DAY 2, EVENING
Pierre hadn't prospered in his line of work by ignoring his instincts. He quickly brushed off the grounds and muck from his face, fixed his trenchcoat, and shifted the guitar case on his shoulder. There was no real chance of him blending into a crowd, he knew, but if someone had been agile enough to follow him across the roofs and alleys of Roanapur it meant he couldn't shake them that way. Instead he turned around and ran full-tilt into the network of alleys behind the restaurant. And whatever turns he made, he made as randomly as possible; if he had no idea where he was going, neither would his tail.
It was only after a half-hour of evasion that he stepped up his efforts, wall-running his way up along a partition blocking off a bank parking lot and using the elevation to leap and catch the windowsill of an apartment building nearby. Once there he swung himself up and began alternating leaps with careful running along the edge of the sills, making his way over to another emergency exit and climbing up tom the top. The building's roof offered a fine view of his surroundings, and most importantly, had nowhere to hide in the exterior, being completely flat all around. Pierre felt confident the randomness of his path would have defeated an ambush and so felt comfortable taking a careful, lengthy scrutiny for any possible sign of pursuit.
There was none. He crouched down, breathing heavily, as the exertion caught up with him and the adrenaline flushed out of his system. The feeling in the back of his head was gone. Possibly he had been mistaken, after a fashion; maybe the tail was watching Lucie, or her Mafia don paramour? Or maybe the fact that he had made the tail out had spooked his shadow? Or perhaps they were just lying in wait for him back at the hotel.
Pierre wasn't much used to facing someone who could follow him like that. It was an uncomfortable thought that someone just as good, or even better, was out here and had crossed his path. He was tempted to do something about it but setting up an ambush would take time, opportunity, and a plan. Right now he only had the time. And as the sun continued to slink down toward the horizon, Pierre realized he did not even have all that much time.
He made his way toward the Golden Flag with care. Even though the tail was probably gone (or waiting for him elsewhere) there was no need to make it easy for anyone else by getting out of practice. That meant it had turned dark by the time he arrived. Pierre took the opportunity to grab a dinner from the street-vendors clustering around the bar; shrimp noodles and a spicy papaya salad, eaten off of paper plates with plastic chopsticks, but as tasty as the food at any Thai restaurant he had eaten at in France. The ubiquitous cans of coconut water were also starting to grow on him; he'd never been a fan of coconut before.
That small surprise was nothing compared to one moment later, as Pierre opened the door into the Yellow Flag and found himself face-to-face with his opponent from earlier in the day. By the look on his purpling face, neither did Sal. Neither had the rest of the bar, to judge by how intently they were staring at the scene. From the anticipation on their faces and the nervousness on Bao's face, it looked like they were expecting an impromptu round two.
"Sal," Pierre said neutrally. "It is good to see you're up on your feet already." Pierre wasn't sure he would be walking about so quickly after a KO, and he knew he wouldn't be firing all cylinders if he did. Pierre didn't think Sal would be, either.
"Hmph." Sal may have looked like he'd been on the wrong side of a baseball bat but he certainly didn't act like it. "You are fast, but it will take a stronger man than you to put me down and keep me there." He paused, a considering look on his face. "Or perhaps a more skilled man."
Pierre stared. He couldn't help it. It wasn't often someone showed such a blatant death wish. "I was skilled enough to knock you out of the tournament."
Sal laughed as he crossed his arms. It was harsh and painful sound. "I assure you, had we met in anything but the elimination bout, the outcome would have been very different."
Pierre kept his arms loose and relaxed at his sides. "Is that so?"
"I am one of the oldest fighters in this town." That, at the least, was no boast. Steven had confirmed as much and the knowing nods of the audience proved it. "I've seen many men and a few women rise and fall. I've put more than a few of them in the ground myself. Yours was the only name in that tournament I didn't know in advance. Everyone else? I know how they fight and I know how to lay them out cold. You were lucky I didn't get to watch you from outside the ring."
"Well," Pierre said lightly. "It would seem this time youth and strength has overcome age and guile."
Murmured laughter filled the room and Sal's face tightened. "Then you won't mind proving it in a rematch."
There was a scraping of chairs as everyone leaned forward for another brawl.
It made no sense. It was beyond reckless. Suicidal didn't do it justice. Pierre knew he could end Sal at will. Sal knew he could end him at will. But, Pierre realized, everyone else doesn't know that.
Even out of his prime and fresh off of his latest defeat, even after Pierre had utterly demolished the man in a one on one match, everyone else in the room was wondering if Sal could actually beat him. If they had been better brawlers they might have realized that Sal truly had no chance, but all they knew was that Sal had a skill they could only dream of. Even after hitting rock bottom, he was held on a tiny pedestal.
He still had respect.
That was it. That was why he was here when he should be licking his wounds. That was why he was standing up to Pierre, knowing that he had no chance of victory.
Steven had been wrong about Sal being only almost respectable. Too many people had watched him beat down too many others and couldn't understand how he did it. Everyone had learned that it was safer to assume the worst when it came to fighting Sal. Pierre knew this because he made a living off of the same mystique, of having a skillset so unconventional that people just didn't know how to counter it.
Pierre had destroyed Sal in the opening round. Sal said he could win a rematch. Maybe he could, although Pierre didn't think so. But this wasn't about what Pierre thought, was it?
Reputation was critical in their line of work and Sal couldn't afford to lose his. Those chuckles, the murmured laughter in the crowds, those sharks smelling blood in the water. How many enemies in this room had Sal made? Enemies who didn't attack him even now, even at his weakest.
Pierre could put the final nail in Sal's coffin. Metaphorically or figuratively. Right here, right now.
It was tempting. Sal had carved out for himself a niche that Pierre could use for himself. Pierre could do what Sal did and be better in every way.
