierre glanced at the beers on tap. Nothing very appealing, but he needed to drive so he wouldn't be touching the harder stuff tonight and he rather doubted the Yellow Flag stocked any decent wine. "Heineken," he said, holding out a finger in the German way to mark that he only wanted a glass.
The bartender ducked down to grab a glass, filled it and handed it off to Pierre. "Name's Bao. You're new here. And you're not a complete joke like 'two guns' there." He looked out toward the door and sighed. "I hope Revy doesn't run into him here. I just got finished rebuilding. So, what brings you to Roanapur?"
"Pierre. I was from Corsica. And now I am unemployed." He took a sip of the beer. It could be worse. "I hear Roanapur was a good place for someone with my talents. Is that so?"
"You could say that," Bao replied. "The foreign syndicates are quiet but those idiot gangs are going at each other full on. They've even got recruiters coming around here trying to find people to do missions for 'em. Mostly in the morning or the afternoon. There's other work on the margins from outsiders coming into the city for a spell but it's a competitive environment."
"You wouldn't happen to know why the dominant syndicates are so… quiet, would you?"
"Maybe," Bao said, shrugging. "If you need information there's always a price for it. And I'm not ready to sell to you, yet."
"So then. Money." Pierre raised his beer glass. "There are these people here. I make contacts, get more work. Is there anything going on in the short term? I can pay it forward."
"Tell you what," Bao said, as he looked around, and leaned in. "There's a fighting tournament going on at the docks. There's fifty grand in the pot for the winner. Now the docks are Golden Tiger territory, but the tournament itself is supposed to be neutral. Funded by the sharks to keep everyone entertained while they do whatever they've got to do. You look like you might be a contender. You can go down there tomorrow and see about getting a slot, and if you win, you can come back here and spread some of the wealth around. How's that sound?"
Pierre pondered it for a moment. It would mean letting everyone know just what a threat he could be unarmed. And that kind of a public showing would greatly increase his notoriety. But that was what he was trying to accomplish, wasn't it? "I'll consider it. Anything else?"
"I need a bouncer," Bao said candidly. "This place gets shot up pretty regularly. It's even worse with nothing going on and all the crazies coming here to get drunk from the late afternoon on. The insurance keeps paying up but I can't take it much longer. And they're starting to harass the girls upstairs, too. We'll pay fifty bucks an hour, from 18:00 to 02:00, every night you're available. Dinner and cokes on the house, too."
The money wasn't bad, Pierre thought. The commitment in time, though, could be a problem. Every night working as a bouncer was a night he wasn't getting closer to the power-players of the city. It'd be hard to balance the opportunity cost against the value of steady income. He nodded. "I'll be in touch about that, then."
"Hey no pressure," Bao said, laughing nervously. "Just let me know that morning if you can work a night."
The bartender took his leave to fill the request of another client, and Pierre found himself wandering over toward the tables by the TV. It was a good game, and he briefly went out with a handful of other patrons another hour in to get some street food for dinner. There was a surprisingly large selection of vendors and carts to choose from, all huddling together by the Yellow Flag. The cook he bought curry-rice from told him it was the safest part of the city.
Eventually Madrid won 1-0, and he finished his dinner, and his second beer, and a final third before driving back to the hotel. From what Bao said, there'd be opportunities in the morning. And there was also the chance to get an entry into the fighting tournament. He wasn't sure which opportunity to pursue, and decided to leave it until after he had slept.
That night, he dreamed.
[ ] Proving
[ ] Initiation
[ ] Bestowal
OOC: That took longer than anticipated due to weekend distractions. So, ah go ahead and vote on the dream. All the choices reveal something about Pierre's past and may put his current quest in a new context for you.
"One last thing," Pierre said. "Get directions to the Yellow Flag Bar. Then dispose of him. No need for loose ends."
Claude nodded, and another rapid fire exchange in Thai took place. Their captive actually looked to be shaking a little, but relaxed as Claude told him something. He started to stand up and walk over to the truck. As soon as his back was turned, Claude whipped out his pistol from a shoulder holster in a single fluid motion. The crack of the shot resounded in the clearing and a portion of the man's heart was blown out of the front of his chest just before he toppled bonelessly to the ground.
This time he wouldn't be getting up.
Pierre and Claude carefully picked up the body and tossed it into the vegetation for the humidity and jungle predators to dispose of. There was little sign anyone came by here regularly; no obvious trails leading further into the interior from the clearing, in any case. And a quick check of his pockets showed he was a nobody, with only about $100 in cash on him, and a cheap pistol that Pierre tossed away in disgust upon handling.
[+ $100]
Pierre pulled out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and offered one to Claude. The other man declined, which Pierre answerd with a shrug before lighting up. The taste was harsh as always but the nicotine fix helped to clear his mind. Amid the squawking of the jungle, as he finished his smoke and flicked the butt to the ground, he made up his mind about what to do next.
"I'll drive us back into town and drop you off at the hotel. Then I'll check in at this Yellow Flag bar. It sounds like the place to make a proper impression. Call me once you have a lead or if you get into trouble," he said.
"That should be fine," Claude answered. "I have less need of an auto at the moment. And I'll steal a nicer one than this old clunker when I need one," he smirked.
Pierre shook his head wryly. "It performed quite well out in the jungle. And the Hilux is indestructible. I once pulled one out of the Rhone after it had been lit on fire and it still ran after drying out. Simplicity and ruggedness are always better in our line of work than styling."
"Maybe on your end," Claude commented as he opened up the passenger's door. "But on my end, and that of the boss, a veneer of class is important."
Pierre got in the car and started the engine. "Are you implying that I am not cultured?"
"Far be it from me to say so," Claude replied lightly. "Anyway," he said, getting more serious, "I expect some results from my studies within a couple of days. I may need to call on you for some black bag work later, so try not to get too tied up."
They continued to banter a bit as Pierre drove out back through the jungle path, down the unpaved road into the outskirts of town. He kept an eye out for any sign of a PLO presence but saw no sign of it, at least this close to Roanapur. But as the sun began to set and the afternoon shifted into evening, they quieted down and the atmosphere grew pensive. By the time Pierre dropped Claude off at the hotel the sun had set and the streetlights had turned on, bathing the trash-strewn streets in a soft artificial glow. There were few other cars out, even as he turned into the downtown district where the Yellow Flag Bar was located.
