DAY 4, MORNING
Pierre silently cursed his sense of honor. The Roanapuri street urchins weren't Corsicans, and he held no duty to this country, but he could not stand by. He was a part of the Underworld, and had done many bad things, but the code he had lived by always made a distinction for innocents. Even if the orphans were criminals it was the fault of the gangs for not steering them correctly to live by a code of pride and duty.
Yet at the same time he knew openly making a scene in Golden Tigers territory was not going to do him any favors.
So as the lead thug came into arm's reach, he let him pass by unmolested. Once he had passed, Pierre quickly made his way into an alleyway where he had earlier spotted a ladder leading to a warehouse's roof and scrambled up. Before cresting the edge he took a moment to peer over and look for any new tails, remembering his carelessness during the pursuit of Lucie. Finding none, he then made his way across the roofs with almost casual ease, looking for the hunters-to-be-prey.
There! The thugs were currently chasing the children down some alleyway.
Despite his encumbrance the leader was still some way ahead of his two underlings. Taking a moment to judge the distance involved, Pierre braced himself, then leapt.
He fell onto the two followers like a bolt from the heavens, and a crack of heads on hard ground affirmed the imagery. Pierre's long experience and natural skill had ensured that all the force had been cushioned by the goons, leaving him unhurt. They did not look like they were going to get up any time soon, but he took a quick moment to smash their heads against each other as insurance, then took off after the leader like a hellhound.
The lead thug noticed his charge as he rounded a corner in pursuit of the children. Nevertheless, it was too late; Pierre's tackle smashed the leader into a wall, and before he could recover Pierre had turned his chains into an impromptu garrote. Dulled by pain, the leader could make little attempt to resist and his struggles stilled quickly. For good measure, Pierre slammed his head into the ground a couple more times.
With the three thugs down for good, Pierre turned to relieving them of their belongings. Most of it was trash or drugs he had to throw off the dock, and even all together they only had a small amount of currency in their pockets, but the leader's chains were another matter. They were no minor burden, and he wondered if Donovan knew a discreet, quality fence. While he did not want to carry them on his person into the ring, where the encumbrance could hurt his agility, even if they were only a few carats in quality, the mass added up, and even a mere thousand could buy him another week's stay.
[+Bling, $50]
Having heard the sounds of the very brief struggle, a few of the urchins stopped their flight. Pierre felt them looking at him from around the corner as he put his looted jewelry into his guitar case. There was wariness, and curiosity. Pierre shrugged. "They smashed," he assured them in the rough street Thai he was slowly picking up.
That did not eliminate the wariness, but the knot of a half-dozen or two did step out into plain view. They were a ragged bunch, with torn clothing and dirty faces. They all had gaunt and hollow faces, save for the leader, the oldest; she looked in better shape, lean and muscled rather than simply malnourished, maybe twelve years old. Maybe older, since Pierre would bet their living conditions were stunting the children's growth. She also had distinct features, lighter skin, a sharper nose, narrower face, probably Eurasian.
"Why?" She asked in English. Pierre couldn't quite place the accent, but it sounded familiar. She must be the daughter of some hard-on-his-luck or deceased freelancer, he judged.
Pierre shrugged again and answered in the same language. "I do bad things to people, but for reasons. Hurting children would go against those reasons. And though this is not my city, these," he tilted his head toward the lead thug, "do not deserve my respect. I could stop them so I did."
Her eyes narrowed in thought, perhaps. There was something in those dark pools that looked far colder than any twelve year old girl had a right to. She smiled thinly. "We will watch your fight, Mr. Bourcet." She gave him a nod and lead the rest of her group back out from the alley, past Pierre.
[+Contacts: Street Children]
As one of the urchins walked past he felt a hand reaching out discretely at his side. Expecting a pickpocket he was surprised to grasp a note held out between the finders of the kid. Pierre took and dismissed the child, who ran after the rest of the group.
Using children as message runners was common in the Underworld. Police or patrolling soldiers were far less likely to stop and search them, and they were usually reliable when paid for the service. Anyone who went through the trouble of arranging a drop must have some compelling reason for it. He peeled it out to read and took several minutes to digest it.
He had just enough time…
Several minutes later, he walked into an abandoned and crumbling warehouse by a disused dock. The place was literally falling apart from what looked like decades of disuse. He stepped gingerly overly a rotting wooden plank strew across the bottom of the door and scanned around. There was a manager's office in the very back that the note had requested he come by.
As he pushed the creaking door open, a voice from inside addressed him. "I was starting to think you wouldn't make it," Sal commented. He was leaning on the remains of a desk to keep his balance straight, and was still bruised heavily, but he still looked better than the last time.
