Early Morning Drive
DAY 1, MORNING
It was a tough choice. They needed all three, Pierre thought. But the process of gathering resources was interlinked. Money led to contacts and guns. Information led to equipment and cash. And an arms dealer was frequently a source of both money and information. If they were going to start out, though, he realized what he wanted first.
"Equipment," he answered decisively. "I need a pistol. A better one than I could just take off some street punk. It would be even better if we can find someone who will deal in other equipment. Night vision googles, grenades, assault rifles, explosives; I don't need tactical armor but knowing where to get some would be good, too."
"Ambitious," Claude commented, then shrugged. "Of course, the people who deal in such equipment are likely to be both knowledgeable and well-connected. I suppose that would make a good start. I have an idea of where we need to be, fortunately. But first," he said, looking smug, "you should eat. And drink plenty of water, my friend. It's going to be humid out there."
Pierre duly followed the advice. The fresh fruit was actually pretty good, but then he was in a tropical country. He swiped several of the bottles of water set out for the guests, pocketing them in his trench coat for later. The pair of smugglers started to object but backed down when he turned his frown on them. If the wait staff even noticed they gave no sign of it.
After he finished the light repast he followed Claude out from the bar to the entrance at the lobby. Unlike so many other hotels he had stayed at there were no squealing brats making a scene in front of obese parents run ragged trying to keep up with them. Roanapur was not a family-friendly vacation spot. Instead the few guests hanging around the television or waiting to check-in were mostly sober-looking, business suited men who nonetheless had a furtive shadiness about them.
As he passed through the sliding doors, on the other side entering the hotel, a sallow man in a black mariachi suit with a matching sombrero passed him by. Pierre's gaze briefly made contact with the other man's brown eyes, and in spite of how ridiculous it was, recognized a kindred soul. Another soldier of the Underworld, he felt, without the slightest doubt. They nodded briefly but respectfully to each other but were through their sides in another instant.
The sun was climbing its way up into the sky as he stepped out from under the protective canopy of the entrance. The glare of the light made him wince and turn away, until Claude produced a pair of cheap sunglasses for him.
"Better, non? And if you're going to wear a heavy black coat over a black suit, you may as well accessorize." Claude laughed, and made his way to the curb to flag down a taxi. "And if you want to find out about a city, I've yet to discover a better way than this…"
It didn't take long for a yellow-painted Honda to roll up to the curb beside them. The driver rolled down the passenger window to speak terms. To Pierre's surprise the man was a balding white man in a garish Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts; the smell of incense wafted out of the car from a dashboard altar of the Laughing Buddha. "Hey, welcome to sunny Roanapur, and I'll be your driver Tim," he started, and Pierre recognized a California accent. "I'll get you to anywhere you guys want to be going, faster'n the others, too."
Claude nodded, getting into the back seat and motioning for Pierre to follow. "Well right now we want a tour of the city," Claude began. "Take us around the city, the waterfront, and anywhere else of note. Then we'll be looking for some merchandise."
"Hey man, I'm pretty chill, but I'm not a tour…" He shut his mouth as Claude pulled a wad of dollars bills from his pocket and peeled out a couple of twenties to hand to him. "Well since you asked so nicely I guess I can't say no."
They drove out from the hotels near the regional airport into the city proper, on roads filled with other taxies, expensive foreign imports, and lots of scooters. Mango and palm trees seemed to line the way, with the traffic lights overhead mostly flickering pathetically as though begging for maintenance. There were some police out directing traffic at major intersections but for most of the drive right of way was negotiated by some unspoken and indecipherable code of the road.
And Pierre was beginning to suspect that pedestrians were worth points in that code, given the way so many of the taxis and BMWs went out of their way to hit them. Tim was laid back about that, though even he casually unapologetically cut off other drivers and gunned the car through the few working traffic signals.
"Yeah, only chumps stop at red lights here," he explained. "If they're working it's because someone wants them working, and that usually means they've got some of their bangers hanging around to carjack people who do."
Traffic started behaving itself as they reach the modern downtown core of Roanapur. A handful of gleaming officer towers staggered above the chic, modern shops lining the streets around them. "All of 'em fake, of course," Tim commented as they passed a 'Gucci' storefront. "But hey, they might even come from the same factory as the real stuff. Triads own them all, if you catch what I mean."