The directions they had gotten out of the ganger were good enough, at least. The Yellow Flag Bar was on the ground floor of a stately two-story building, with a turn-of-the-last-century tropical colonial façade and a banner strong out over the entrance announcing the place and beers on tap. Pierre turned into the parking lot on the side, and to his mild surprise saw that it was pretty full. That was not what he had been expecting based on the state of traffic. The evening crowd must have come in early, he thought as he slid into an empty space between a motorbike and a Mazda.
As he entered the bar itself he was greeted by the smell of cheap cologne, cheap tobacco, and cheap booze, with a faint coppery scent just barely lying underneath it all. The layout was pretty typical, a very sturdy-looking bar at the far back of the building, with wooden tables laid almost haphazardly to the sides, a billiards table to the far right, and a large screen television blaring a football match to the far left of the room. And it was packed, with all but a handful of tables filled with diverse arrays of dangerous looking characters, all of whom were staring with murderous irritation at the spectacle going on in the center of the room.
It was some kind of cowboy, Pierre thought. A man dressed in ridiculous rodeo attire, complete with a ten gallon hat, was practicing quick-draws with a pair of silver revolvers. "Ohhh, yeah, Two Gun Mike is the baddest badass in this town," he said, waving around his guns seemingly without a care. Beside him a pair of thugs from one of the gangs were watching the regulars nervously, and trying to interject, but their boss kept blowing them off. "Who's got the stones to face Two Gun in a draw? I'll murder a man in a blink of an eye, so fast is my…"
For all his boasting about his reflexes he did not even dodge the backhand that Pierre gave. The force of the blow sent his head reeling, and he barely had time to spit out the crown of a tooth before Pierre was following it up with a punch directly into the diaphragm. Two Gun bowled over as the air was knocked out of his lungs, and he didn't even see Pierre's leg sweep in and behind his ankle. With a quick motion forward the buffoon was sent sprawling to the floor, and Pierre followed up with a vicious kick to the man's head.
His hired thugs were already reacting, of course. Pierre blocked a clumsy punch coming in from his right side with the guitar case strapped to his back, and the turn let him slam a foot into the groin of the other thug as he lunged forward with a knife. Pierre followed through with a roundhouse kick that connected to that thug's head and sent him reeling down to the floor, and spun around using the momentum imparted by the kick to face the other one.
This thug, looking down at his prone boss and the heap of his comrade, started to back away. Pierre grinned, then turned his back to crouch down to clear the others out of the room. That led the thug to regain his courage, which is what as Pierre had expected. In a fluid motion he slipped the guitar case off his back and swung it directly behind him, catching the thug in the stomach. A swift motion thrust it further into the thug's head and the blow lifted him up briefly into the air before he, too, was unconscious.
Pierre swiftly tossed them all out the door. They made an amusing heap, like in one of those American cartoons.
As he stepped back in most of the customers had turned away from their murderous stares to talking among themselves, creating a low buzz. But a few looked at him appraisingly. At the nearest table, a blonde wearing a bikini top and jean shorts raised an eyebrow in his direction.
"I wanted to hear the match," he answered the unvoiced question, and she shook her head ruefully but did not follow up.
It was even true. The TV had on a replay of a Madrid match; it wasn't his favorite Barcelona, but it would do. But it was also a falsity. That clown had offended his sense of professionalism, and he needed to make a name. A brief display of his martial arts prowess might have given away something of his capabilities, but it was also an advertisement. And from the way members of the crowd had been looking at the buffoon, Pierre had done him a favor.
He found an empty chair at the bar, and the bartender came over to join him quickly. "At least I won't have to mop that idiot's blood off the floor," he said in a weary voice. "What'll it be?"
Pierre glanced at the beers on tap. Nothing very appealing, but he needed to drive so he wouldn't be touching the harder stuff tonight and he rather doubted the Yellow Flag stocked any decent wine. "Heineken," he said, holding out a finger in the German way to mark that he only wanted a glass.
The bartender ducked down to grab a glass, filled it and handed it off to Pierre. "Name's Bao. You're new here. And you're not a complete joke like 'two guns' there." He looked out toward the door and sighed. "I hope Revy doesn't run into him here. I just got finished rebuilding. So, what brings you to Roanapur?"
"Pierre. I was from Corsica. And now I am unemployed." He took a sip of the beer. It could be worse. "I hear Roanapur was a good place for someone with my talents. Is that so?"
"You could say that," Bao replied. "The foreign syndicates are quiet but those idiot gangs are going at each other full on. They've even got recruiters coming around here trying to find people to do missions for 'em. Mostly in the morning or the afternoon. There's other work on the margins from outsiders coming into the city for a spell but it's a competitive environment."
"You wouldn't happen to know why the dominant syndicates are so… quiet, would you?"
"Maybe," Bao said, shrugging. "If you need information there's always a price for it. And I'm not ready to sell to you, yet."
"So then. Money." Pierre raised his beer glass. "There are these people here. I make contacts, get more work. Is there anything going on in the short term? I can pay it forward."
"Tell you what," Bao said, as he looked around, and leaned in. "There's a fighting tournament going on at the docks. There's fifty grand in the pot for the winner. Now the docks are Golden Tiger territory, but the tournament itself is supposed to be neutral. Funded by the sharks to keep everyone entertained while they do whatever they've got to do. You look like you might be a contender. You can go down there tomorrow and see about getting a slot, and if you win, you can come back here and spread some of the wealth around. How's that sound?"
Pierre pondered it for a moment. It would mean letting everyone know just what a threat he could be unarmed. And that kind of a public showing would greatly increase his notoriety. But that was what he was trying to accomplish, wasn't it? "I'll consider it. Anything else?"
"I need a bouncer," Bao said candidly. "This place gets shot up pretty regularly. It's even worse with nothing going on and all the crazies coming here to get drunk from the late afternoon on. The insurance keeps paying up but I can't take it much longer. And they're starting to harass the girls upstairs, too. We'll pay fifty bucks an hour, from 18:00 to 02:00, every night you're available. Dinner and cokes on the house, too."
The money wasn't bad, Pierre thought. The commitment in time, though, could be a problem. Every night working as a bouncer was a night he wasn't getting closer to the power-players of the city. It'd be hard to balance the opportunity cost against the value of steady income. He nodded. "I'll be in touch about that, then."
"Hey no pressure," Bao said, laughing nervously. "Just let me know that morning if you can work a night."