Pierre shook his head. "You are fortunate I intervened with the runner you sent. He was being accosted by the Golden Tigers."
"That is...unfortunate. Is he well?"
Pierre nodded in response.
" It would appear I owe you twice over," Sal said with a wan, bitter smile. He crossed his arms as he let go of the desk, and only Pierre's close attention let him see the small trace of pain on Sal's face as he stood fully erect. "Though it pains me to owe you a third favor, I am reassured that I have made the right choice."
That was...curious. Pierre decided to indulge the man since he was already here. "Then please speak quickly. I do not have much time to spare."
Sal nodded. "You are fighting Yang. I'm asking you to not cripple him in your fight."
"That is not a small favor," Pierre noted. "Why?"
"Are you aware of Yang's circumstances?" Sal's eyes bored at him. Pierre knew what he was looking for.
"Yes," he answered crisply. "He is in the thrall of a Golden Tigers loan shark. They are trying to force him into service as a thug."
Sal hummed. "There are parties who would rather the Golden Tigers not acquire his service and loyalty."
Pierre considered Sal's prompt carefully. "That is not the whole story. The powers in this city have not intervened in more important matters."
"Correct," Sal admitted. "Yang and his loyalty are a minor concern, but not the only concern. What matters is that the Golden Tigers want him, and certain parties want to deny them."
Pierre singled on one phrase. "Deny them. Not acquire Yang for themselves, just deny the Golden Tigers his services. They mean to spite Suparaman specifically."
Sal nodded.
So, it was not a rival gang asking this of him through Sal. They would have wanted another soldier. These parties were content to keep Suparaman from strengthening his own hand. It was the action of a balancer, someone outside the conflict but invested in it. Unfortunately that still left a lot of possible candidates.
"Yang is not important in the grand scheme of things," Sal continued after the brief pause. "The Oxcart Yang is as stubborn as his namesake, and if it were not for his mother's illness would never have come to Roanapur. He will only become an enforcer because he believes these loansharks are his friends and feels obligated to repay them. Exposing the scam and removing that obligation would be sufficient to remove him from the conflict. It also has a bonus of making it easier to turn Yang, who is not officially affiliated with anyone, against the Tigers."
Pierre felt his throat dry, just a little. He'd suspected ulterior motives to the tournament, he'd be a fool not to; he had not expected pieces to slick together quite in this fashion. "You weren't in for just your reputation. This was a job. This is a set-up to something larger, aimed at the Golden Tigers. Or more?"
Sal's face tightened. "No. It was an audition, for which handling Yang was one of the objectives." He took a breath the steady himself. "I failed."
Sal denied only that it was a job? "And now what? You represent your employer and offer the job to me?" Pierre shook his head. "They have a poor sense of humor."
"Again, no." Sal rubbed at his eyes. "I was informed of this scheme because of my discretion."
But that would mean Sal was acting on his own with the information. Pierre turned his full gaze on the older, perhaps washed-up enforcer.
Sal met his gaze with a morbid half-smile. "Yes. I am here of my own volition. If they find out about my involvement I will pay dearly for my sentiment."
Pierre was acutely aware of how little time he had left, but he could not leave. Not now. "Why?" For what purpose was Sal risking his life?
Sal did not answer for a full fifteen seconds; Pierre did not press.
Finally the older man spoke. "He's a good kid."
That was it? "There are many good kids in the world. Why would you risk your life for him?"
"For the same reason I take the time to look after the kids in this city, even if they are generally ungrateful foul mouthed brats," Sal said sharply, as something that was almost passionate slipped into his tone. "To do something I can take pride in."
"I can respect that," Pierre said slowly. And he did. Pride in what he did had supported him and carried him even in the darkest of times. It still did. And that particular indulgence called to his memories of the Family, before he was exiled. It was a complication. "But I am here with a purpose," he qualfied. "Yang is not trash, not like the Golden Tigers. I do not think I can afford to treat him lightly. I will try not to cripple him, but I will do what I have to do."
Sal closed his eyes. "I see."
The silence held for a few moments, and then Pierre turned to leave.
Sal spoke suddenly as he was almost through the door. "Have you ever regretted the path you've taken through life?"
Pierre stilled.
"I'm not talking about wishing you had been there in Corsica on that day." Pierre's fist involuntarily tightened at the reference, but Sal continued on. "I'm asking if you've ever wished you had done something different with your life.
Pierre turned from the door, and speared Sal with a look that demanded this be good.
