SHAZAM
-edit-
1 success
-edit-
1 success
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Holy shit. If Avenger still counts for this networking then we just had an unbelievable degree of success. As in Pierre would probably be going, 'Who are you and what did you do with Pierre?'
Shame the next roll only had one success, but at least it had no 1's. Hopefully it just needed one success.
I doubt it, especially if we were trying to decrypt Snake style here, but it may be enough for other competitors.
Shame the next roll only had one success, but at least it had no 1's. Hopefully it just needed one success.
I doubt it, especially if we were trying to decrypt Snake style here, but it may be enough for other competitors.
We just noticed that that guy has cancer, that one had a spinach salad for lunch, and that one just got lucky in the restroom 23 minutes ago with a Chinese hooker named Ling.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
It's a shame the stunt was only worth 2 dice. The results certainly seem like they'd be a worthy excuse to level something up, if we so chose.
I mean we very nearly had exploded dice. If 9 counted for specialties, which I don't think it does, we'd have 8 successes.
Insane.
I mean we very nearly had exploded dice. If 9 counted for specialties, which I don't think it does, we'd have 8 successes.
Insane.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
DAY 2, MORNING
Rowan stepped back into the ring with Sal's fall, strutting his way up to Pierre like he had won the match. Pierre allowed the pimp to grab his arm and lift it up in triumph. "Ah present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this qualification bout, Pierre from Corsica! He took Sal out like a lean and hungry young alpha wolf. How far will this newcomer go?"
The response from the crowd was… unenthusiastic. The natives were mostly sitting on their hands, so to speak. The section set aside for freelancers was making some noise in his favor. Some of the mobsters, too, though the Sicilians were the more restrained of the lot. Not surprising, perhaps. Sal seemed like he would be identified with the Mafia. In any case, it didn't matter much to him. He wasn't participating for popularity. He was taking part to get noticed and win the prize money.
Pierre allowed himself to be escorted out by Rowan, while a pair of the burly Russians entered the ring to drag out the other contenders. The pencil-skirted Thai registrar was waiting for him and waved him back over to the table he had signed up for. He sauntered over, pulling out another of the water bottles and drinking heartily to replace the sweat he'd lost.
"You in tournament group now," she said to him in rapid-fire if grammatically inelegant English. "Drawing opponents to be done tomorrow at noon after qualifying finished today. Not required to be there but good idea. We be in touch with hotel phone you give us. Contact me if change of place to stay needed or phone number changed."
She flicked a business card out of a pocket on her suit jacket. Pierre took it from her and brought it up to examine. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, and nodded into a very slight bow. "I will do so. Thank you."
"We have seats for winners," she said, waving a hand over in the direction of a bank of empty chairs up against the back wall of the former warehouse. Not the best view by far. "They free. Or you can go. No big deal."
He considered the matter briefly. Maybe leaving to the Yellow Flag would let him get some of the morning contract offers. But he was staking a lot on the Tournament. It made sense to spend time scoping out the other competitors. And there was definitely something off about the behavior of the crowd and the whole setup of the tournament, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on it. So he nodded. "I'll stay."
"Seat free. Food not. Enjoy fights please." Shen then turned back down to the paperwork on the table, leaving Pierre to his own devices.
He meandered to the seats, finishing off the water bottle along the way and tossing it into an otherwise pristine wastebasket. Since he was the first qualification bout winner he had a free choice, and so took one in the center with as good a view of the ring and the rest of the audience across the way as he could. From there he scanned the crowd between the bouts themselves, keeping an eye open for any conspicuous characters from either source.
One of the first competitors to catch his eye was a giant of a man, standing almost two and a half meters tall and heavily built on that frame. He was announced as Oxcart Yang, and wore a tattered homespun shirt and trousers that looked cut from sail canvass. He notably went barefoot. His three opponents ganged up on him. Pierre watched closely and with no small amount of concern as Yang simply windmilled into the group, sending all three literally flying out of the ring with what looked like effortless punches. He was slow, but a lot less slow than most people would assume a man of his size would be, Pierre noted critically. Fighting that mountain of a man would not be a prospect he relished, though he thought his speed and trained skilled would let him do it.
The next prospect of note was another native, Sisaw Khanapem, introduced as the reigning kickboxing champion of Roanapur and its province. The native crowd cheered especially loudly for her, as did one or two militiamen rotating into the warehouse. As with Yang her opponents tried to gang up on her. Her fancy footwork kept them from coordinating their attacks, and she dispatched first one, then another in a flurry of punches, kicks, and knee and elbow strikes. That was skill, Pierre judged, and the grace with which one strike flowed into another was almost beautiful.
By midday his stomach was feeling empty, so he stepped away from the seats to flag down one of the vendors. They were doing a brisk business, moving wheeled carts up and down the rows of seats and taking orders in rapid-fire Thai. Their English was slower, mostly, but Pierre found hand gestures worked just as well. He grabbed three skewers of spicy grilled meat, and a can of coconut water to wash the heat down. It was tasty and refreshing, and while he was up he saw a chance to make some contacts.
As with any spot there was betting going on along the side. Finding the bookies was easy enough. There was a line of natives and freelancers, small but always recycling, beside a bench at the very back of the warehouse. The seating was poor for seeing the action but very good for getting a slice of it; the natural light from the great rent in the ceiling simply cast shadows that far back, and there were few people sitting nearby. The noise was toned down, not enough that the vagaries of the audience's reaction couldn't be heard, but sufficiently to have real private conversation.
A flash of color caught his eye. There was someone standing over by the exit door, just away from the tables of the bookies, motioning him over. Pierre's first impression was a garish pink-orange floral print Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts; the man was also wearing sunglasses. His blond hair had been let to grow out from a close cropped cut, and clearly needed a shave. Rather like Pierre. He was about Pierre's height, but scrawny, and his posture seemed to betray no particular readiness or threat.
