Shicagopolis: River City. The largest port on the mighty Anishibi River; transportation hub of the central-west. Almost a million souls live in this city which is struggling to push itself into the future. It’s a city of industry; a city of immigrants. A city of ever-rising buildings and ever-increasing wealth. But it’s also a city with a grubby side; a city with poverty and inequity. A city with crime, rivalries brought from the old country, or established brand new. It is in this city that a group of unlikely refugees find themselves. Veterans of a platoon the Mercurian Government denies existed, running from a super-secret organization few know exists: Department 7. Veterans possessed of powers and abilities few in the modern age have ever seen.
You have been on the run for a few months now, laying low but occasionally making use of your extraordinary abilities to turn a quick buck or for a worthy cause. You arrived in Shicagopolis a week ago, and so far have managed to evade both trouble and official notice. However, funds are starting to run low.
In the week he's been in Shicagopolis, Billy's been working his way through almost every bar in the city with anyone in the group who'll come with him.
He's a young half Chicoan man, tan skin made even darker by long hours spent outdoors. His chin is covered in dark stubble, a symptom of his insistence on shaving with a hunting knife. He dresses like a gunslinger one might find out west, though without his chaps and spurs when he's in the city.
Billy definitely notices a difference in the looks he gets depending on where in the city he goes. Bars in Old Town or near the Factory District are the most "low brow," housing cheap beers and spirits, gambling, and bawdy entertainment. The makeup of such bars is more heterogeneous as far as customers go, though always of the lower social classes.
The nearer Billy gets to the Business Loop, the higher class the bars become, tending toward businessmen and bankers, more "Eastern" in appearance (i.e. mostly light-skinned Britanglican, Franceri or Pruscian). His welcome in such places has ranged from aversion to outright hostility (of the verbal sort). Generally, the excuses for such behavior related to Billy's attire, but he definitely got the feeling it had at least something to do with his apparent Chicoan heritage.
A grey haired man headed along the street at a sedate pace, his fine clothing gleaming in the light, black silk worked with bronze threads that caught the eye and shoes that gleamed in a way that screamed magical cleaning. Mint green eyes flecked with more bronze scanned as he looked out through the windows of shops, tapping a long cane on the ground as he considered options.
The only thing that didn't entirely fit the image of the bored noble was the small rodent-esque creature perched on one shoulder, it's shovel like tail waggling now and then.
He sighed internally as the small woman approached, clearly nervous, clearly wondering how to approach him. He'd seen a hundred like her during his time in this city, and would see a thousand more if more pressing business didn't occur. He already knew what she wished of him, and feared he would have to give the same answer he had all the others. "Yes, madam, may I help you?" he called to her, as if he didn't know.
With no where to escape without being impolite, she approached cautiously. "Forgive me, sir. I have heard...rumours...that you can, ah, do...things."
"Rumours are but rumours, madam," he said with a small smile, "And I have heard many of them about me. Some are even true." Well, quite a lot were true, or based on truth. The one about the time he'd spent with the major and his wife, for example. The sister hadn't been involved until later.
She blushed. "That you can, well, work...magic?" She looked like she didn't want to say the word.
"Such a rumour to choose, madam," he said with a laugh. "But as we all know, magic is relegated to legend and story," he said, murmuring something under his breath and moving his hand in an odd fashion so that his eyes suddenly shone a brilliant, glowing bronze for a moment. "Do we not?" Admittedly, the pictures of him vaporising an enemy shoulder did cause some questions...but the lightning made it such a flattering shot.
Her eyes wide, she took a step back. "It is, uh, it's my son," she said in a rush. Walter sighed and the small creature chittered an agreement. "He took a fall from a roof. The doctor says his ribs are crush-"
Walter waved his gloved hand. He'd heard enough. Kicking himself mentally, he gave the same response he always did. "Take me to the child, madam, and we shall see what can be done."