The bartender took his leave to fill the request of another client, and Pierre found himself wandering over toward the tables by the TV. It was a good game, and he briefly went out with a handful of other patrons another hour in to get some street food for dinner. There was a surprisingly large selection of vendors and carts to choose from, all huddling together by the Yellow Flag. The cook he bought curry-rice from told him it was the safest part of the city.
Eventually Madrid won 1-0, and he finished his dinner, and his second beer, and a final third before driving back to the hotel. From what Bao said, there'd be opportunities in the morning. And there was also the chance to get an entry into the fighting tournament. He wasn't sure which opportunity to pursue, and decided to leave it until after he had slept.
That night, he dreamed.
[ ] Proving
[ ] Initiation
[ ] Bestowal
OOC: That took longer than anticipated due to weekend distractions. So, ah go ahead and vote on the dream. All the choices reveal something about Pierre's past and may put his current quest in a new context for you.
[X] Bestowal
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Bestowal
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Nice to see the Quest back. Looks like the two opportunities came up at the price of showing off a few of our skills. Fighting tournament is still go, and that is a tasty pot they're offering, and we've got bouncer open.
Although while we may not be getting to the power-players directly, a steady line on information is still pretty swell if Bao's willing to slide some tips our way.
The tournament though....no hiding our fighting skill then. But it'll definitely get our name out there. Plus, if we're out to piss off the Golden Tigers, walking onto their turf and then driving away with money in their car is a valid strategy. They will come after us.
Which just means we get to lead them into an ambush. Assuming we don't have to fight our way out, but I expect them to let us walk out the ring and then try to surround us with guns, laugh about how our kung fu doesn't mean shit to guns, and then try to pump us full of lead. If Claude is free then, he may be able to give us some cover fire too. Asking him to cover us tomorrow may be short notice for us to meet up again, but if he can tap us for night ops if he feels the needs I don't think calling him in for some covering fire is too unreasonable to ask.
If he can't, he can't, and we manage. If he can? Might be worth it.
Hopefully the tournament is at night so we can go stealth on their ass if need be. If not, we may want to reconsider those gas grenades and gas mask in order to make a getaway. Or a better ambush. They've got several hundred men, this is prime entertainment, so we can probably expect at least a few dozen on our ass.
I suppose we could avoid showing off our ride and hope we avoid their attention a little while longer, but that's showing a degree of fear. It'll make us less infamous.
[X] Proving
Sounds like Pierre at his youngest and I'd interested in seeing what he was like then. I feel like it'll be a nice contrast to the mature, bloodied veteran he is.
Although while we may not be getting to the power-players directly, a steady line on information is still pretty swell if Bao's willing to slide some tips our way.
The tournament though....no hiding our fighting skill then. But it'll definitely get our name out there. Plus, if we're out to piss off the Golden Tigers, walking onto their turf and then driving away with money in their car is a valid strategy. They will come after us.
Which just means we get to lead them into an ambush. Assuming we don't have to fight our way out, but I expect them to let us walk out the ring and then try to surround us with guns, laugh about how our kung fu doesn't mean shit to guns, and then try to pump us full of lead. If Claude is free then, he may be able to give us some cover fire too. Asking him to cover us tomorrow may be short notice for us to meet up again, but if he can tap us for night ops if he feels the needs I don't think calling him in for some covering fire is too unreasonable to ask.
If he can't, he can't, and we manage. If he can? Might be worth it.
Hopefully the tournament is at night so we can go stealth on their ass if need be. If not, we may want to reconsider those gas grenades and gas mask in order to make a getaway. Or a better ambush. They've got several hundred men, this is prime entertainment, so we can probably expect at least a few dozen on our ass.
I suppose we could avoid showing off our ride and hope we avoid their attention a little while longer, but that's showing a degree of fear. It'll make us less infamous.
[X] Proving
Sounds like Pierre at his youngest and I'd interested in seeing what he was like then. I feel like it'll be a nice contrast to the mature, bloodied veteran he is.
Neo-Chan
Extremely hungover College student
- Location
- North Carolina
[X] Proving
We should do the tournament and act as a bouncer in our spare time the tournament so we can get our name out there and as Hymn said show up the tigers all at the same time not to mention we could use the money. Its not like anyone will be able to beat us in hand to hand as for the bouncer gig it should help us gather info and will lead to us meeting the lagoon company which will lead to Hotel Moscow. If i had to choose any of the big factions as our main supplier of jobs and info i would choose them there just that damn good.
We should do the tournament and act as a bouncer in our spare time the tournament so we can get our name out there and as Hymn said show up the tigers all at the same time not to mention we could use the money. Its not like anyone will be able to beat us in hand to hand as for the bouncer gig it should help us gather info and will lead to us meeting the lagoon company which will lead to Hotel Moscow. If i had to choose any of the big factions as our main supplier of jobs and info i would choose them there just that damn good.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Cav already said the Black Lagoon crew would be absent for most of the Quest. Don't think we'll be running into them so soon.
Playing Devil's Advocate, starting an open one-man war will have its consequences. I doubt we'd get all of the Golden Tigers, although we'd probably take out quite a few. If it's us versus the gang, people might be a bit less willing to associate with us for a time because, well, we're still just one man.
Now if we win and come out on top? Then we're pretty much golden. But it'll be a war, not a battle.
Playing Devil's Advocate, starting an open one-man war will have its consequences. I doubt we'd get all of the Golden Tigers, although we'd probably take out quite a few. If it's us versus the gang, people might be a bit less willing to associate with us for a time because, well, we're still just one man.
Now if we win and come out on top? Then we're pretty much golden. But it'll be a war, not a battle.
Neo-Chan
Extremely hungover College student
- Location
- North Carolina
In the words of a great man "Ah we can take them" i wold love for us to be known as Pierre "the one man army" Bourcet and it would make for a very interesting side quest as well as a wonderful smoke screen. And that's not even mentioning all the money we would make doing it, it would make us a pretty big deal in Roanapur not to mention that our build would work spectacularly well as a assassin. And who knows we may end up saving a few people making a few alias hell maybe even start on that crew we were talking about earlier in the thread.
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WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
[x]Proving
[X] Proving
As stated, it sounds like a flashback to a younger Pierre. Much fun.
As stated, it sounds like a flashback to a younger Pierre. Much fun.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Hadn't thought about this before, but from a meta point of view there's decent odds of running into our target(s) here in Roanapur. Granted, they probably know what we're capable of. Us being away was probably not a coincidence.