"Yo," the man said, waving him on once he was in earshot and out of the line. "Monsieur Bourcet, gotta minute?"
The accent was a terrible grating American one, but Pierre's eyes really narrowed at the mention of his last name. He assumed a greater wariness, keeping his feet ready to shift into a defensive stance, while scanning around his perimeter. Hawaiian Shirt Guy was alone within grappling distance, but the line of gamblers would still see them if it came to blows, and there were Thai militia outside the door. Presumably the militia didn't have very many English speakers. It was a good setup for a conversation.
So he approached with some wariness but little sense of danger. "How do you know me? What do you want?"
"To the point," the stranger replied. He motioned Pierre closer. "I'm Steven Donovan. Don't call me Steve," he added sharply, making swishing gesture with his hand. "And I know a lot of things. I know enough about you to think you've got what it takes to go all the way here. And I can make a mint of money off of that. And as it happens I know all about most everyone you're going to be fighting. Consider me a freelance intelligence broker, if you will."
"Like Bao?" Pierre asked.
"Pfft." Donovan shook his head dismissively. "Bao has Balalaika's hand so up his ass it ought to be some kind of fetish show. And Fry Face has an agenda for these circuses. Hotel Moscow's kinda hard to get a read into, at least Roanapur-side where everyone's personally loyal to the old butcher. Haven't yet puzzled out what she's up to yet. But if you're listening to Bao, you're only gonna get the story she wants you to."
Pierre was unimpressed. "So what, exactly, is your agenda?"
"Hah. Sharp enough, too. Of course I have an agenda." Donovan leaned in to him; enough Pierre was alarmed for a half-second the other man intended to kiss him. His voice dropped to a deep, conspiratorial whisper. "We're fighting the same enemy, Pierre Bourcet. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And when the time comes I'll help you take those assholes down."
"You know who was responsible for…" He chocked and his eyes opened. He felt adrenaline coursing through his veins, demanding. He grabbed Steven by the lapels, impulsively, and drew him back to where he was facing the man. "Who?"
"Let go, you're drawing a scene," Steven whispered harshly.
Pierre glared at him, the reluctantly released him. "Tell me who was responsible."
Steven looked around furtively, and then spoke in only the barest of whispers. "The Illuminati, man. They're a conspiracy of the wealthiest and most influential people in the world and they control everything. They burned me back when I was with the Charlie Indigo Alpha, when I caught a whiff of their trail. They decided your Union Corse needed a clean sweep, and they're behind whatever it is going on here too."
The response was not what Pierre wanted to hear. He clenched his teeth tightly and fought down the urge to slug the lunatic. "So this conversation was a waste of my time."
"Come on, I'm not some nut ranting about lizard-people," Steven replied, offended. "What do you call knocking off most of the premier crime family in Corsica in a single night, without warning? Of course there was a conspiracy."
"And this conspiracy was composed of Jews who decided Corsica was too cleanly-run," Pierre replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I've heard it before."
"Of course not." Steven looked at Pierre as if he were a slow child. "Queen Elizabeth is the head of the Illuminati. Duh."
The anger clenching Pierre released itself as he realized what a sad spectacle Steven was. But he also recognized the man had at least some kind of information channel. He had dealt with plenty of flaky and paranoid brokers before. Was this one any different?
He took a minute to calm down before continuing. "So what can you actually do for me now?"
"I can give you my dossiers on your opponents. Observations, annotations, how they fight and who they fuck. Like I said, I know a lot. And I've got plenty of friends." The last word seemed layered almost with menace.
"You know that Sal used to be a DEA agent?" Donovan switched tacks suddenly. "He had a nasty divorce back twenty years ago, and started out on the take. When that blew up he became a freelance enforcer in LA, working with the gangs, the mafia, anyone with cash. Ran out to Roanapur one step ahead of the FBI after he picked out one informant too many. He was almost respectable here, using that Aikido of his to control troublemakers and send messages when the bosses didn't want bodies lying around. A rare niche expertise, if you will. Pretty chummy with the Sicilians, of course, but he was trustworthy enough everyone used his services. This was going to be his comeback…"
Pierre shrugged. "How do I know you're not just making that up on the spot?"
Donovan smiled. "At least you're thinking in the right place. But you can confirm that with…" He paused, and then craned his head around Pierre. His mouth was still moving up and down but nothing was coming out.
Pierre turned to look over his shoulder at what had spooked Donovan. At the end of the gambling line a tall blonde with a ponytail, in bikini top and jean-shorts was glancing in their direction. She pushed down a pair of Ray Bans on her nose and waved over to Pierre. He recognized her from the Yellow Flag the prior night, if not her name, so he waved back politely.
"Oh shit oh shit she's here," Donovan finally croaked out. "I'll be in touch with you. Later." He whipped around in front of Pierre and made his way to the nearby exit in a terrified haste.
[Contact 1: Steven Donovan]
Pierre sighed, and made his way back to his seat. The next bout was beginning. The competitors looked a bit more formidable for this one. There was a bulky foreigner, dusky-skinned but wearing a Union Jack tee shirt, practicing boxing moves alone. He was powerful and well built, but his footwork was incredible and he moved with a surprising speed once he had worked up into a punch. Two other competitors were talking animatedly to each other; the Japanese one wore a white karate gi, while his scruffy-looking blond companion had on a red gi. Pierre wasn't quite sure if they were fierce rivals or devoted friends, or both, but they had likely reached some kind of agreement on how to conduct themselves in the fight.
The last competitor was a native woman in a dark black, masculine cut business suit, with a yellow bandana wrapped around her right arm. The only concession to femininity she seemingly made was her hair, kept at the moment in a tightly bound shoulder-length ponytail. Despite her severity she moved with an oddly graceful fluidity. She exuded unspoken confidence. Another Thai woman accompanied her, dressed in a red sarong, and swaying with a far more feminine grace that advertised and flaunted her charms. They paused before the ring and spoke briefly to each other before the combat began.