Her eyes went even wider, if that possible. "But, Mr Aringham, I can only pay-"
Another wave of his hand. "We shall speak of what can be paid and what I require after. And madam? It is Sir, not 'mister'," he said with clear contempt for the term. "Now lead the way," he gestured with his cane. This time she did as she was told.
Large meaty hands shifted in front of a man in an ashen cloth overcoat, somehow managing to look small on his bulky frame. The two woolen gloves he usualy wore were clutched between flat teeth as he finished washing his hands, pausing momentarily to brush a finger over the strange emerald band over his left ring finger. It shimmered slightly in the gaslit bathroom stall, before he hurriedly recovered his hands.
Tarasik sighed, gripping the sides of a porcelain sink which strained under his weight. Cold steel eyes looked back at him in the mirror, his Russkin heritage evident in his almost snow-white pale skin. His people weren't very common this far west, most too stubborn in their ways to consider fleeing their harsh winter-gripped nation. He might have blended with other Easterners, if not for his massive size.
Yet where men and woman gawked at his height, it was him who felt himself far too small. His family both real and borrowed had never despaired him for his gigantisism, even celebrated it. Here in these lands though, he needed to blend in. A tall man may draw attention, but a giant certainly would.
He shook his head and stepped away from the mirror, exiting out into the high-end bar he'd manged to secure some temporary work with. People on the up and up liked the idea of having big bruisers around them. Whether they actually expected a real fight or simply wanted him to just look imposing wasn't for him to consider. Work was work.
"I am here to be releiving you." Stated the man flatly, looking down at the much smaller yet shockingly burly dwarven man.
The dwarf would nod, "'Bout time. The bar's g'nae be hit'n it's last call in 'm hour, could do with a few rounds."
No reply was given, Tarasik choosing to stare at an uncomfortable rate to most. The dwarf had grown used to him by now, merely shaking his head and heading into the backroom to clock out.
A shuffle of feet, hands now firmly clasped behind his back. Tarasik would stand as still as a statue in the corner of the room, eyes glued open and ever warry of trouble.
Billy wanders into the bar that Tarasik had found work at. He'd been meaning to try it, and knowing one of the bouncers always came in handy.
Sidling over to the large Russkin, Billy gives a sly smile and says, "Well I'll be! Didn't expect to find you in a place as nice as all this, big boy! Say, amigo, how 'bout you use your, ah, employment here, see if you can't git us somethin' smooth and brown. Whiskey, if they got it."
The gunslinger looks around the bar. Nice place, rich folks, too. He had a sense, of course, that some of these folks were rotten to the core. The frontier was simple. If a man was bad, he'd wear it on his sleeve, the easier to find him and run him out. Back east, things were different. Complicated.
Now Tarasik, that was a man as simple as they come. A sledgehammer, though one that wasn't too hard to point in the right direction. He liked that in a person.
"No." He stated. As if he needed to say anything else. Abusing his position of employment would be wrong, Billy would have to pay at the bar just like everyone else. Plus, he wasn't allowed to drink on the job either.
Billy shrugs, "Well, I guess that's that."
With that, Billy heads over to the bar, taking a seat at one of the stools, "So, mister bartender. I'm hankerin' for somethin' strong. Nice place like this, I reckon you've got it."
Though he did deny the proposal to try and get free drinks using his employment, Tarasik still kept a close watch on the way the barmen reacted. People of Billy's sort weren't often given their fair due. What kind of friend or even just a man would he be if he let such dsicrimination pass him by?
Tarasik does indeed notice a turned up nose on the part of the bartender and several of the clientele seated immediately at the bar. However, he grudgingly nods at Hartigan's rather artfully delivered words, and heads for a seldom-used shelf.
In what could be seen as a blatant stereotyping of the cowboy, he brings over a bottle of Chicoan tequilla. "Antigua Blanca? If not..." he gestures back toward a row of whiskeys from various corners of Britanglend and southern Mercuria.
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Meanwhile, Sir Walter Aringham makes his way out of the rickety tenement in which the woman and her injured son lived, pocketing the pittance of 25 gp she was able to pay. Horrible industrial accident might well have killed the lad; at least he would have been out of work for months. Now, he'd be up and around as soon as the nerve pain eased.
