The white van comes to a stop by the side of the road, right at the border of the Peace Hill Old Town district. The crowd of tourists is thick here, swirling past Breath's van like a turgid river. My new employer was right in his assessment, kidnapping the Fat Man in these circumstances would be impossible. There were just too many sets of eyes that could catch me out. Not to mention the Freelancers Association hovering about in the background.
"Good hunting, Seeker." Breath says as he drums the steering wheel with his fingers, "You have my number?"
"Yeah." I confirm, zipping up the leather ballistic vest to conceal my gear, "I'll contact you if there's anything. The Fat Man's house is near the Monument, right?"
"Indeed." Breath confirms, "I suggest that you act as a tourist while investigating the district. It would provide a convenient excuse for your wandering about."
"What will you be doing in the meantime?" I question Breath while glaring hard at the surveillance photo of the Fat Man, burning his appearance into my memory.
"If all goes well, I will be waiting right here for your return." Breath answers, "I'll be meditating on the cosmos until then."
"You said that you would be providing support." I reply dourly, passing the intel file back to Breath.
"Why else would I be meditating?" Breath's voice sounds somewhat incredulous at my question.
"Just be ready to move out when needed." I sigh in resignation.
Breath's idea of support's probably different from what I have in mind. But there's no doubt he is powerful. Just a few words of advise from him let me turn the tables on Carol. If only Breath's help wasn't wrapped in so many layers of general weirdness. I open the passenger door of the van and step out into the packed street, giving Breath a perfunctory wave as I depart.
Letting the crowd gently push me forward, I begin drifting steadily toward the Monument. The sky's bright, and its still early enough that the sun's heat hasn't started beating down yet. A good day for a walk. As the crowd chatters around me, I grab one of the free tourist pamphlets laid out on a nearby kiosk. Its a nice prop for my masquerade and more importantly, the pamphlet has a basic map of the district. With the map and using the Monument as a landmark, I should be able to track down the Fat Man's home fairly easily.
A few minutes of walking takes me to the main square of Old Town, where a hulk of scrap metal towers over the neighborhood like a stately oak. Made out of a mish mash of junked tanks, APCs and building material, the Monument is festooned in colored ribbons, each one bought by a tourist from one of the local panhandlers and tied to the hulk to commemorate their visit. The twisted barrels of the now silent guns protrude from the Monument, giving the structure the appearance of an indolent hedgehog with tourists posing around it for photos.
Back in the days when Crossroad City was first founded, the city had aspirations of becoming a bona fide country in the post Rift world. Crossroad City certainly had money to spend from the trade Winter Rift brought it and plenty of ambition to burn. So they took over a hamlet some ways away and built a fort next to it, claiming the land and naming it Fortress Hill.
This bit of conquest brought Crossroad City into conflict with the Freelancers Association, who had been unhappy with the taxes Crossroad City had been levying on their caravans running through the wasteland and Winter Rift. So Fortress Hill became the site of a major battle between Crossroad City and the Freelancers Association.
Both sides threw about plenty of pre Rift military equipment, but the deciding factor was the presence of people with class skills. The Crossroad City army had an elite unit of class skill users. Compare that to every single member of the Freelancers Association being at least a third class skill user. The fighting might have been hard, but ultimately there was no contest. When all your rando soldiers might either have superhuman strength, the ability to dodge bullets without breaking a sweat or can cast spells that no sell atomic strikes, only an idiot would place their money on the opposing side.
Crossroad City's army routed and the city itself was left completely open. The Freelancers Association would be able to march unopposed into the city and rape it in the anus with their bayonets. Thankfully, ass raping a city full of people was a tall order for an army already exhausted from overrunning a fort, so Crossroad City was spared that particular brand of ugliness. Talks were entered into by both sides and treaties were signed. The end result was the complete demilitarization of Crossroad City and the right for any and all Guilds to set up shop there. In return, Crossroad City was allowed to keep its nominal independence. Just ignore the Freelancers Association serving as the police, army and occupation force. Not just for the hamlet they conquered, but for Crossroad City itself.
An incredibly humiliating end for the would be conqueror for sure. But the presence of the Guilds has made Crossroad City even wealthier thanks to all the business they bring in, so there's that. The hamlet eventually became Pay 2 Win, so the folks here are doing well enough under the rule of the Freelancers. And with the rise of Phoenix Guild several years back, the Freelancers have seen their influence in Crossroad City somewhat curbed. The most obvious sign of this being the recent Winter Ball, where Phoenix Guild had the honor of being stationed in the dance hall itself, while the Freelancers guarded the perimeter of the Opera House.
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The burned out fort was razed sometime back to make room for the people coming to work at Pay 2 Win with all the scrap metal and debris getting piled up in a corner. Someone had the enterprising idea to turn all the assorted garbage into a sculpture and so the Monument was born. A reminder of the horrors of war and a profitable tourist attraction to boot.
So everything ended on a happy note, more or less. Hopefully that applies to my mission here as well.