Rowan introduced her as Sriraj Yinglee, and with none of the banter he usually reserved for female competitors.
Pierre watched, almost entranced, as the fight broke out. The two karate competitors, evidently from some kind of obscure school emphasizing an unorthodox acrobatic style, used the ropes to careen around the ring. The boxer used his footwork and guard to good effect, putting his hands up to block one, then another strike, bobbing and weaving his way into a corner where his swift jabs drove the martial artists away. Yinglee on the other hand simply dodged every kick or punch sent her way, flowing around the blows with what seemed like a minimal exertion of energy. And with each blow she dodged she lashed out in return with a fist that was like a whip, striking with blinding speed at some weak point Pierre could not have predicted her blow would fall.
The two "karate" fighters finally cartwheeled their way back into the corner with the boxer, evidently deciding to focus on eliminating him first. They lashed him with kicks which he endured with stoic dedication to his guard, until at last the red one faltered in his own footwork. The boxer exploded from his guard, shifting into a powerful blow right to that opponent's face. The red-attired martial artist was sent flying into the middle of the ring, sprawling on the floor as he landed. He was bounding up a second later, but that was one second too late.
Yinglee was on him as he stood up, pounding punches into him from multiple angles as she danced around his body. Red threw a few punches to but it was as if she saw them coming and arranged to be just a hair's breadth out of their way. Her movements were almost hypnotic, and Pierre judged even he would be sorely pressed to land a hit on her. Red realized that too, and with a last exertion of effort simply barreled his way forward, trying to body-check the elusive combatant. Yinglee was again just outside of his move, but then he twisted up into what Pierre could only describe as a leaping corkscrew of an uppercut. Red connected, barely, and Yinglee seemed to fly through the air as she was lifted up and pitched into the ropes.
The crowd gasped. But Yinglee managed to grab the ropes and flip over back on her feet. She moved slower afterward. Red smiled and then collapsed into a heap in the middle of the ring, his endurance and energy finally exhausted. It was also at that point the boxer managed to land a haymaker into his friend, knocking both the martial artists out.
The remaining batch was relatively anticlimactic. It reminded Pierre a bit of a bullfight he had seen in Cartagena. The boxer endured blows patiently, keeping his guard up as he tried to maneuver Yinglee into the path of a lunge. She on the other hand danced around him, laying out probing, almost teasing blows. Eventually the boxer overcommitted himself to what had seemed like a promising attempt. Yinglee was on him then with a flurry of strikes to seemingly random points on his chest and shoulders; Pierre only recognized the significance of some of them from harsh experience with how being hit there hurt. In the end the boxer finally keeled over on his back, out cold.
The roar from the half of the native crowd associated with the Golden Tigers was the loudest noise that afternoon. As she stepped out of the ring she was embraced by her companion in a tight hug. Yinglee squirmed a bit but didn't fight the contact. Since he was paying more attention he noticed they had a certain resemblance despite how wildly different they were attired. Sisters?
None of the other bouts managed to engage that level of interest. And in the end Pierre was ready to head out. But where? As he debated that, heading lazily to the exit, he caught a flash of wine-red in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to the right, in the direction of the bank of seats the Colombians and Sicilians were sitting. That…
He recognized her. Lucie. It had been five years since he had last seen her but he still recognized her. She looked far more mature, with lush curves clothed in a tight fitting emerald dress. How had he missed her before? And she was hanging on to the arm of a Mafioso. An important one, by the way the other Sicilians were visibly deferring to him. What was she doing here?
[ ] Follow Lucie.
[ ] Head on down to the Yellow Flag.
[ ] Write-In?
Rowan stepped back into the ring with Sal's fall, strutting his way up to Pierre like he had won the match. Pierre allowed the pimp to grab his arm and lift it up in triumph. "Ah present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this qualification bout, Pierre from Corsica! He took Sal out like a lean and hungry young alpha wolf. How far will this newcomer go?"
The response from the crowd was… unenthusiastic. The natives were mostly sitting on their hands, so to speak. The section set aside for freelancers was making some noise in his favor. Some of the mobsters, too, though the Sicilians were the more restrained of the lot. Not surprising, perhaps. Sal seemed like he would be identified with the Mafia. In any case, it didn't matter much to him. He wasn't participating for popularity. He was taking part to get noticed and win the prize money.
Pierre allowed himself to be escorted out by Rowan, while a pair of the burly Russians entered the ring to drag out the other contenders. The pencil-skirted Thai registrar was waiting for him and waved him back over to the table he had signed up for. He sauntered over, pulling out another of the water bottles and drinking heartily to replace the sweat he'd lost.
"You in tournament group now," she said to him in rapid-fire if grammatically inelegant English. "Drawing opponents to be done tomorrow at noon after qualifying finished today. Not required to be there but good idea. We be in touch with hotel phone you give us. Contact me if change of place to stay needed or phone number changed."
She flicked a business card out of a pocket on her suit jacket. Pierre took it from her and brought it up to examine. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, and nodded into a very slight bow. "I will do so. Thank you."
"We have seats for winners," she said, waving a hand over in the direction of a bank of empty chairs up against the back wall of the former warehouse. Not the best view by far. "They free. Or you can go. No big deal."
He considered the matter briefly. Maybe leaving to the Yellow Flag would let him get some of the morning contract offers. But he was staking a lot on the Tournament. It made sense to spend time scoping out the other competitors. And there was definitely something off about the behavior of the crowd and the whole setup of the tournament, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on it. So he nodded. "I'll stay."
"Seat free. Food not. Enjoy fights please." Shen then turned back down to the paperwork on the table, leaving Pierre to his own devices.