Aringham continued walking north. In mere blocks, the landscape changed entirely as he transitioned from the neighborhood called "Old Town" to the Business Loop. So called because street cars circled this area of the city, it was a place for the rich, movers and shakers, and the white-collar workers and restauranteers who served them. This was the neighborhood The Strongman worked in, as security at a drinking establishment.
"We'll start with that and see where it takes me. Thank you kindly."
A satisfied hum echoed down his throat as he witness what was at least not outright hostile attitude to his comrade in arms. It wouldn't be good for his paycheck if he were to start roughing up their own bartender for reasons they wouldn't agree with.
With nothing better to do as this particular moment as he slipped the meagre gold into his purse. Truth be told the gold meant little, but he wished for no favours owed to him and frankly it cost him little to cure the boy.
But with nothing better to do he'd go and spend it on the best drink the bar Tarasik was working at. It might cost a whole gold piece, if he was lucky. If nothing else someone might pick a fight and he could watch them get tossed across the street or the like, which was always briefly entertaining.
Heading into the bar, Walter looked around until he spotted Tarasik and, slightly more surprisingly, Hartigan. "Gentleman. How nice to see I am not the only one who feels the need for day drinking." He nodded to the barman. "Good sir, would you be so kind to grace me with a glass of something smooth, rich and liable to see me up in front of the guard for public nudity before the sunrises once more?"
As always Tarasik eyed Walter with wariness, never quite caoable of trusting the witch completely. He'd been witness to the dark forces that man had wielded durring the war. One man had damn near been turned inside out by some strange curse, other having been left as ash once the lighting died down.
Tarasik was stronger then those men though. No mere hex or curse would cause him to fall, and as such he'd always made sure to stick closest to Walter onnthe chance he became possessed by demons.
"Right away, sir!" the bartender said, with much more respect evident when interacting with Sir Walter.
"Here you are, one of our best Britanglican whiskies." The pour is a double, per Walter's instructions to give the drink some punch.
Billy's tequilla is the "good stuff" from south-west of the border. It was served at the finest cantinas in northern Chicoa, and you could tell; you could drink it straight, without a chaser and without shooting it too fast.
Tarasik's gaze moved from his fellow companions on the run, moving in a careful pattern around the shallow bar. The room itself was long and narrow - it was merely a few yards from the front door to the bar, with a single row of tables oddly places. However, the bar itself seated easily two-dozen. Being daylight, Tarasik's impressive muscle-power was put to use more often helping move barrels than excising overly rambunctious patrons.
"Well damn, if this is just what you serve to a cowboy that wanders in, I'd like the try what you've got for the regulars!"
Continuing to mull over his drink, he turns to Walter. He knew the man had power beyond Tarasik's great strength or his fast gun and faster wit. That said, he knew him to be dependable, and his distaste for the elites of society was easy for Billy to bond with. "Well, there's plenty of time in the day, and without much to spend it on I figured I'd get to drinkin'."
"There are worse ways to wile away the days than to sit in the shade with drink and talk, as long as one can handle there drink. No one likes a man whose temper fails him or one who gets handsy with the ladies and then tries to blame it upon the 'demon drink'" Walter sneered at the idea. "Such men are unworthy of the drink they so crave, nor are they worthy of the title of 'men'."
Walter took a slow sip from the drink, draining half the land and savouring the warmth as it flowed down his throat. "A fine drop, barkeep. My thanks to you on your choice. Would you be so kind to leave the bottle?"
He grunted in some approval to Walter's words, which did often remind him there was more to the elder then mere witchcraft alone. "Tarasik's job would be getting easier if more people stopped looking at bars with eyes larger then liver."
Then again, if people were naturally restrained when it came to drink, what would he be doing for work right now?
The giant hummed softly to himself. Construction, maybe. He could bend the girders into place.