Advertising that we're here, especially in a fighting tournament.....yeah, that's something I hadn't considered. We probably had pretty low odds of slipping under their radar as it was but these will definitely tank them. Possibly tip our hand. It could work out in our favor, maybe, but it seems more likely not to.
Advertising that we're here, especially in a fighting tournament.....yeah, that's something I hadn't considered. We probably had pretty low odds of slipping under their radar as it was but these will definitely tank them. Possibly tip our hand. It could work out in our favor, maybe, but it seems more likely not to.
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X] Proving
- Location
- Southern Virginia
Volume of voting is not edifying, but meh. Looks like Proving wins.
It would probably be a good idea to start considering what you want to do for the next few days while waiting on the update.
It would probably be a good idea to start considering what you want to do for the next few days while waiting on the update.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Huh. Is that a GM hint or am I just paranoid?
Anyway, how sure are we that we want to take part in that fighting tournament? The tourney proper might be neutral but taking part, especially if we do well, will paint a set of crosshairs on our back, moreso if we cause an upset by unseating the locals' favourite.
Anyway, how sure are we that we want to take part in that fighting tournament? The tourney proper might be neutral but taking part, especially if we do well, will paint a set of crosshairs on our back, moreso if we cause an upset by unseating the locals' favourite.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
The savory aroma of freshly baked croissants had lured you downstairs from your room, though it was yet still before dawn. Candlelight flickered from the windowsill over the sink, casting a soft glow of illumination over the small room. Your mother was leaning over from the cabinet as she took out a jar of orange marmalade to add to the honey and butter already set down by the pastries on the table. She smiled softly at you, as she frequently did these days, pride warring with anxiety and perhaps even sorrow.
There was a stir of movement from the entrance, as Uncle George stepped into the kitchen. You were too old to bound over to hug him, so you made a measured advance to offer your hand. He grinned broadly and shook your hand with vigor and firmness. It was the first adult handshake of your life, you realized.
"It's good to see you, Pierre," he said, before releasing your hand. "Take a seat. We have things we must discuss." He nodded over to your mother. "And thank you, Maria, for setting breakfast. I need to speak with him in private however."
"I… understand," she replied hesitantly. "Let me finish and I'll head upstairs." She fumbled a bit as she finished plating the marmalade, and brought out two cups for coffee. You had started taking yours black, and so mom did not bring out cream or sugar. Instead, she stepped up behind you and bent down to kiss you sweetly on the cheek. "Your father would be so proud of you, Pierre," she said, and then she stepped back. Within a moment she was gone and only the creaking of the stairs marked her passage.
"Your mother is a sweet and devoted woman," George said. "She was always Jean's better half," he said, speaking almost wistfully. "And she's right, your father would be proud of you. I've heard all about the shadow of Bastia's rooftops from the rest of the Family."
"Thank you," you replied, pride swelling a bit in your breast. You'd trained hard early mornings and late nights to win that reputation.
"Better perhaps had I heard nothing at all," he said, but he laughed. "Including about that fight you got into the other day," he added, shaking his head. "You handled three grown men by yourself. I was amused to hear about that business. Unfortunately the police were quite interested, too, at least until I paid a visit to Captain Marcel."
You look away briefly, embarrassed. "They had a girl cornered. But, thank you."
George tugged on his mustache. "You at least have the instincts of a knight. No, don't worry, the Boss would have intervened for anyone in those circumstances. The Family is many things, but we keep the streets safe for decent men and women. Those fools are going to be deported to Marseilles or to the bottom of the ocean, depending on how quickly they take a hint."
You nodded gravely. That was a serious business and you were old enough for serious business. After all, Uncle George was taking you seriously. "Do you need me to deal with these men?" Your voice only cracked a bit with the question. "I'd be grateful to be of use to the Family and have a chance to prove myself."
"We will deal with them. We don't want the police finding any kind of lead to you, after that earlier altercation. And frankly dealing with Arab trash like that is beneath you. No, but you are correct in one thing. I am here to bring you a request from the Boss. One you can accept or decline, of course. But if you decline you will never be an initiated member of the Family."
George paused after having said that, then looked aside. "Though perhaps it would be for the best? Your father died in our service as a soldier of Corsica. Your mother has always feared you following in his footsteps."
You shook your head. "No!" There was a tone of pleading as you continued. "I want to be a soldier, too, like papa. Mother… she doesn't like the violence, but she understands. She was proud of him."
"She was." George sighed. He took a croissant from the pile on the table, broke it in two, setting one half on a napkin and scraping marmalade on the other half. "Shame to let these go to waste. Eat, Pierre."
You did as you were told. The croissants were still warm. The buttery, flaky layers of the pastry had a richness that you needed the strong black coffee to cut through. The breakfast also helped settle the nervousness reaching up from your stomach. You and George shared the remaining croissants in silence, as you waited for him to tell you what you had to.
"There is a man," George began, as he wiped his hand with a napkin. Crumbs fell on the table. "You must kill this man. You will recognize him, I think."
Your godfather pulled a picture out from his pocket and handed it to you. The man in the photo was stocky, like George, put seemed much taller. He was a muscled beast in a Savile Row suit, with gleaming golden teeth in a smile that looked more predatory than friendly. You had seen the man, if not this photo, in the news. "Is it that Russian mobster on the yacht in the harbor?"
"That it is." Seeing you look at him questioningly, he shrugged. "The Boss has decided he must die. Our duty as loyal soldiers is to carry out orders. That's what it means to swear yourself to the Family. You're like a knight, following a liege. Into hell, if need be. We damn ourselves to spare others."
You examined the picture closely, memorizing the man's features, and then passed it back to George. "And you think I can kill him?"
He paused, clearly hesitating before answering. It was the first time you had ever seen him do so. "He is dangerous, but you can do it. I've trained you myself with a pistol, and I've seen your savate. Your sneaking is legendary. You're a prodigy, even better than Jean was. But you may die if you take this mission. Dying for a cause is honorable, but is the Family the cause you really want to take up in this life?"
"Yes." You answered with false bravado. It was the one thing you had always wanted to do with your life. But your throat was dry and your heart was beating a thousand times a minute. You felt fear as much as anticipation, but you would do this or die trying. You would give yourself no other options.