He meandered to the seats, finishing off the water bottle along the way and tossing it into an otherwise pristine wastebasket. Since he was the first qualification bout winner he had a free choice, and so took one in the center with as good a view of the ring and the rest of the audience across the way as he could. From there he scanned the crowd between the bouts themselves, keeping an eye open for any conspicuous characters from either source.
One of the first competitors to catch his eye was a giant of a man, standing almost two and a half meters tall and heavily built on that frame. He was announced as Oxcart Yang, and wore a tattered homespun shirt and trousers that looked cut from sail canvass. He notably went barefoot. His three opponents ganged up on him. Pierre watched closely and with no small amount of concern as Yang simply windmilled into the group, sending all three literally flying out of the ring with what looked like effortless punches. He was slow, but a lot less slow than most people would assume a man of his size would be, Pierre noted critically. Fighting that mountain of a man would not be a prospect he relished, though he thought his speed and trained skilled would let him do it.
The next prospect of note was another native, Sisaw Khanapem, introduced as the reigning kickboxing champion of Roanapur and its province. The native crowd cheered especially loudly for her, as did one or two militiamen rotating into the warehouse. As with Yang her opponents tried to gang up on her. Her fancy footwork kept them from coordinating their attacks, and she dispatched first one, then another in a flurry of punches, kicks, and knee and elbow strikes. That was skill, Pierre judged, and the grace with which one strike flowed into another was almost beautiful.
By midday his stomach was feeling empty, so he stepped away from the seats to flag down one of the vendors. They were doing a brisk business, moving wheeled carts up and down the rows of seats and taking orders in rapid-fire Thai. Their English was slower, mostly, but Pierre found hand gestures worked just as well. He grabbed three skewers of spicy grilled meat, and a can of coconut water to wash the heat down. It was tasty and refreshing, and while he was up he saw a chance to make some contacts.
As with any spot there was betting going on along the side. Finding the bookies was easy enough. There was a line of natives and freelancers, small but always recycling, beside a bench at the very back of the warehouse. The seating was poor for seeing the action but very good for getting a slice of it; the natural light from the great rent in the ceiling simply cast shadows that far back, and there were few people sitting nearby. The noise was toned down, not enough that the vagaries of the audience's reaction couldn't be heard, but sufficiently to have real private conversation.
A flash of color caught his eye. There was someone standing over by the exit door, just away from the tables of the bookies, motioning him over. Pierre's first impression was a garish pink-orange floral print Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts; the man was also wearing sunglasses. His blond hair had been let to grow out from a close cropped cut, and clearly needed a shave. Rather like Pierre. He was about Pierre's height, but scrawny, and his posture seemed to betray no particular readiness or threat.
"Yo," the man said, waving him on once he was in earshot and out of the line. "Monsieur Bourcet, gotta minute?"
The accent was a terrible grating American one, but Pierre's eyes really narrowed at the mention of his last name. He assumed a greater wariness, keeping his feet ready to shift into a defensive stance, while scanning around his perimeter. Hawaiian Shirt Guy was alone within grappling distance, but the line of gamblers would still see them if it came to blows, and there were Thai militia outside the door. Presumably the militia didn't have very many English speakers. It was a good setup for a conversation.
So he approached with some wariness but little sense of danger. "How do you know me? What do you want?"
"To the point," the stranger replied. He motioned Pierre closer. "I'm Steven Donovan. Don't call me Steve," he added sharply, making swishing gesture with his hand. "And I know a lot of things. I know enough about you to think you've got what it takes to go all the way here. And I can make a mint of money off of that. And as it happens I know all about most everyone you're going to be fighting. Consider me a freelance intelligence broker, if you will."
"Like Bao?" Pierre asked.
"Pfft." Donovan shook his head dismissively. "Bao has Balalaika's hand so up his ass it ought to be some kind of fetish show. And Fry Face has an agenda for these circuses. Hotel Moscow's kinda hard to get a read into, at least Roanapur-side where everyone's personally loyal to the old butcher. Haven't yet puzzled out what she's up to yet. But if you're listening to Bao, you're only gonna get the story she wants you to."
Pierre was unimpressed. "So what, exactly, is your agenda?"
"Hah. Sharp enough, too. Of course I have an agenda." Donovan leaned in to him; enough Pierre was alarmed for a half-second the other man intended to kiss him. His voice dropped to a deep, conspiratorial whisper. "We're fighting the same enemy, Pierre Bourcet. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And when the time comes I'll help you take those assholes down."
"You know who was responsible for…" He chocked and his eyes opened. He felt adrenaline coursing through his veins, demanding. He grabbed Steven by the lapels, impulsively, and drew him back to where he was facing the man. "Who?"
"Let go, you're drawing a scene," Steven whispered harshly.
Pierre glared at him, the reluctantly released him. "Tell me who was responsible."
Steven looked around furtively, and then spoke in only the barest of whispers. "The Illuminati, man. They're a conspiracy of the wealthiest and most influential people in the world and they control everything. They burned me back when I was with the Charlie Indigo Alpha, when I caught a whiff of their trail. They decided your Union Corse needed a clean sweep, and they're behind whatever it is going on here too."
The response was not what Pierre wanted to hear. He clenched his teeth tightly and fought down the urge to slug the lunatic. "So this conversation was a waste of my time."
"Come on, I'm not some nut ranting about lizard-people," Steven replied, offended. "What do you call knocking off most of the premier crime family in Corsica in a single night, without warning? Of course there was a conspiracy."
"And this conspiracy was composed of Jews who decided Corsica was too cleanly-run," Pierre replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I've heard it before."
"Of course not." Steven looked at Pierre as if he were a slow child. "Queen Elizabeth is the head of the Illuminati. Duh."
The anger clenching Pierre released itself as he realized what a sad spectacle Steven was. But he also recognized the man had at least some kind of information channel. He had dealt with plenty of flaky and paranoid brokers before. Was this one any different?