[Skill Check: Wits + Streetwise, Difficulty 1, 3 Successes]
The people there were orderly, dressed mostly in suits and walking purposefully from site to site. There were a lot of obvious criminal enforcer types running around, noticeable by the deference given to them as they passed by. Some were obviously better than others, and the Sicilians stood out like they always did as more muscle and attitude than discretion. But there were at least three factions out there he could recognize. Mafia, Triads, and some swarthier, even more machismo-strutting types he pegged from Latin America, probably Colombians, from his experience with the cocaine trade.
They were all purposefully avoiding each other, he realized as they left the downtown area out on the road toward the waterfront. It wasn't politeness. For the first time he felt what Claude had talked about earlier that day. Things really were tense in Roanapur.
Claude was keeping Tim engaged in conversation for the tour, but Pierre tuned them both out to better observe the surroundings. As they passed out to toward the harbor the buildings became a lot more run down, more often made of wood than modern materials. A line of warehouses filled to the brim with dodgy goods to be transshipped separated the town proper from the port and waterfront. The people there were mostly natives dressed lightly for the day, though he saw a fair number of foreigners, often rough and dangerous-looking types he took for smugglers. He started picking out graffiti tags and clumps of gang members around corners, too. Weapons were being openly brandished, from pistols in the sagging pants of dealers to Kalashnikovs in the hands of more grizzled looking men patrolling around obvious chokepoints for gang influence.
There were also some paramilitaries out on patrol along the port. They stood out in olive-green fatigues cut for the Vietnam War and only ever seemed to come in groups of three or four. Tim indicated there were checkpoints for the local self-defense militia out toward the fishing village that Roanapur had largely displaced.
"The villagers are being organized due to the PLO becoming more active?" Claude inquired.
"Something like that, man," Tim replied. "Though they mostly armed themselves, with stocks we gave 'em back when the Commies were closing in. My wife's uncle was big with them back when I was in 'Nam. They're funding themselves with eh, contributions from the parts of Roanapur near the village. I think it's more about settling scores than protection, though."
Tim was quiet as they ran through the Market district. It seemed almost abandoned, with the absence of people forming a vivid contrast to the colorful canvass lining and shading the stalls along the road. Claude had mentioned there had been a massacre there. The people who were out, aside from some dedicated by clearly fearful merchants, all seemed to be armed and vigilant. Or paranoid. Mostly gang members, Pierre was sure. It was obvious that there was a fight going on to control the area, a hunch confirmed when he heard shooting from a side-street and Tim floored the car.
"Uh, okay, well, that's scenic Roanapur for you," he said as they took the road out of the city altogether. "The nearby villages are where the locals come from. Aside from that it's jungle. Not much going on out there until you get to Pattaya."
"Then our business is mostly concluded," Claude responds. "But since you seem so knowledgeable about Roanapur, perhaps you know where we might pick up some quality firearms?"
At first Tim moves to shake his head, but as Claude produces a hundred dollar bill, he smiles again. "Yeah, man, well, it's Roanapur. Already guessed you guys'd be interested in something like that. Yeah, I know the place. It's actually nearby. Once had someone pack in a rocket launcher in the back, if you can believe that..."
The drive was short, Pierre conceded, especially from lack of traffic as they passed back through the market district at high speed. He drove them out along a coastal road, outside the city, to a sandstone church amid a cluster of palms overlooking the sapphire-blue sea. Pierre looked at Claude quizzically, but the other mafioso simply smiled smugly.
They parked beside what looked like a World War II surplus deuce-and-a-half truck; quite a few of those still running in Corsica during his youth, Pierre remembered. A church might do relief work with such a rugged vehicle, but it had a worn look to it that suggested it was used heavily. And yet when he stepped out of the cab and glanced a look the back was filled with wooden ammunition crates. Curious and curiouser, he thought, but then Roanapur was a very improbable city from what he had seen.
There was a nun lounging around near the entrance to the Church, though her posture changed as Claude approached. It was relaxed, confident, but ready for action. Pierre recognized that posture very well. She was experienced as a gunfighter. He was dead certain. And there was more oddity than just her posture; her blonde hair was poking out from her habit, and the trashy pink sunglasses she wore made left her devoid of any dignity as a servant of God.
[ ] Let Claude handle this.
[ ] Take the lead. How?
--[ ] Let her know you know what's up. Straight to business. (Presence + Streetwise)
--[ ] Be a bit more subtle. Ease into it. (Manipulation + Empathy)
[ ] Write in.
If you want Pierre to act (and certain benefits in regards to the Ripoff Church will accrue to him rather than Claude if he passes) I would strongly advise that you Stunt how he handles Eda.
Also someone roll Wits + Composure regardless.