As afternoon drifts into evening, and Billy and Sir Walter continue conversing betwixt their whiskies, an unusual sight wanders into The Canny Fox.
A young woman, by herself, walks directly toward the bar and looks around. She definitely makes note of Billy and Sir Walter, Tarasik notices, before her eyes settle briefly on the large Russkian.
The woman has fiery red hair, and steel-blue eyes, and wears a gray dress somewhere between stylish and cheap. Eventually, she walks to the bar and stands next to Billy and Sir Walter.
"Would you two like to join a lady for a drink at a private table? There's discussion to be had. And uh, please bring your friend," she says, gesturing toward Tarasik.
"What kind of gentleman would I be if I were to say no to such a lady as yourself?" Walter smiled and bowed slightly from the waist, moving over to a table at the side where it would be quiet and difficult for others to overhear before pulling a chair out for the lady to sit. "My friends, of course, are welcome to decide what kind of gentleman they prefer to be, but I shall be happy to hear what you have to say." Perhaps she had a job. Perhaps she was simply looking into the renegade unit - she would not be the first, but it was always slightly sadder to reduce a lady to ash if she wanted to put them back in prison. The meals were dreadful, the alcohol made in a bathtub and the intimate encounters rushed.
Billy shrugs as he says to Tarasik, ”May as well. I’ve found that mysterious women often spell misfortune but Walter’s always had more brains than the two of us combined.”
He rambles over to the table and leans back, and as he’s just about to kick his feet onto the table he looks at the high class surroundings and stops.
Taking a sip of his drink he looks at the woman and says, ”My friend here ain’t quite as direct as I am, but I gotta know, what’s your play here? You seemed to know exactly who we were, and with the...unique skillset we’ve got, that’s some risk I don’t wanna take. You get me?”
Tarasik frowned, and weighed things in his mind. It was his job to stand here and act as a 'deterrent' towards the unsavory aspects these drinks brought upon people. Joining them at the table while he was meant to be on the job wouldn't look good for his employers.
At the same time, a mysterious woman who seemed to know them? Tarasik didn't trust that situation at all. His comrades would need him for the same reason the bar did.
With a glance over the bar just to make sure nobody looked drunk enough to cause trouble, the man slowly lumbered over after the trio. What he did not do however, was sit down. Towering above with stony features like the stone sentinel statues that 'protected' the ancient palace within Russka's capital.
Tarasik watches as the young woman ponders Billy's question, seemingly deciding how she should approach the answer. She waits coolly for a waiter to take her order of white wine before answering.
"Well, that, precisely, is the reason I'm looking for you. Some friends of mine in Old Town are being pressured by...certain criminal enterprises...to sell their property. These are their homes, their businesses. These kind of people can't just afford to buy new property in the Business Loop or somewhere else. And besides, why should they have to?"
Tarasik notes that, while she did indicate WHY she was looking for them, she did not answer Billy's insinuated question of HOW she knew who to look for.
Billy finishes the last of his whiskey, setting the glass down onto the table and saying to the woman, "Fine. I'll bite. If the common man's sufferin' then I feel obligated to help. I'll ask again though, given that I'm agreein' to your proposal. How exactly did you find us? I'd like to know at least that before we proceed with this little endeavor."
Walter shrugged. Personally, he didn't care how they'd been found. They hadn't exactly been able to keep a low profile, given those pictures. Anyone who'd seen them would be able to identify him, at the very least - he may have worn a uniform, but it had been a very well done uniform. And he didn't wear armour or a helmet.
"The job does sound like it will be simple enough. A little bit of fear can go quite a long way." Melting people was scary, and turning one into a display by ramming ice through there nose certainly helped. "What details of this callous criminal syndicate can you give us? The more we know the better we can serve."
The woman looked a bit sheepish.
"Let me start over. My name is Deana Ravello. I'm a reporter for the Daily Telegraphia."
"I found you while I was following up on a story about some missing fugitives. But of course, that's not you...and anyway, even if I'd found you, er, them, well, the story was quashed. I had set to forget all about it, but then my friends got into trouble. It's the kind of trouble the law ignores. See, these people leaning on them have friends with the coppers ."