He took a minute to calm down before continuing. "So what can you actually do for me now?"
"I can give you my dossiers on your opponents. Observations, annotations, how they fight and who they fuck. Like I said, I know a lot. And I've got plenty of friends." The last word seemed layered almost with menace.
"You know that Sal used to be a DEA agent?" Donovan switched tacks suddenly. "He had a nasty divorce back twenty years ago, and started out on the take. When that blew up he became a freelance enforcer in LA, working with the gangs, the mafia, anyone with cash. Ran out to Roanapur one step ahead of the FBI after he picked out one informant too many. He was almost respectable here, using that Aikido of his to control troublemakers and send messages when the bosses didn't want bodies lying around. A rare niche expertise, if you will. Pretty chummy with the Sicilians, of course, but he was trustworthy enough everyone used his services. This was going to be his comeback…"
Pierre shrugged. "How do I know you're not just making that up on the spot?"
Donovan smiled. "At least you're thinking in the right place. But you can confirm that with…" He paused, and then craned his head around Pierre. His mouth was still moving up and down but nothing was coming out.
Pierre turned to look over his shoulder at what had spooked Donovan. At the end of the gambling line a tall blonde with a ponytail, in bikini top and jean-shorts was glancing in their direction. She pushed down a pair of Ray Bans on her nose and waved over to Pierre. He recognized her from the Yellow Flag the prior night, if not her name, so he waved back politely.
"Oh shit oh shit she's here," Donovan finally croaked out. "I'll be in touch with you. Later." He whipped around in front of Pierre and made his way to the nearby exit in a terrified haste.
[Contact 1: Steven Donovan]
Pierre sighed, and made his way back to his seat. The next bout was beginning. The competitors looked a bit more formidable for this one. There was a bulky foreigner, dusky-skinned but wearing a Union Jack tee shirt, practicing boxing moves alone. He was powerful and well built, but his footwork was incredible and he moved with a surprising speed once he had worked up into a punch. Two other competitors were talking animatedly to each other; the Japanese one wore a white karate gi, while his scruffy-looking blond companion had on a red gi. Pierre wasn't quite sure if they were fierce rivals or devoted friends, or both, but they had likely reached some kind of agreement on how to conduct themselves in the fight.
The last competitor was a native woman in a dark black, masculine cut business suit, with a yellow bandana wrapped around her right arm. The only concession to femininity she seemingly made was her hair, kept at the moment in a tightly bound shoulder-length ponytail. Despite her severity she moved with an oddly graceful fluidity. She exuded unspoken confidence. Another Thai woman accompanied her, dressed in a red sarong, and swaying with a far more feminine grace that advertised and flaunted her charms. They paused before the ring and spoke briefly to each other before the combat began.
Rowan introduced her as Sriraj Yinglee, and with none of the banter he usually reserved for female competitors.
Pierre watched, almost entranced, as the fight broke out. The two karate competitors, evidently from some kind of obscure school emphasizing an unorthodox acrobatic style, used the ropes to careen around the ring. The boxer used his footwork and guard to good effect, putting his hands up to block one, then another strike, bobbing and weaving his way into a corner where his swift jabs drove the martial artists away. Yinglee on the other hand simply dodged every kick or punch sent her way, flowing around the blows with what seemed like a minimal exertion of energy. And with each blow she dodged she lashed out in return with a fist that was like a whip, striking with blinding speed at some weak point Pierre could not have predicted her blow would fall.
The two "karate" fighters finally cartwheeled their way back into the corner with the boxer, evidently deciding to focus on eliminating him first. They lashed him with kicks which he endured with stoic dedication to his guard, until at last the red one faltered in his own footwork. The boxer exploded from his guard, shifting into a powerful blow right to that opponent's face. The red-attired martial artist was sent flying into the middle of the ring, sprawling on the floor as he landed. He was bounding up a second later, but that was one second too late.
Yinglee was on him as he stood up, pounding punches into him from multiple angles as she danced around his body. Red threw a few punches to but it was as if she saw them coming and arranged to be just a hair's breadth out of their way. Her movements were almost hypnotic, and Pierre judged even he would be sorely pressed to land a hit on her. Red realized that too, and with a last exertion of effort simply barreled his way forward, trying to body-check the elusive combatant. Yinglee was again just outside of his move, but then he twisted up into what Pierre could only describe as a leaping corkscrew of an uppercut. Red connected, barely, and Yinglee seemed to fly through the air as she was lifted up and pitched into the ropes.
The crowd gasped. But Yinglee managed to grab the ropes and flip over back on her feet. She moved slower afterward. Red smiled and then collapsed into a heap in the middle of the ring, his endurance and energy finally exhausted. It was also at that point the boxer managed to land a haymaker into his friend, knocking both the martial artists out.
The remaining batch was relatively anticlimactic. It reminded Pierre a bit of a bullfight he had seen in Cartagena. The boxer endured blows patiently, keeping his guard up as he tried to maneuver Yinglee into the path of a lunge. She on the other hand danced around him, laying out probing, almost teasing blows. Eventually the boxer overcommitted himself to what had seemed like a promising attempt. Yinglee was on him then with a flurry of strikes to seemingly random points on his chest and shoulders; Pierre only recognized the significance of some of them from harsh experience with how being hit there hurt. In the end the boxer finally keeled over on his back, out cold.
The roar from the half of the native crowd associated with the Golden Tigers was the loudest noise that afternoon. As she stepped out of the ring she was embraced by her companion in a tight hug. Yinglee squirmed a bit but didn't fight the contact. Since he was paying more attention he noticed they had a certain resemblance despite how wildly different they were attired. Sisters?