George smiled again. "That was a man's response. And when you succeed and return you will be initiated as a man. You will be a soldier, of Corsica, like your father. And if you don't return you will have fallen with honor."
"I'll return."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ocean waves pounded against the rocky entrance of the cave, creating a constant spray of tangy salt water in the air. You barely felt the cold through the wetsuit. A full moon cast silvery light into the depths you waited and illuminated the harbor in the horizon. A single large ship stood out, a mega-yacht named the Stakhanovite. Painted white and rigged with lights even at two AM, she lolled her bulk gently on the waves.
You waited, a few more minutes tacked on to hours beforehand, until at last the lights on the Stakhanovite dimmed. You put on swimming goggles and placed the snorkel in your mouth, paused briefly, then leaped into the water.
The tide was full, helping you along as you swam like you never had before. There was a risk of being swept out to sea if you missed your mark, or got caught in an invisible riptide, and there were sharks in the harbor. Your arms and legs burned over the minutes as you pushed yourself forward. As you neared the ship, a pod of dolphins surfaced; you were afraid, but they simply played with one another, and their splashing handily covered over your own. It was a stroke of luck and a great encouragement after all.
You touched the side of the yacht to keep yourself centered as you swam a lap around to find the anchor chain. It was on the other side from the docks, and the bulk of the ship's superstructure blocked the lighting from the port. Climbing it up was another great exertion, and you rested briefly before making the attempt.
Thick steel links bite into your hands as you slowly, ever so slowly, lifted yourself up the chain. Sounds of movement on the ship made you stop more than once. The dolphins continued to frolic, though, drawing attention of whatever crew or guests remained. Eventually, with your arms feeling like they were ready to fall off, and every breath bringing new pain, you foisted yourself onto the deck. You had intended to leap on the deck and rush into cover; instead your sprawled up and over in an undignified heap, exhausted and drained.
Fortunately there was no one out on the bow of the ship to worry about as you haltingly stood and collected your breath. Your hands shook despite the numbness they felt once no longer gripping your full body weight meters above the sea. But they were still nimble enough to open up the waterproof pouch tied to your waist. From it you extracted a Makarov pistol with silencer already threaded into the barrel. You held it with both hands as you began slipping from shadow to shadow until you flatten yourself against the side of the yacht's bridge.
You inch along maintaining as low a profile as you can, while listening out for any approaching footsteps or other sounds. Aside from the surf and dolphins slashing there was nothing. Behind the bridge was an open deck, filled with the debris of a party. Including human debris. A handful of scantily clad women and expensively-dressed men were lying around passed out into a drunken stupor. Bodyguards, you thought, unsure of whether or not you should be relieved.
Slipping by to the cabins in the aft of the ship should have been easy. It was, until a pair of the crew emerged from it, walking out onto the deck. They were distracted and missed you as you ducked to crawl along the side, but that wasn't going to last long. As you felt around, you touched the canvass covering over a lifeboat. With little other choice you lifted it and sprang inside, trying to move too quickly for the crewmen to notice.
Inside the boat it was cramped and the canvass covering plunged it into total darkness. You were reduced to waiting with gnawing anticipation as you listened for the footsteps to go away. Instead they drew closer and closer. The two crewmen were walking over to the boat. You gripped your pistol, recognizing you might have to use it now. If so, you'd have enough surprise to bound over into the cabins, you estimated. That might be enough to kill the ex-Soviet gangster. There was little chance you'd get away.
"See," a voice in English with a lilting Indian accent called out, "just another drunk over there."
The footsteps drew off, becoming more distant.
You waited again, only carefully slipping out of the lifeboat once you were sure everyone was gone. But the brush with discovery had energized you. You could feel your heart racing and the blood pounding your temples. The exhaustion of the swim over to the yacht and the climb aboard seemed to have left you. In its place was a restless need to act. So you did.
Crossing the deck you simply moved swiftly, as quietly as you could, but without any further skulking. Stepping over bodies and broken bottles you reached the cabin entrance. The door was unlocked. You pushed inside, with the gun swinging out as you scanned for enemies. None greeted you. Rather than waste any further luck or time you slipped in.
The hallway led further into the ship. The passage was lit, and you could hear the machinery of the ship stirring below you. But it was a low hum, a mere background sound to be ignored as soon as you got used to it. And the hallway was wide open; there would be no more stealth. Instead you simply raced forward, further and further into the ship's aft until you reached your goal. At the very end would be the owner's cabin. There you would find your target.
As you bounded past the last guest-cabin you literally ran into a steward. The young, dark-skinned man raised a hand as you plowed into him. And before he could raise an alarm or cry out you delivered a swift chop to the neck, then grabbed his throat in your arm and slipped your body behind him. He grasped, and struggled, but there was no air for him to use to cry out. As he tried to break out of your grasp you dragged him back and propped yourself up against the wall before forcing him lower to the ground. Eventually, he stopped moving.
You weren't sure if he was dead or just unconscious and had no intention of finding out. Ahead of you loomed a gaudy wood with gold trim door leading into the cabin of the master of the Stakhanovite. gently pressed against the right panel and it swung back with little resistance and no sound. You slipped by it, instinctively closing it behind you.
Ivan Krukov was predictably gaudy. Mirrors lined the wall leading to his bedroom, past a living room filled with antique furniture and unbelievably gaudy knick-knacks. You noticed a blue and white porcelain vase you suspected was worth more than your family house. You bumped your foot against a gold bar. Tempted as you were, you left it alone. You couldn't find a fence for something like that anyway. Instead, as your eyes adjusted, you followed the trail of clothing down the line of mirrors and to Krokov's open bedroom.
He was lying there on a king-sized bed, half-tangled in ruffled sheets. There was a woman pressed over to his side. You frowned. Stepping forward, you raised the gun. Krukov snored. A brief glance in the rest of the room turned up a pair of empty wine bottles; on his dresser was an empty bottle of vodka, and a golden tray with the merest traces of lines of cocaine. He wasn't getting up. You aimed carefully, and fired a single round directly into Krukov's head.
The report was muffled, but in the room it may as well have been an explosion. Krukov's head burst like a ripe melon, spewing blood and brains all over the back of the wall. The wetness, the noise, something must have woken up his companion. She stirred groggily, sitting up in bed, wiping her eyes. Her hair shifted, and a bit of moonlight coming in from a window to the side of the suite caught it; a beautiful red. As her eyes opened, you recognized her. Lucie Dumont was only a couple of years older, and you'd had a crush on her when you had started school. She was a whore now?