"I'm sure the local police will not be an issue for such as us, either. Thankfully, they tend to be quite reasonable with the correct argument applied. Copper conducts, after all." Walter smiled cheerfully at the rather dark joke, and the small creature on his shoulder chittered reproachfully.
"Alas, I hate to be so crass, but the fact you mentioned this was a job suggested that my dear colleagues and I might receive some compensation for the task. Perhaps details of such would be appropriate at this point?"
"Yes, well.." sheepish once again. "3,000. I mean they've taken up a collection, it might be more by the end. I know that's probably a little low, I'm sure most of them would give you free services too. So. What do you think?" Deana asked, once again resolute as steel.
"That's alright for us, I'd say. Knowin' that we're helpin' folks goes a good way towards makin' it worthwhile."
He looks at his companions before saying, "Well, I can't say I trust you completely, but for now it'll do. I'm in."
"More than sufficient remuneration by my standards, dear lady." Walter smiled cheerfully. "Now, the more details you can prove - names and locations being ideal - the sooner we can set to work and be rid of them." Walter, of course, trusted her no more than Billy did. The first job would be confirming her story. He would be no one's patsy, not in this little town. If Walter was to be manipulated it would be as the pawn of kings and emperors, thank you all the same.
It seemed as though things were progressing rapidly. Tarasik did always admire the efficiency of his compatriots if nothing else. All he could do was stare down at the woman with a look that told nothing at all. There was no warmth to be seen, yet neither was his gaze chilling. A blank mask of the same indifferent suspicion he held for everyone who could threaten the livelihoods of those he knew.
Three thousand sounded like a good amount of money though. Enough to send some to his circus and still have a heavy wallet after.
"Thank you, thank you," the young woman states.
"Would you like my to take you by there, introduce you?"
"And explain what you can about our targets on the way, yes," Walter said, rising gracefully and offering the woman his arm. "Lead the way, madam Ravello. As I presume you already know, I am Sir Walter Aringham."
"I am still to be working. Only just began shift." Tarasik reflects.
As Billy stands and puts on his wide-brimmed hat he says, "Billy Hartigan."
He nods to Walter, "Though like my compatriot said, I suppose you'd've known that."
"Would your employer be open to you taking some time off if he's compensated?" Walter asked Tarasik. "I'd rather have your eyes on this as well, if at all possible. It's just recon for now, but you never know when something interesting might happen." Or it turned out to be an ambush.
He tilted his head back, thinking for a scant few moments, before finally looking back to Walter with a nod. Not choosing to say anything to him, the Russkin man moves over to the barman on duty. "Tarasik beleives he has earned a, how you say... 'paid time off'. Will be using those now."
Withdrawing his wallet, he flashes a few of the bills he still had in his pocket. "Will make sure boss understands situation, yes?"
"Yeah, yeah," the bartender nods dismissively, and then notices the "incentive" and changes his tone. "Sure Thing!"
Deana leads you into the street, where she moves to catch a streetcar heading South. Everyone manages to board before the car starts on toward the next stop; Deana pays your fares.
The car goes about a mile when Deana says "Our stop, gentlemen."
Tarasik pushes awkwardly past people to get off the car before it continues on its journey.
All of you are familiar with Old Town; the buildings here are among the oldest in the commercial portion of the city. The area in question is on the Southern end of the neighborhood, nearing the factory district. People here are distinctly poorer than those in the northern portion of Old Town, and a world apart from the patrons of the tavern you left a few minutes ago.
Deana leads you past a small brick building with a saggy roof with a hand-painted sign reading "Owans Bakery." She leans in the propped door and shouts at the young woman behind the counter.
"Is Aleks about?" Deana asks.
"Down at the river, trying to catch our dinner," she says.
Deana continues on. "We'll talk to him later."