None of the other bouts managed to engage that level of interest. And in the end Pierre was ready to head out. But where? As he debated that, heading lazily to the exit, he caught a flash of wine-red in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to the right, in the direction of the bank of seats the Colombians and Sicilians were sitting. That…
He recognized her. Lucie. It had been five years since he had last seen her but he still recognized her. She looked far more mature, with lush curves clothed in a tight fitting emerald dress. How had he missed her before? And she was hanging on to the arm of a Mafioso. An important one, by the way the other Sicilians were visibly deferring to him. What was she doing here?
[ ] Follow Lucie.
[ ] Head on down to the Yellow Flag.
[ ] Write-In?
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Follow Lucie.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Hey Cav, shouldn't that be Day Two Evening? It is night right now, right?
Hmm. I may yet get to say I called it about Lucie. Was thinking there may have been more to her than just whoring around back on the boat.
Steve....disappointing that he's a crackpot. Although I've seen enough swerves that sometimes the crazy guy is right to keep it in mind. Still, probably rubbish. Hopefully his intel on our opponents is a bit better and/or trustworthy, although I'd take that with a grain of salt too.
He did know about Corsica though. We've only been here two days and didn't make many waves. If he didn't look us up beforehand, he got his hands on intel about us pretty quick. He doesn't seem incompetent.
Although given his reaction to one of the fighters, maybe she's got him by the balls and he's using us to try to get out of the vise he's in.
Plus side, hey, now we know about Bao and Balalaika. Pierre didn't know that.
Hmm. I may yet get to say I called it about Lucie. Was thinking there may have been more to her than just whoring around back on the boat.
Steve....disappointing that he's a crackpot. Although I've seen enough swerves that sometimes the crazy guy is right to keep it in mind. Still, probably rubbish. Hopefully his intel on our opponents is a bit better and/or trustworthy, although I'd take that with a grain of salt too.
He did know about Corsica though. We've only been here two days and didn't make many waves. If he didn't look us up beforehand, he got his hands on intel about us pretty quick. He doesn't seem incompetent.
Although given his reaction to one of the fighters, maybe she's got him by the balls and he's using us to try to get out of the vise he's in.
Plus side, hey, now we know about Bao and Balalaika. Pierre didn't know that.
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Hm. Lucie Dumont, the girl who was screwing the Russian that Pierre killed way back in the day when he was just proving himself. It's rather a massive coincidence she's in Roanapur, but it's almost equally impressive she's warming the bed of another mafioso kingpin. The life tends to grind up girls like that and spit them out, and the fact she's gravitated to the center of power yet again is pretty damn impressive. It's unlikely, but maybe she's actually a UN agent?
Either way, probably a better Contact than Steve, even if she's a backstabbing bint.
Steve was almost certainly reacting to Sister Eda of the freaking Ripoff Church. Pierre apparently doesn't seem to recognize her outside of her nun's habit despite our roll. And her waving to him.
If Steve knows Eda's CIA, no wonder he flipped, but either way she's the sort to scare people.
[X] Follow Lucie.
Either way, probably a better Contact than Steve, even if she's a backstabbing bint.
Steve was almost certainly reacting to Sister Eda of the freaking Ripoff Church. Pierre apparently doesn't seem to recognize her outside of her nun's habit despite our roll. And her waving to him.
If Steve knows Eda's CIA, no wonder he flipped, but either way she's the sort to scare people.
[X] Follow Lucie.
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HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
I strongly caution against this thinking. First, I don't recall Lucie having been established as on anyone's side to begin with. As far as we know she was just some random girl. She wasn't with the mob like we were, or were planning to join at least.
Sleeping with random antagonist instead of PC does not constitute betrayal.
Second, and more importantly, we absolutely do not know what she's up to or has done. So perhaps we should find out, yes, but I'm already more inclined to trust Steve than her. By which I mean, I think it is easier to peg Steve's motive and work him over than it will be Lucie. Less reward, less risk, unless we're banking hard on Lucie being so grateful to us she's gonna back us to the hilt. I will not be doing this.
This is rather unfortunate, really. We may have missed Lucie but she almost certainly did not miss us unless she just plain didn't know us and couldn't recognize us from the boat. If we try to tail her and her new patron, well, it is entirely reasonable for them to be expecting us. This could get messy if Lucie is inclined to make it so.
And oh yes, third: don't assume she's a whore. Yes, she could be, it's the oldest profession for a reason, but it could also be a closer relationship than eye candy and bed warmer. Or even an actual relationship. Or she's being a black widow/informant/who knows.
Oh, that's the thing. I wasn't saying that she was a backstabber, but the fact is even if she is she's a much better-connected backstabber than Steve is. We... really don't have much reason to trust Steve. The fact he seems deranged is comforting in that it makes us think he's incompetent, but he could be playing us.
The issue is that she probably did mark out Pierre in the fight earlier. It's unlikely she's led that colorful a life that Pierre's assassination is all but forgotten. Either way, not even talking to her to get an idea of how much she remembers and who she plans to tell is a bad idea.
As I said, the fact she's the mistress/whore of a deadly and powerful man again after years have passed implies she's very capable in one way or another.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Ah, fair enough.
He knew our backstory and offered up Sal's, to be verified with....whoever we care to I suppose. The former is more impressive than the latter, admittedly, but that is not the sign of a incompetent broker.
I have little trouble believing he's interested in us to make money or further his own ends. And if he's someone else's pawn, well, we need to start somewhere and it's good to have options.
Basically, we're used to a dog eat dog world. Steven probably fits right in with that.
My point wasn't that she forgot the assassination, but that things happened so quickly and at such an emotional time that her perception at the time and recollection of the event is not entirely trustworthy. Especially since she had just woken up at the time, IIRC.
See, I think you're already on the wrong track by wanting to go down and talk to her. First, it's very blatant. Second, if she is well connected it draws attention to us and I suspect she will not be grateful for drawing attention to her. Third, she can probably run circles around us in a social encounter.
