Again with Dejah and our burgeoning working relationship with benefits.
Going straight to business, she asks me what I know about MoonFall’s major crime syndicates. No that much, I have to admit. I learn that contrarily to what the Militia would have people believe, the Dead Dragons, the Dya Skapetr, and the Khun Kabila are the major muscle of MoonFall; and moreover they’ve contracted with the Stormbreakers to bring the Iron Cartel down and then further below still. This because the Cartel, with its expansion, is encroaching ever closer upon territories belonging to the syndicates. Syndicates whose connivance with the Stormbreakers is, at this point, become a segreto di Pulcinella.
The Dead Dragons: Gushanese Shapers, amongst whose ranks Diana once numbered. The Dya Skapetr: hard-nosed fuckers from Dyavol, who excel at anything related to fighting, but are outclassed by everyone else at anything else. The Khun Kabila: aristocrats forbanned from Zimalaya following the civil war.
(useless notekin: Kabila is the actual last name of two former presidents of the DRC, and it makes me laugh to imagine congolese politicians included in Tyranicon’s RPG)
What’s that I smell? Oh yes… the habitual waftings of distrust between professional soldiers on a side and crime syndicates on the other while they try to outmaneuver one another.
In short, Dejah profoundly mistrusts the syndicates, and is counting on me and mine to somehow slither our way into the Grand Heron Hotel, and there plant a bug closest to where exactly the most sensitive talks are held.
Perception check!
I press her on the matter. A veil falls over her eyes and, attristed, she recalls how it was and what it felt to live on the mainland, not in MoonFall where people—by necessity grown exceedingly egoistic—constantly use one another with nary an afterthought.
Now that is ominous as all hell and more.
I gather the team and, freshly perfumed, off we go to the Grand Heron Hotel. Once there, I suppose the important talks might take place somewhere on the upper floors; but the elevators refuse let enter anyone without a certain keycard.
Instead we enter a room close by, at random, and find ourselves facing a bevy of gangsters of various affiliations, playing billiard.
Coyly, I inquire about the meeting. But this proves too direct an approach, and arouses the gangsters’ suspicion. They threaten us with violence. Brutum fulmen or actual threat, I do not know; but while not for a second do I doubt we could beat them into submission, unfortunately I also do not doubt any trouble caused directly by us might prove a balk to Dejah’s plans.
We manage to talk our way out of that particular situation. Then I wonder if, perhaps, my co-manager Diana could leverage her erstwhile prominence amongst the Dead Dragons, whose members are present tonight? Indeed she can! and obtains an elevator keycard and a floor number, the 20th.
There, one corridor stands out:
The funny thing is I do know a completely new way to fuck. It involves three seashells. But I don’t have the time to explain.
We enter a room and, as we cross its threshold, so too do we cross that which leads into spoiler territory:
And let me tell you, said territory makes for a fucking weird country.
The three people inside talk about what I had expected: machinations and treachery.
– Zabad etim. If the Travelers find out. I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve heard they have other things to worry about.
– The Chthonians won’t let us eat at the table? That is on them, not us. What we do here will preserve the balance of the Accords, not violate it.
– One of their Iron Cartel familiars is making a play, is that right?
– Gregarion will take care of him. That one-eyed bastard is tough. We may have to take Gregarion himself out… or turn him, if it comes to that.
– No, I won’t hear that talk. He’s protected.
– Protected? I did not hear of this. Who is—
– You know who. The man in the shadows.
– If he says we don’t touch this man, then we don’t. Simple.
– Dybato fol! He shits on us. He has shat on us for a thousand years. The rest of you may not have any pride, bowing and scraping. But I remember. We exiles keep to the old ways.
– Hold for a second… our dinning guests have arrived.
A courtesan’s fingers are defter than most, and with such légerdemain goes unnoticed I hide the bug under the table, while the syndicate bosses stare at me, an unsettling hunger in the depths of their eyes.
– What is this? Courtesans? We did not…
– Zahi, why did you order courtesans? They can be tracked easily. I asked for street walkers… now we must go hungry for your mistake.
– Do not put this on me, I called the right people. Don’t forget, this is for you. Most of us have renounced the old ways.
– Honored courtesans, I must apologize. It seems there has been a mixup.
A veritable maëlstrom of questions whirls inside my mind—but under its current my inner voice whispers to me an echo of Dejah’s advice: “… leave immediately after planting the bug, it’s better for you health.” I hesitate, and wonder if this bug is indeed just that, a bug, and not perhaps also an explosive device, or a delivery mechanism for some manner of airborne poison or letheon, should the Stormbreakers decide that what they hear displeases them.
I leave. I trust Dejah.
What – the – actual – fuck – was all that about?! Cannibalism? Chthon? Turning people? Also, is the guy with a goatee What’s-His-Name, from the introduction scene? The guy who works at the Courtesans’ Guild headquarters? So many questions.
Still, I go back to sweet Dejah.
Oh yeah. No way was that a bug and just a bug.
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