"Because I know what that's like," the other man spat out. "Every day I look in a mirror. I can't stand to see Yang pave his own road to hell with his good intentions. Can you let him do this to himself?"
Could he?
Pierre considered the first question. Did he regret his choices?
He would always regret his failure to save his liege and his family. Pierre had done many terrible things in his life, but that was the only failure he considered unforgivable.
Could he have been different?
He was raised to be an enforcer. He had been given a choice but he had never considered anything but following in his father's bloody footsteps. If he'd made another choice, perhaps he could have been a doctor, saving lives rather than taking him. Or maybe he would have wound up on the other side of the law. He could have been legitimate, and had a comfortable job where he didn't have to deal with the scum of humanity, maybe even a family of his own.
Pierre realized that he didn't care about the alternatives.
Stunned at his own revelation, he tested his resolution. He recounted everything that had happened in his life, every great terrible deed he had committed, and considered a life that was not soaked in blood.
It meant nothing to him.
This and no other was his life.
I am Pierre Bourcet. I am the failed enforcer of my sworn liege. I am willingly bound by blood-oath to avenge those I promised to never fail. I will always regret my failure but I will never regret my vocation. Perhaps there had been another path for the boy I was, he thought, but the man I am has only one path, and the footprints I leave on it are outlined in blood.
Pierre looked Sal in the eye.
"Your first question," said Pierre. "Was if I ever wanted to do something else with my life. No." Pierre's voice rang with finality. "This is the only life I want; the only life I will ever want. And I will do everything in my power to avenge my Family."
Some indescribable emotion settled on Sal's face as he took in Pierre's resolve.
"I envy you." Sal said it with such yearning honesty that Pierre felt like an intruder. This was a moment to be shared between the best of friends and Pierre instinctively felt he should not be here. The older man sighed. "Treasure your conviction," he said, with a low voice dripping of melancholy. "Nothing is worse than ennui."
Pierre nodded awkwardly. "Personal experience?"
Sal snorted. "What do you think?"
A long moment stretched between them, before Sal broke it. "I would consider it a personal favor, if you tried to take Yang down easy."
Tried. Not succeeded, just that Pierre made an effort. Slowly he nodded. "I promise nothing, but if the opportunity presents itself I will take it."
"That will have to do," Sal said gruffly. "Alright. Give me your belt."
And whatever moment may have been between them was gone. "Come again, old man?"
"Your belt, boy." Sal reached his hand out. "Just hand it over so I can help you before you're late."
"And I wonder whose fault that would be." Pierre grumbled, but reluctantly handed it over.
Sal reached into his pocket and flicked out a pocket knife. "I'm going to carve up in the inside of this belt." With methodical scrapes Sal began to strip the interior leather. "You are going to use it as a garrote. Tug inward and it will cinch tight for you to lock it around Yang's neck. Tug outwards and the extra length will rip right off. Either do it yourself or trick Yang into doing it. What's left will be a collar that will choke Yang out and that he'll either have to untie, rip off his neck, or endure. All while fighting you. As long as you get a good tight lock, you should be able to kick the shit out of the boy or watch him pass out. Make sure to let him loose once the match is done, but don't let him fool you by playing possum. He can hold his breath longer than you think."
Pierre stared. "I thought you liked this kid?"
Sal stared flatly at Pierre. "What part of 'had a plan to beat everyone in the tournament' are you not remembering?"
It took some more precious moments, but after it was done Pierre nodded in appreciation at the older man's cleverness. There would be no problem smuggling the garrote into the ring, and choking out Yang would bypass the giant's strengths completely. Perhaps he truly had underestimated the aging criminal. But Sal was out of the tournament for good, and there was no point musing on how the fight might have gone. Or how a rematch might turn out, regardless of how much Sal might learn about him.
The detour cut his time close. The Hotel Moscow bouncer at the entrance to the improvised auditorium ushered him in with a certain degree of irritation. The pre-fight check was completed and the round announced without much further delay. As the bell tolled, he found himself climbing over the ropes of the ring while looking dead ahead at the greatest mass of flesh and muscle he had ever seen in his life.
And yet, recalling his conversation with Sal, he felt lighter. Even happy, in a way. He knew why he was here and how he had come to it. Few men ever had that clarity. And with his mind, that clarity was a weapon.
How was he going to tackle the Oxcart?
[ ] Aggression. Mobility was his advantage, and he needed to press it as much as possible.
[ ] Caution. Even a single blow from Yang would be telling. Feel him out before committing.
[ ] Write-in?
Stunts would be much advised.