I'm not opposed to following her. I am very opposed to going down and having a chat.
And this is why.
? We know jack-all about Steve. He knew a bit about Sal, and he appears to fear Balalaika and Eda, but I see no reason whatsoever to think we can trust him further than we can throw him. Just because he's not giving us some kind of femme fatale vibe, that certainly doesn't mean he can't be playing us, Contact background aside.
Honestly, it's unlikely he can provide us much useful info on our opponents we couldn't figure out ourself as a trained fighter. On the other hand, if we go into a fight with a Snake style user confident they do standard Krav Maga, we're gonna get fucked over properly pretty quick. It's just as likely he's playing us as not.
We know exactly who Lucie Dumont is and where she comes from. We know where her family lives. We are part of an established gang where her family lives, in fact, and could probably have them killed with a single phone call. It would likewise probably behoove her not to have her current beau learn she was screwing a Russian last we saw her.
Bottom line, I think we have some leverage on Lucie. Steve could blow town tomorrow and we'd never find him.
Honestly, it's unlikely he can provide us much useful info on our opponents we couldn't figure out ourself as a trained fighter. On the other hand, if we go into a fight with a Snake style user confident they do standard Krav Maga, we're gonna get fucked over properly pretty quick. It's just as likely he's playing us as not.
We know exactly who Lucie Dumont is and where she comes from. We know where her family lives. We are part of an established gang where her family lives, in fact, and could probably have them killed with a single phone call. It would likewise probably behoove her not to have her current beau learn she was screwing a Russian last we saw her.
Bottom line, I think we have some leverage on Lucie. Steve could blow town tomorrow and we'd never find him.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
I never said he wasn't playing us. He admits he has an agenda straight up and never pretended otherwise. And I think that is workable.
After all, that's probably going to be the default state of affairs for everyone we interact with in Roanapur, with the possible exception of Claude.
Pierre even narrates that he's used to this kind of broker.
I'd like to remind you of our last roll to learn about our opponents, as a trained fighter. We barely broke threshold.
Also, the offer was about their fighting styles and their personal histories. Note the 'who they fuck' bit. If we decide we want to spy on or kneecap our competition, which may not be an altogether bad idea, we don't have the time to track them down ourselves. Certainly not if we go after Lucie, we'd only have one more morning to find anyone.
That is not a slight against Lucie, that's an honest assessment of the time available to us.
Yes, and then he'd probably be on our shit list. And we just saw he's scared shitless of Roberta so we already saw one of his probable soft spots. It'd be unwise of him to try and sabotage us that way. Not saying it couldn't competently be done, such as if he were trying to steal our coat, but pulling the wool over us in the ring is quite a gamble. There's a lot of ways that particular con can feasibly go wrong before we even step in the ring.
He could do it. It doesn't seem worth the risk to him though. This our specialty. It would be far easier to pull the wool over our eyes in social or intellectual matters.
We are persona non grata back at home and so are the rest of our allies. No, no I do not think we'll be pulling that. We also don't know what kind of person she is and if that would push her, what resources she has, and what dirty tricks she can pull. More importantly, if we know that information, odds are it is fairly trivial for other well connected criminals to find the same information. If that is one of her soft spots, and as someone at the side of a powerful figure her background was probably vetted, other people more able to back that threat up also probably have it.
Assuming we still know where her family is and that they didn't get out of town.
Let's not forgot that by your own argument, if she knows us, then she can most definitely put the screws to us. Especially if she's well connected. Our motivation isn't hard to decipher either so feeding us a line of bull and getting away clean is very much in the cards.
If Claude was with us, I'd be more inclined to consider it. As it is now? No, no I don't think so. I do not trust Lucie and I am not inclined to stick our foot in those waters at this time.
Assuming we could approach that person in some fashion and be believed. Not entirely likely.
Also, the phrase 'Shoot the messenger' comes to mind.
I think you're overestimating what leverage we have and our ability to apply it. As for Steve, I doubt a man like him is in a position to blow town. Everyone needs to eat after all and since he is a broker, this town is probably what he's good at.
I consider Steve a managable risk that can pay out. Lucie, I consider too dangerous to approach directly given her apparent position.
Once again: we get Claude, different story.
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[X] Head on down to the Yellow Flag.
Enough time has passed that Lucie is essentially an unknown. It may be tempting to think that we can use the past to leverage her, but Pierre's knowledge is spotty at best and his judgment is questionable where she is concerned; case in point, he was surprised to discover she was Krukov's whore, and spared her at the cost of others' lives. Attempting to engage her socially is likely to result in her manipulating him and just following her isn't likely to turn up anything helpful, as everything of import takes place behind closed doors anyway. It would be wise to find out who she's with, but we can just ask around about the apparently well-known mafioso to do that. StevenHeck Donovan, on the other hand... is something of an enigma. Suspicious, sure, but if he was trying to play us, I think he'd have a better cover story; he knows Eda, so he isn't entirely full of shit. Or maybe I just like Alpha Protocol entirely too much for my own good.
On another note, I see you've really ratcheted up the Street Fighter dial. Were those Ryu and Ken I spotted?
Enough time has passed that Lucie is essentially an unknown. It may be tempting to think that we can use the past to leverage her, but Pierre's knowledge is spotty at best and his judgment is questionable where she is concerned; case in point, he was surprised to discover she was Krukov's whore, and spared her at the cost of others' lives. Attempting to engage her socially is likely to result in her manipulating him and just following her isn't likely to turn up anything helpful, as everything of import takes place behind closed doors anyway. It would be wise to find out who she's with, but we can just ask around about the apparently well-known mafioso to do that. Steven
On another note, I see you've really ratcheted up the Street Fighter dial. Were those Ryu and Ken I spotted?