But it wouldn't work like that. Sal was trusted. In a den of thieves, Sal had won trust from all. And that trust was not a spoil to be given to the victor. He could not take Sal's place in Roanapur. He could destroy it, but he could not take it. There was no profit to be had in destroying this man's life.
"Alright old man," Pierre finally replied. "Heal yourself up. And after this tournament we'll have round two."
Sal relaxed. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there. It was only a stay of execution, but it was something. It was a little ground for him to stand on and keep what remained of his life from falling to pieces around him.
The older man walked past Pierre and out of the saloon. "I'll be looking forward to it. Kick some ass in the tournament kid."
What Pierre heard was, win. There was little shame in losing to the champion. It was better to be the champion, but losing to a worthy, recognized opponent was acceptable.
As he walked up to the bar Pierre realized what Sal had done. Sal had walked into an inarguably superior opponent, barely on his feet, and the walked out of the bar under his own power with his reputation intact. Pierre could have ruined Sal, he didn't, and Sal counted on exactly that.
Perhaps Sal was cleverer than Pierre had thought.
Shaking off the thought for the moment, he slid in at the bar table and held up a hand to draw Bao's attention. "Heineken," Pierre ordered reluctantly.
Bao placed the bottle down on a coaster before him. "You're late," he proclaimed. "No more jobs being posted around today. Though I hear the Red Hawks and Golden Tigers are both looking for a hired gun."
"I'll keep that in mind," Pierre replied. He passed over some baht for the overpriced swill. The encounter with his shadow, and now meeting Sal, had put him in a brooding mood. Bao sensed that and moved on to chat with some regulars.
He needed to check in with Claude, at the least. The other man might have turned something up and a warning should be passed on. The draw for the tournament was tomorrow, too, and though he didn't need to be there it would be useful to know who he was fighting. He suspected Donovan would resurface soon, too, and it was tempting to sound the man out about a tail. He was a conspiracy nut but he had at least known everything about Sal. And he still needed money.
Pierre finished his beer and left the empty bottle on the table as he stepped up and left for a table by the TV. Manchester United, bleh. He wasted a half-hour watching the game before leaving. He did so out a side-door, slinking over into shadows cast by the street lights in front of the building. He made his way back to the hotel by a circuitous route, running around in the alleys of downtown until he reached a bus stop and flagged down a taxi. The taxi delivered him to another hotel, which he entered and then exited before sneaking back to his own; although he suspected any tail already knew full well where he was staying.
When entering the lobby he asked the receptionist if anyone had inquired about him or his room. "No one, sir," came the reply. Pierre slipped him a tip and asked to be informed if anyone did so. The clerk nodded his agreement enthusiastically.
He was still paranoid about entering his room. He drew up his trenchcoat to cover his face and shield his full center of mass before swinging the door open and stepping inside. The lights were out, and an inspection showed no sign of anyone except the maid having entered. He spent a brief while looking for bugs or signs of a wire and found nothing. Finally he took off the guitar case and set it aside in a corner, then fell back onto his bed, exhausted by the day's toil.
The phone beside him rang. Pierre reluctantly lifted it up. "Pierre, it's Claude. Seems like you had an eventful day, non?"
"Oui," Pierre answered. "You heard about the tournament qualifiers?"
"Of course," Claude responded. "Hopefully you won't bite off more than you can chew later on."
"Perhaps I already have," he said, broaching the issue of his tail. Claude listened quietly, though he could make out some heavy breathing as he mentioned the moment he realized he was being followed. "And so that's how I lost him," Pierre concluded.
"That is serious," Claude finally said, breaking his silence. "We'll need to be careful. I'll keep an eye out myself. Do we need to switch hotels?"
"It's no use," Pierre concluded. "Anyone who has access to such an asset would be able to bribe some hotel employees. So did I. Just for a head's up. Moving to other accommodations would be a good idea, but…" He trailed off on the equivalent of a shrug.
"We don't have time to work on that," Claude finished. "Anyway, it might not have been your tail. You were following Dumont and this mafia boss, right? Roanapur is swarming with freelancers doing various things for the cartels. Probably you just caught up in someone else's surveillance. Or perhaps Lucie has yet another admirer?"
Pierre did not take the bait. "It is a possibility," he said. "We should assume we are being followed at all times as a matter of professionalism. I was sloppy earlier."
"Probably the wisest course," Claude conceded. "But enough of that. I followed up at the mosque. There are inconsistencies in the official story of its destruction. The Japanese records do not take responsibility for burning it down. That was a post-war reparations claim by the Thai government. I found a witness still alive in a village outside Roanapur. About an hour's drive given how terrible the roads here are. So, I need to borrow the Hilux."
"Done," Pierre said. "Meet me for breakfast downstairs and I will give you the keys."
"It might be for the best if you were to come with me," Claude broached. "The PLO is active along the border of the province and hiring a bodyguard makes sense. Especially in this cesspit. I should be able to talk my way out of any trouble, but another gun would give some other options if it comes to that. But it is probably going to take the entire morning and then some. If you've got other plans tomorrow they might be more important."
[ ] Go visit the village with Claude.
[ ] No, I need to…
--[ ] Follow up on Lucie.
--[ ] Attend the Tournament Draws.
[ ] Write-in?
OOC: Okay, going with Claude would take up the entire morning (at least). You might have the chance to follow Lucie, especially if you get back early, if you go with him. Making the Tournament Draws would be impossible. You'll miss the chance to scope out your first opponent, schmooze among various other players in Roanapur, and to check in at the Yellow Flag when the day's pickings are best. Also there are no guarantees there won't be "complications" from straying into the interior where an ongoing guerrilla/terrorist threat is active.
Also, +1 XP from the write-in.