Suddenly, a ruckus can be heard at the next intersection. Rounding the corner, you see several ruffians tossing barrels and kicking over various stands in front of the ruins of a collapsed building (map to follow).
Billy motion to Tarasik to follow as he steps forward, slowly walking towards the thugs, his voice smooth and menacing as he talks, ”Now listen here fellas! I’m gonna give you all two options and I suggest you listen. You can clear out and quit raisin’ all kinds of ruckus. Or, me and the big guy here can give you what’s comin’ to ya. What’s it gonna be?”
"Oh, a we got a tough guy here, boys! Let's show 'im how things work around here." Though he sounds tough, the leader of the rabble is clearly SHAKEN, as are the others. Though most of them appear to be armed with nothing more than pipes, chains and knives, one is armed with a rifle.
Though shaken, they seem intent on teaching Billy the error of his ways.
Street Toughs Initiative:
Tarasik would not play his full hand so easily, not when it was a simple manner to take them down one by one. As he stalked forward his hand drew out his strange riffle, holding it more like a hammer then a gun. His knuckles grew white as sense of primal violence seeped into him, yet his mind was clear. This was how he preferred to fight.
Stepping up to the largest cluster, he suddenly lashed out by slamming one end of his riffle into a chain-man's face.
And into the next,
And the next,
Again and again until he ran out of fresh targets or his brutal swings finally missed their mark.
These thugs might be fast, but Billy was a hell of a lot faster.
He draws his pistol and fires off a shot at the rifle-wielder.
Blue is "Civilians", Green is you guys (and Deana), Orange is bad guys, by weapon. "R" rifle "P" pipe or club "C" chain "B" bricks. They may each have more weapons, those are just what they're wielding right now.
Replies coming.
[dice=initiative]1d20+5
Tarasik would not play his full hand so easily, not when it was a simple manner to take them down one by one. As he stalked forward his hand drew out his strange riffle, holding it more like a hammer then a gun. His knuckles grew white as sense of primal violence seeped into him, yet his mind was clear. This was how he preferred to fight.
Stepping up to the largest cluster, he suddenly lashed out by slamming one end of his riffle into a chain-man's face.
Closest Tarasik can get is two (B and C).
Tarasik's attacks strike home, and the familiar sound of bones cracking can be heard as the amazed "tough guys" take a beating. Amazingly, both are still ambulatory, proving the must in fact live up to the name Tough. Even so, each is obviously injured.
Billy's rifleman takes the solid shot to the shoulder, but seems prepared to fight on, for the moment.
Initiative for Sir Walter
As Sir Walter calculates his best move, the street toughs prepare a counter-offensive.
The Rifleman fires back at Billy:
and a second shot...
The brick thrower and the chain wielder cluster in around Tarasik in the tight area by the rubble. They grin wickedly through the pain.
Chain:
and again:
The brick thrower sees his weapon of choice is useless up close to an armed goliath (even at Tarasik's "reduced" size, he towers over these men), so he draws his knife and attacks.
sneak attack
The closest "P" takes a 5' step toward Billy and swings:
Meanwhile the final "P" approaches Deana and Sir Walter menacingly.
Sir Walter's Action
"Oh, gentleman," Walter sighed. It was unclear as to whether he spoke of his own allies or the men who were clearly about to receive a terrible fate. Still, any man that Tarasik did not immediately reduce to a fine red smear tended to be notable. Perhaps this was not quite the simple task that he had expected.
With a shrug, Walter gestured with his free hand and smiled. His eyes glowed in alarming fashion as he did.
Walter felt the power of the Ley Lines flow poorly, as it often did, and grunted as he redirected the backlash into the rifleman.
Ice Spears has a DC 20 Reflex to half the damage.Ice Spears 1 and 2 will hit the closest Pipe guy...
Pipe guy Reflex:
hitting him a 25 CMB to knock him prone.
And prone he is.
Icy Spear 3 will hit the one further away with a probably unsuccessful 15 CMB.
and not knocked prone
Rifleman needs to make a DC 14 Fort save of be Staggered for a minute.