Your mind reeling, you didn't act quite fast enough. She turned over, saw the mess that had been Krukov, and she started screaming.
[ ] You shot her before she alerted anyone and slipped over the side of the ship.
[ ] You fled the room and had to kill four more crewmen before escaping the ship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DAY 2, MORNING
Pierre woke with a start. It was rare for him to dream of the past. Was it because he was unsettled by a new environment? He wasn't sure, but he shook out those distant memories of the past. What was done, was done. He cast an eye over to the alarm clock, noted it was flashing 5:26AM. Late enough, he thought, springing out of bed.
As he showered, he thought about what he would do that day. Bao had mentioned the fighting tournament. It would bring notoriety, to be sure, but the prize money would be welcome. And notice was double-edged. Having influence in this cesspool would be helpful if he needed anything. He'd even have the money to hire some other freelancers, if he won. And the criminal elite would seek him out. Opportunities and contacts would come his way far more easily. The only problem might be getting entangled in the web of feuds entangling the city. Well, and becoming more of a target for whoever it was that massacred the Family back on Corsica.
Alternatively he could go back to the Yellow Flag Bar in a few hours. What was it the English said, the early bird got the worm? There would be more self-contained freelance missions there, without any kind of long-term commitment. He could pick and choose jobs that would let him operate under the radar, and could get to know the other freelancers of the city without the fame he would earn in the fighting tournament coloring their preconceptions. Bao had also said there would be people there in the afternoon as well, but the most urgent and thus lucrative missions would probably be in the morning.
Or he could act on his own. Claude was looking into the history of the manuscript, but perhaps he could poke around the auction site and try to find out who would be there? Or maybe he would be better off getting some cash the old-fashioned way, by taking it from people who did not deserve it. Like the Golden Lions.
[ ] Write-in. What do you do today? Remember you need to call Bao in the morning if you want to work as a bouncer at the Yellow Flag tonight.
There was a stir of movement from the entrance, as Uncle George stepped into the kitchen. You were too old to bound over to hug him, so you made a measured advance to offer your hand. He grinned broadly and shook your hand with vigor and firmness. It was the first adult handshake of your life, you realized.
"It's good to see you, Pierre," he said, before releasing your hand. "Take a seat. We have things we must discuss." He nodded over to your mother. "And thank you, Maria, for setting breakfast. I need to speak with him in private however."
"I… understand," she replied hesitantly. "Let me finish and I'll head upstairs." She fumbled a bit as she finished plating the marmalade, and brought out two cups for coffee. You had started taking yours black, and so mom did not bring out cream or sugar. Instead, she stepped up behind you and bent down to kiss you sweetly on the cheek. "Your father would be so proud of you, Pierre," she said, and then she stepped back. Within a moment she was gone and only the creaking of the stairs marked her passage.
"Your mother is a sweet and devoted woman," George said. "She was always Jean's better half," he said, speaking almost wistfully. "And she's right, your father would be proud of you. I've heard all about the shadow of Bastia's rooftops from the rest of the Family."
"Thank you," you replied, pride swelling a bit in your breast. You'd trained hard early mornings and late nights to win that reputation.
"Better perhaps had I heard nothing at all," he said, but he laughed. "Including about that fight you got into the other day," he added, shaking his head. "You handled three grown men by yourself. I was amused to hear about that business. Unfortunately the police were quite interested, too, at least until I paid a visit to Captain Marcel."
You look away briefly, embarrassed. "They had a girl cornered. But, thank you."
George tugged on his mustache. "You at least have the instincts of a knight. No, don't worry, the Boss would have intervened for anyone in those circumstances. The Family is many things, but we keep the streets safe for decent men and women. Those fools are going to be deported to Marseilles or to the bottom of the ocean, depending on how quickly they take a hint."
You nodded gravely. That was a serious business and you were old enough for serious business. After all, Uncle George was taking you seriously. "Do you need me to deal with these men?" Your voice only cracked a bit with the question. "I'd be grateful to be of use to the Family and have a chance to prove myself."
"We will deal with them. We don't want the police finding any kind of lead to you, after that earlier altercation. And frankly dealing with Arab trash like that is beneath you. No, but you are correct in one thing. I am here to bring you a request from the Boss. One you can accept or decline, of course. But if you decline you will never be an initiated member of the Family."
George paused after having said that, then looked aside. "Though perhaps it would be for the best? Your father died in our service as a soldier of Corsica. Your mother has always feared you following in his footsteps."
You shook your head. "No!" There was a tone of pleading as you continued. "I want to be a soldier, too, like papa. Mother… she doesn't like the violence, but she understands. She was proud of him."
"She was." George sighed. He took a croissant from the pile on the table, broke it in two, setting one half on a napkin and scraping marmalade on the other half. "Shame to let these go to waste. Eat, Pierre."
You did as you were told. The croissants were still warm. The buttery, flaky layers of the pastry had a richness that you needed the strong black coffee to cut through. The breakfast also helped settle the nervousness reaching up from your stomach. You and George shared the remaining croissants in silence, as you waited for him to tell you what you had to.
"There is a man," George began, as he wiped his hand with a napkin. Crumbs fell on the table. "You must kill this man. You will recognize him, I think."
Your godfather pulled a picture out from his pocket and handed it to you. The man in the photo was stocky, like George, put seemed much taller. He was a muscled beast in a Savile Row suit, with gleaming golden teeth in a smile that looked more predatory than friendly. You had seen the man, if not this photo, in the news. "Is it that Russian mobster on the yacht in the harbor?"
"That it is." Seeing you look at him questioningly, he shrugged. "The Boss has decided he must die. Our duty as loyal soldiers is to carry out orders. That's what it means to swear yourself to the Family. You're like a knight, following a liege. Into hell, if need be. We damn ourselves to spare others."
You examined the picture closely, memorizing the man's features, and then passed it back to George. "And you think I can kill him?"
He paused, clearly hesitating before answering. It was the first time you had ever seen him do so. "He is dangerous, but you can do it. I've trained you myself with a pistol, and I've seen your savate. Your sneaking is legendary. You're a prodigy, even better than Jean was. But you may die if you take this mission. Dying for a cause is honorable, but is the Family the cause you really want to take up in this life?"
"Yes." You answered with false bravado. It was the one thing you had always wanted to do with your life. But your throat was dry and your heart was beating a thousand times a minute. You felt fear as much as anticipation, but you would do this or die trying. You would give yourself no other options.
