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CHATTING WITH MOBSTERS
Deciding to prioritize the mobsters—after all, they were already there—Rowan asked his wives to return to Elkins on their own, and allow him to have some space for the quest. Isla had unresolved business with Thomas anyway, and Cora was tired, so he met no opposition there.
Now, with Viscardi giving him the room, the point was to find a common ground with the four men in front of him. They were normal people, except Vito, who was an Enforcer. Two were on the older side, Vito in his thirties, and a fourth younger, about his age. All stared at him, but Vito's gaze gave him the creeps.
“Gentlemen, I have a quest, and it involves talking with you,” Rowan went for the truth and a direct approach. “I have no idea how to… well, go forward, so I’ll be candid. Do you have any questions for me? Can I help you in any way?”
“Did I hear well you made Louisville into a Zone?” one of the elderly men asked.
A zone must be what they call an Awakened city. “Yes, I did.”
“So, can we count on a constant supply of Bourbon, for our businesses, or should we look elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere?" Rowan blurted. "Like Tennessee? Only if you're not sane of mind. I swore to you: the new Bourbon Borough will be the center of the drinking world. Eighty-six will become the lowest legal proof, and we’ll double the production of single-barrel whisky. Non-chill filtering will get subventions. Sourcing has to be labeled. How about that?” His face had reddened and his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Clenched fist on the table, Rowan had shouted the last word.
“Calm down, kid, calm down,” the man smiled. “I root for Bourbon too. Happy to see we’re on the same page.”
“Yeah,” the other older man nodded. “Tennessee to Bourbon is like Chinese noodles compared to Italian pasta.”
2/4 of Targets have sympathy for you
“Papa, please!” the younger mobster sighed. “All you can think of is pasta and Bourbon. We have the Cartels taking over California as we speak. We have to do something,” he turned a pair of hopeful eyes toward Rowan, hoping to meet support, because they were about the same age.
A hyperactive one, huh? Rowan grinned but disguised it under a cough. "Is this bad for business?" he asked.
"No, but… you know… there's Mafia and Mafia. We're the good guys, they're the bad guys," the youngster insisted. "Really bad."
“If you put it this way, I'll have to give it to you, your Cosa is nicer than what I saw in the movies," Rowan nodded. "But let's not jump off the horse yet. California is California's problem, let them sort it out. We're in an Apocalypse situation, one takes care of themselves and friends first. If we divert manpower to California now and Earth explodes because we don't find enough cores… you see what I mean?"
“Hmpfff, fine,” the youngster snorted, leaning back on the chair’s backrest.
You have made a young mobster to see reason. 3/4 targets have sympathy for you.
And now it was time for the last target. “Err… Vito?” Rowan said, offering the friendliest smile in his repertoire.
“Yeah.” The last mobster seemed totally nonplussed by Rowan’s charisma.
God, those eyes look so much like a dead fish's… How on Earth can I find common ground here? Oh, maybe… “I hope you don’t mind that I say this," Rowan started hesitantly, "but your eyes give me the creeps… I have a skill called Cold Stare, but for now, it's... unrefined. Too intense. Any advice on how to tone it down a bit, put some subtlety in it?"
“You’ve noticed my stare?” The man’s expression suddenly warmed up. “Few do. Listen carefully,” Vito leaned over the table. “It’s an art, took me years to train it. First, if you want to intimidate someone, look into their eyes, and don’t think of anything. Blank mind. That will throw them off balance and fear you. This is level one. Level two, pay attention, I'll make a demonstration…"
Oh, goodness… He looks like a Pug dog bred with a mackerel…
Taking Rowan's jerk like a fearful reaction, the mobster nodded with more enthusiasm. "See? Smile like a psychopath, and imagine everything you could do to them. Like cutting their balls and feeding them to his family. I swear to you, they’ll shit their pants." Behind Vito, the older mobster rolled his eyes and made a circle with his finger near the temple.