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WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Changed - see newer post
Like Orm said, Pierre hasn't seen Lucie for long enough that she could be quite different from how he thinks she is. Pierre is an iron fist, not a honeyed tongue or mind like a razor. We're not "built" to social-fu people and shouldn't be going for it as the first choice. Also, with just 3 dots in Stealth I'm not confident of being able to go unnoticed if we try to follow her without tipping her off. Therefore, we should leave well alone at this point.
I'm still wondering if we should try to do something about our Wits, Composure, Intelligence or Streetwise, though.
Let's see who we have in this scene...
- Giant muscle guy
- Kickboxer (Muay Thai?) and local fave
- Boxer (Eliminated)
- Karate guys/Shotoclones (Eliminated)
- Snake Style-ista
Yellow bandana... Golden Tigers' favourite? Damn, mane, just how cray cray is her DV?
No such thing as liking too much Alpha Protocol!
I thought so too. Also, black British boxer is probably Not!Dudley. I think.
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- Location
- Southern Virginia
Posts are tracked by when they start, not when they end. It was still late in the morning after the bout and you would have had the chance to go to the Yellow Flag and poke around for Contacts and contracts if you'd gone there instead.
Steve was almost certainly reacting to Sister Eda of the freaking Ripoff Church. Pierre apparently doesn't seem to recognize her outside of her nun's habit despite our roll. And her waving to him.
Pierre recognized her from the Yellow Flag last night. He only met Edda briefly at the Church, when she was in her nun getup, which in fact is a fairly effective way of obscuring a lot of her memorable features. Pierre has used a priest's cassock to similar effect before. Unless you choose to have him interact more with Edda (and there will probably be chances for such) he has no reason to connect the dots.
Lucie and Pierre have actually interacted a number of times after that night. As far as Pierre knows she has no idea he was the one to kill Kurkov. Cause it was dark, she was just waking up, and Pierre was just a dark figure in a wetsuit. The last time they met was after the night of the long knives in Bastia, five years ago when Pierre was in Paris for a freelance hit. They met at a cafe by chance, exchanged some chit-chat about old times and family, Pierre lied about being a security consultant and Lucie said she had a position in the marketing department of Renault.
Basically the last time they saw each other beside very infrequent email. She did know Pierre was a mobster, though he never hinted toward any realization that she was an escort.
Three dots in Stealth (or any Ability) is well above-average. One dot just covers competent training, two dots is what you'd expect a veteran to have, three dots indicates significant talent and skill, four dots is absolute elite, and five dots is the near-pinnacle of human skill. Legendary Abilities exist but at that point you're talking about Rambo instead of the "average" Delta Force operator, or Usain Bolt instead of the average Olympic athlete, or Simo Hayha and Carlos Hathcock instead of a Marine sharpshooter. Also it's a Dexterity + Stealth roll to follow someone without being noticed, so Pierre's incredible raw talent adds to his well-above competent trained skill.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Oh. My bad. I thought it was worse than it is given how you were saying we should look into improving our mental + social stuff.
I guess I'll change my vote to
[x]Follow Lucie
Also, since you said the Lagoon Company isn't likely to be showing up... Is it okay to ask what kind of stats they might have had if they were?
- Location
- Southern Virginia
Eh, I'm keeping that sort of thing vague because I don't want people too wrapped up with mechanics and matchups.
Suffice it to say that while Revy is not the most dangerous gunfighter in Roanapur, she is damned close to it. Rock of course has social skills to put Pierre to shame, while Dutch is fairly balanced with a lot of competence in many areas, and Benny just has high Computers and some other utility skills. Revy is actually a real threat to Pierre if she figures out his trick with the coat and the others have a lot of Contacts with Hotel Moscow.
Anyway would like to see more votes before calling it tomorrow.
[X] Follow Lucie.
THIS LOOKS INTERESTING, WE SHOULD INVESTIGATE.
THIS LOOKS INTERESTING, WE SHOULD INVESTIGATE.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
[X] Head on down to the Yellow Flag.
To see if we can get Contacts there.
Also, can I ask how Claude compares to Revy? Trying to feel out a frame of reference for his skill.
To see if we can get Contacts there.
Also, can I ask how Claude compares to Revy? Trying to feel out a frame of reference for his skill.
TheOmnimercurial
Dragon Bard
- Location
- UK
[X] Follow Lucie.
Time to break out the ever trusty cardboard box!
Time to break out the ever trusty cardboard box!
- Location
- Southern Virginia
It looks like Following Lucie going to win. The default action is, of course, following surreptitiously. That'll be a Dexterity + Stealth roll. You can always stunt. If it is good enough you might be able to buy an extra dot of Stealth.
Or I guess you could just try talking to her. You might also want to stunt how you approach her and what you want with her. That will determine what dicepool you need to roll (if any) and gives you a certain degree of narrative freedom. Otherwise it's going to default to shadowing her and trying to get more information from observation as above.
Or I guess you could just try talking to her. You might also want to stunt how you approach her and what you want with her. That will determine what dicepool you need to roll (if any) and gives you a certain degree of narrative freedom. Otherwise it's going to default to shadowing her and trying to get more information from observation as above.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Shadowing her. Absolutely stick to shadowing. She might know of us now and maybe interaction can nudge things one way or another, maybe open a few doors, but I don't think we have the chops to make it happen. We'd need a stunt in any case.
At least this way we get one autosuccess. We roll nine dice as it is, that's a pretty respectable number.
At least this way we get one autosuccess. We roll nine dice as it is, that's a pretty respectable number.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Shadow. Definitely shadow.
... I don't know how to stunt for this though...
... I don't know how to stunt for this though...
- Location
- Southern Virginia
Right, right then.
Someone roll 9d10 for shadowing (Dexterity + Stealth).
Also roll 6d10 (Wits + Composure).
Someone roll 9d10 for shadowing (Dexterity + Stealth).
Also roll 6d10 (Wits + Composure).