Passing the Monument, I briefly check my map to confirm that I'm on the right path toward the Fat Man's home. Its a low rise apartment building, going from the intel Breath provided me. Squarely working class, with not even an elevator provided for convenience. Orienting myself using the Monument, I head down the street indicated by the map.
Both sides of the street are flanked by peddlers selling souvenirs and snacks, many of them trying to get my attention. I ignore the fracas, concentrating on the numbers painted on the side of each apartment block alongside the road. Each apartment block had been built from the same template, with those numbers as their only distinguishing characteristic. There was no other way I would be able to identify the correct block housing my quarry.
Building 7. This is it. The Fat Man should be on the third floor. Stuffing the pamphlet into my trousers, I begin leisurely strolling down the cracked concrete path leading to the apartment building. But I'm racking my mind on an important question.
Just how am I supposed to approach the Fat Man?
Picture this. Some strange guy shows up at your house one day. For no reason at all. And he's asking about one of your closest friends. That has suspicious written all over it. The Fat Man would probably just slam his door shut right in my face. And that's if he doesn't try using that disappearing trick Breath had warned me about.
This mission could have used a bit more time thinking things through, huh?
"I'll get creative." I mutter to myself in consternation.
Its the best I can do in the circumstances. There are simply too many unknowns for me to device a plan right now. As much as I dislike being so unprepared, I'll have to play things by ear. Tugging my beard in thought, I pass a hawker selling fried chicken nuggets and tendies from under a brightly colored umbrella. The smell of greasy food causes my stomach to grumble, reminding me that I haven't had breakfast yet. Breath had really not given me much downtime ever since I arrived at Pay 2 Win.
I should get something to eat. The Fat Man can wait for a few minutes.
Reaching into my pockets for my wallet, my head is abruptly turned to the side by an invisible force. Recovering from the violent yank, I notice my gaze focused on a tracksuit wearing man sitting on a bench, munching on chicken nuggets. There's nothing unusual about him, but the invisible force doggedly tries to hold my gaze fast. Gritting my teeth, I slowly begin turning my head back in the direction of the hawker. Its like working a rusty gear, but my neck grudgingly complies with the command.
And as my gaze shifts away from Tracksuit, I notice a glint in the corner of my eye. I snap to attention immediately, letting my Awakened instincts take over. My head swings hard to focus on Tracksuit again. But why?
This only happens when my senses notice something hidden. And Tracksuit is obviously just stuffing his face with chicken nuggets. There's no reason for my Awakened senses to be triggered this way. Unless Tracksuit is trying to hide.
Right in plain sight.
Turning away from the hawker, I begin a slow patrol around the perimeter of the building. There, under a tree. Another glint. This time its a sleeping beggar. Swallowing hard, I continue with my sweep of the area. Rounding the corner, my eyes almost magnetically lock on to a youth idling on his motorcycle. He looks like a bum, but my senses demand I focus on him with the same insistence. I can only draw one conclusion from all this.
The Fat Man's home has been surrounded. I pull out my phone and dash out my employer's number with renewed urgency.
"Breath." I whisper, "There's a problem. I think our target is either being watched or under siege."
"That is indeed a good sign." Breath remarks peaceably, "Continue with your assignment, Seeker."
"How is any of this a good sign?" I purse my lips, "I count at least three people hiding out near the apartment."
"Because it means our friends do not know the location of Mrs Moira as well." Breath comments unhurriedly, "They are interested in the Fat Man for the same reasons we are, most likely."
"Alright. Makes sense." I concede, "So what now?"
"Proceed as we discussed, Seeker." Breath remains unconcerned, "I await to hear the good news."
And the line goes dead.
"I was hoping for some support, y'know." I mutter, shaking my head and putting my phone away.
Well, never mind. I'm a professional. And that means dealing with the client's problems. Tracksuit had been watching the main access road to the apartment building. And the two other clowns were situated where they could watch both stairwells. Meaning I've already been spotted. But no one knows who I am or why I'm here. So my cover should still hold. There's still a problem though. I can't approach the Fat Man's apartment without being noticed.
As I'm thinking over my next move, a flatbed pickup truck comes to a stop by the access road and a man wearing a black trench coat and shades jumps off. A pair of swords swing loosely from his waist, and the entire getup looks so outrageously edgy that everyone in the neighborhood can't help but take notice. The man strides confidently down the concrete path, incredibly out of place and utterly oblivious of it.
I might not recognize the clothes, but the newcomer's face is no stranger to me. Its one of my colleagues from General Department. More exactly, its the guy I hassled recently over trying to smuggle something into the office while I was on guard duty. My first instinct is to approach a fellow colleague for help, but I remain rooted to the spot because of a surprisingly embarrassing reason.
I can't remember his name. Its Ned. Or Ted. Or Fred. Something like that. My mind's drawing a blank.
And as Ned Ted Fred walks past Tracksuit, both men share an almost imperceptible nod.
"What the hell?" I mutter, quickly ducking behind a wall. Cautiously peeking around the corner, I notice the flash of Ned Ted Fred's trench coat as he wends his way up the stairs.
Why is someone from Phoenix Guild working against Breath? I've got no answers to that question, but I know one thing at least.
This mission's suddenly got a time limit.