George smiled again. "That was a man's response. And when you succeed and return you will be initiated as a man. You will be a soldier, of Corsica, like your father. And if you don't return you will have fallen with honor."
"I'll return."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ocean waves pounded against the rocky entrance of the cave, creating a constant spray of tangy salt water in the air. You barely felt the cold through the wetsuit. A full moon cast silvery light into the depths you waited and illuminated the harbor in the horizon. A single large ship stood out, a mega-yacht named the Stakhanovite. Painted white and rigged with lights even at two AM, she lolled her bulk gently on the waves.
You waited, a few more minutes tacked on to hours beforehand, until at last the lights on the Stakhanovite dimmed. You put on swimming goggles and placed the snorkel in your mouth, paused briefly, then leaped into the water.
The tide was full, helping you along as you swam like you never had before. There was a risk of being swept out to sea if you missed your mark, or got caught in an invisible riptide, and there were sharks in the harbor. Your arms and legs burned over the minutes as you pushed yourself forward. As you neared the ship, a pod of dolphins surfaced; you were afraid, but they simply played with one another, and their splashing handily covered over your own. It was a stroke of luck and a great encouragement after all.
You touched the side of the yacht to keep yourself centered as you swam a lap around to find the anchor chain. It was on the other side from the docks, and the bulk of the ship's superstructure blocked the lighting from the port. Climbing it up was another great exertion, and you rested briefly before making the attempt.
Thick steel links bite into your hands as you slowly, ever so slowly, lifted yourself up the chain. Sounds of movement on the ship made you stop more than once. The dolphins continued to frolic, though, drawing attention of whatever crew or guests remained. Eventually, with your arms feeling like they were ready to fall off, and every breath bringing new pain, you foisted yourself onto the deck. You had intended to leap on the deck and rush into cover; instead your sprawled up and over in an undignified heap, exhausted and drained.
Fortunately there was no one out on the bow of the ship to worry about as you haltingly stood and collected your breath. Your hands shook despite the numbness they felt once no longer gripping your full body weight meters above the sea. But they were still nimble enough to open up the waterproof pouch tied to your waist. From it you extracted a Makarov pistol with silencer already threaded into the barrel. You held it with both hands as you began slipping from shadow to shadow until you flatten yourself against the side of the yacht's bridge.
You inch along maintaining as low a profile as you can, while listening out for any approaching footsteps or other sounds. Aside from the surf and dolphins slashing there was nothing. Behind the bridge was an open deck, filled with the debris of a party. Including human debris. A handful of scantily clad women and expensively-dressed men were lying around passed out into a drunken stupor. Bodyguards, you thought, unsure of whether or not you should be relieved.
Slipping by to the cabins in the aft of the ship should have been easy. It was, until a pair of the crew emerged from it, walking out onto the deck. They were distracted and missed you as you ducked to crawl along the side, but that wasn't going to last long. As you felt around, you touched the canvass covering over a lifeboat. With little other choice you lifted it and sprang inside, trying to move too quickly for the crewmen to notice.
Inside the boat it was cramped and the canvass covering plunged it into total darkness. You were reduced to waiting with gnawing anticipation as you listened for the footsteps to go away. Instead they drew closer and closer. The two crewmen were walking over to the boat. You gripped your pistol, recognizing you might have to use it now. If so, you'd have enough surprise to bound over into the cabins, you estimated. That might be enough to kill the ex-Soviet gangster. There was little chance you'd get away.
"See," a voice in English with a lilting Indian accent called out, "just another drunk over there."
The footsteps drew off, becoming more distant.
You waited again, only carefully slipping out of the lifeboat once you were sure everyone was gone. But the brush with discovery had energized you. You could feel your heart racing and the blood pounding your temples. The exhaustion of the swim over to the yacht and the climb aboard seemed to have left you. In its place was a restless need to act. So you did.
Crossing the deck you simply moved swiftly, as quietly as you could, but without any further skulking. Stepping over bodies and broken bottles you reached the cabin entrance. The door was unlocked. You pushed inside, with the gun swinging out as you scanned for enemies. None greeted you. Rather than waste any further luck or time you slipped in.
The hallway led further into the ship. The passage was lit, and you could hear the machinery of the ship stirring below you. But it was a low hum, a mere background sound to be ignored as soon as you got used to it. And the hallway was wide open; there would be no more stealth. Instead you simply raced forward, further and further into the ship's aft until you reached your goal. At the very end would be the owner's cabin. There you would find your target.
As you bounded past the last guest-cabin you literally ran into a steward. The young, dark-skinned man raised a hand as you plowed into him. And before he could raise an alarm or cry out you delivered a swift chop to the neck, then grabbed his throat in your arm and slipped your body behind him. He grasped, and struggled, but there was no air for him to use to cry out. As he tried to break out of your grasp you dragged him back and propped yourself up against the wall before forcing him lower to the ground. Eventually, he stopped moving.
You weren't sure if he was dead or just unconscious and had no intention of finding out. Ahead of you loomed a gaudy wood with gold trim door leading into the cabin of the master of the Stakhanovite. gently pressed against the right panel and it swung back with little resistance and no sound. You slipped by it, instinctively closing it behind you.
Ivan Krukov was predictably gaudy. Mirrors lined the wall leading to his bedroom, past a living room filled with antique furniture and unbelievably gaudy knick-knacks. You noticed a blue and white porcelain vase you suspected was worth more than your family house. You bumped your foot against a gold bar. Tempted as you were, you left it alone. You couldn't find a fence for something like that anyway. Instead, as your eyes adjusted, you followed the trail of clothing down the line of mirrors and to Krokov's open bedroom.
He was lying there on a king-sized bed, half-tangled in ruffled sheets. There was a woman pressed over to his side. You frowned. Stepping forward, you raised the gun. Krukov snored. A brief glance in the rest of the room turned up a pair of empty wine bottles; on his dresser was an empty bottle of vodka, and a golden tray with the merest traces of lines of cocaine. He wasn't getting up. You aimed carefully, and fired a single round directly into Krukov's head.
The report was muffled, but in the room it may as well have been an explosion. Krukov's head burst like a ripe melon, spewing blood and brains all over the back of the wall. The wetness, the noise, something must have woken up his companion. She stirred groggily, sitting up in bed, wiping her eyes. Her hair shifted, and a bit of moonlight coming in from a window to the side of the suite caught it; a beautiful red. As her eyes opened, you recognized her. Lucie Dumont was only a couple of years older, and you'd had a crush on her when you had started school. She was a whore now?
Your mind reeling, you didn't act quite fast enough. She turned over, saw the mess that had been Krukov, and she started screaming.
[ ] You shot her before she alerted anyone and slipped over the side of the ship.
[ ] You fled the room and had to kill four more crewmen before escaping the ship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DAY 2, MORNING
Pierre woke with a start. It was rare for him to dream of the past. Was it because he was unsettled by a new environment? He wasn't sure, but he shook out those distant memories of the past. What was done, was done. He cast an eye over to the alarm clock, noted it was flashing 5:26AM. Late enough, he thought, springing out of bed.
As he showered, he thought about what he would do that day. Bao had mentioned the fighting tournament. It would bring notoriety, to be sure, but the prize money would be welcome. And notice was double-edged. Having influence in this cesspool would be helpful if he needed anything. He'd even have the money to hire some other freelancers, if he won. And the criminal elite would seek him out. Opportunities and contacts would come his way far more easily. The only problem might be getting entangled in the web of feuds entangling the city. Well, and becoming more of a target for whoever it was that massacred the Family back on Corsica.
Alternatively he could go back to the Yellow Flag Bar in a few hours. What was it the English said, the early bird got the worm? There would be more self-contained freelance missions there, without any kind of long-term commitment. He could pick and choose jobs that would let him operate under the radar, and could get to know the other freelancers of the city without the fame he would earn in the fighting tournament coloring their preconceptions. Bao had also said there would be people there in the afternoon as well, but the most urgent and thus lucrative missions would probably be in the morning.
Or he could act on his own. Claude was looking into the history of the manuscript, but perhaps he could poke around the auction site and try to find out who would be there? Or maybe he would be better off getting some cash the old-fashioned way, by taking it from people who did not deserve it. Like the Golden Lions.
[ ] Write-in. What do you do today? Remember you need to call Bao in the morning if you want to work as a bouncer at the Yellow Flag tonight.
Hm. Tough choice. I'm actually inclined to say he shot Lucie Dumont.
That may sound cold, but you know what? Bad things happen. Sometimes people are in the wrong place at the wrong time. And while her reaction was natural, it could have easily gotten Pierre killed. I'm cool with Pierre being a knight, but I think going full white knight or paladin would be a huge mistake, especially in Roanapur.
That may sound cold, but you know what? Bad things happen. Sometimes people are in the wrong place at the wrong time. And while her reaction was natural, it could have easily gotten Pierre killed. I'm cool with Pierre being a knight, but I think going full white knight or paladin would be a huge mistake, especially in Roanapur.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Halfway through the scene I started wondering if this was an extended shout-out to the Bourne Identity. Movie, not the book. That was pretty similar in execution. Swimming to the boat, sneaking up onto the sleeping target (with company), okay so yeah a lot of the details were changed. Important ones even.
It still felt really similar.
That said, I immensely enjoyed the snapshot of Pierre and his family. Not a punk at all, he was respectful young man with a loving mother and missing father he still looked up to. You certainly captured the feeling noble organized crime. They're very much the gentlemen. And yet still people, right down to Pierre's false bravado. Wearing a mask until he becomes the mask.
Breakfast with the family, definitely my favorite scene of the piece. Possibly of the Quest so far. I was charmed.
That said....I think I agree with drake and killing the woman. Because for all the talk of lieges and knights, this is not a tale of King Arthur. This is still the mob. There is a definite dark side here and I don't think everyone who Pierre and his associates have killed necessarily deserved it.
I'm still a bit torn. Letting her live would be in line with the chivalry(although she may not be a whore, she may be more important, we don't know), but I kind of want that chivalry to be tinged with a little bit of desperation. They're good people in some regards, they try to be good people, but they do terrible, terrible things. Which is perhaps why they try so hard when they are given the chance.
Call it glory, call it honor, the Enforcer's hands are soaked in blood and I highly doubt all of it is deserving.
I'll probably vote for killing her. Just as soon as I decide what I meant us to do with our day. Leaning towards fighting tournament despite the risks though. If nothing else Cav liked it and seems to want to write it.
It still felt really similar.
That said, I immensely enjoyed the snapshot of Pierre and his family. Not a punk at all, he was respectful young man with a loving mother and missing father he still looked up to. You certainly captured the feeling noble organized crime. They're very much the gentlemen. And yet still people, right down to Pierre's false bravado. Wearing a mask until he becomes the mask.
Breakfast with the family, definitely my favorite scene of the piece. Possibly of the Quest so far. I was charmed.
That said....I think I agree with drake and killing the woman. Because for all the talk of lieges and knights, this is not a tale of King Arthur. This is still the mob. There is a definite dark side here and I don't think everyone who Pierre and his associates have killed necessarily deserved it.
I'm still a bit torn. Letting her live would be in line with the chivalry(although she may not be a whore, she may be more important, we don't know), but I kind of want that chivalry to be tinged with a little bit of desperation. They're good people in some regards, they try to be good people, but they do terrible, terrible things. Which is perhaps why they try so hard when they are given the chance.
Call it glory, call it honor, the Enforcer's hands are soaked in blood and I highly doubt all of it is deserving.
I'll probably vote for killing her. Just as soon as I decide what I meant us to do with our day. Leaning towards fighting tournament despite the risks though. If nothing else Cav liked it and seems to want to write it.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
There will be consequences from whichever choice you make about Pierre's past.
I liked the fighting tournament because it was a solid idea coming from audience participation. It has pluses and minuses, and will take at least a couple of weeks to spin out, during which Pierre is going to regularly be pitted against opponents much closer to his level of capability in a one-on-one context. You all though need to decide if it's a good investment of your time and if the advantages of putting in a good show outweigh the disadvantages of the exposure it generates. I'm not encouraging or discouraging it as a choice, though.
I liked the fighting tournament because it was a solid idea coming from audience participation. It has pluses and minuses, and will take at least a couple of weeks to spin out, during which Pierre is going to regularly be pitted against opponents much closer to his level of capability in a one-on-one context. You all though need to decide if it's a good investment of your time and if the advantages of putting in a good show outweigh the disadvantages of the exposure it generates. I'm not encouraging or discouraging it as a choice, though.