"Now, level three is not about violence, but about charm," Vito continued. "Puppy eyes. Before I got my Class, I was short, bald, fat, and ugly.”
Sorry to say… but you’re still short, bald, fat, and ugly.
"But I courted Vera nevertheless, making puppy eyes, bringing her flowers and chocolate every day until I won her heart.”
She's probably blind as a bat… never mind, I’m not here to be judgmental. “Thanks, man, you've been really helpful. I’m afraid I’ll never raise to your level in puppy eyes, but the first two are a lifesaver. Honestly,” Rowan put his hand over his heart.
“You’re welcome,” the mobster said, his eyes shining. When he truly smiled, he had a jovial, funny face, and Rowan guessed there was more to the man that met the eye.
4/4 Targets have sympathy for you. The first sub-quest has been cleared. You were awarded 1 free AP and 1 Level. You are now level 80. 2 APs have been allocated to each stat.
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DICTADOR
It was late evening, and Rowan was flying in a dictator’s private plane, flying toward Yosemite Park. The man across the aisle was an enigma. Gray hair, cut short, solid, in his early fifties. Inquisitive eyes, an appearance that denoted a lot of real-life experience.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Thank you for giving me a lift,” Rowan started the conversation.
"Thank you for talking to me," the man replied.
Suddenly, the weight of the change hit Rowan like a hammer in the head. He, a simple man, a worker without a college degree, a kid taken off the streets by a benevolent uncle, was now granting audiences to dictators and ruling over mobsters, elves, orcs, and Bourbon's heartland. And the latter was the only one he knew how to deal with, more or less.
He discreetly sent a message to his father: 'Hi. Just realized I love you, you old stubborn bastard. R.', then looked into the dictator's eyes.
"Let's get to business. You want a core. I have cores… What's on your mind?" Rowan asked as the dictator was now looking through the window.
The man shrugged, now looking at his guest. "I expected you to ask: 'What's in for me'."
"No," Rowan shook his head. "What's in for me is not a question I'd ask. Why do you deserve one is more like it. Core are priceless."
The dictator grinned, showing a somehow shark-like row of white teeth. It reminded Rowan of Louis Armstrong singing Mack the Knife. The smile said: 'But you just spent a core on a whim, in Louisville.'
"Why don't we introduce ourselves through a drink," Rowan changed the subject, extracting a bottle from his inventory. "Twenty-five-year-old year Stagg, one hundred and forty proof."
The Dictator snapped his fingers and a stewardess rushed to take the bottle and pour the liquid in two glasses. The African raised the glass, sniffed it, and then took a sip. Groaning in satisfaction, he closed his eyes and nodded. "This whiskey is like you… strong, bold, and deep." He whispered something to the stewardess, who nodded, left, and reappeared a second later with a sumptuously decorated bottle, from which she poured in another two glasses. The Dictator took both and offered one to Rowan himself: "This is me… Dictador. Fifty years old rum. One hundred and twenty proof."
"You have a sweet side," Rowan giggled after nosing the liquid and drinking a bit. "It's really good…"
"Then, we do business?"
Rowan nodded. "I'm listening."
"I'll give you free good information, for a core. No strings attached."
"You mean you won't swear fealty to me?"
"I won't. We mind our own business. My people won't take kindly to be tied to other countries again. Colonialism is bad."
"Fair enough," Rowan switched his glass to Bourbon. "What info are we talking about? You do understand that I have to hear it first before committing anything, right?"
"Very well. Information is about the alien ship. It comes fast, cores are ejected, but you think like this," the man gestured with his index over the table.
"Circle pattern?" Rowan asked.
"Yes. I looked at your pattern of search, going round and wide. You're wrong. Cores were ejected like from a gun with many little bullets spreading apart. V pattern.”
“A shotgun?”
“Yes. Four shots. One shoot near Japan, Korea, Vladivostok. The ship goes on, shoots second time, near Italy. Continues, and before slamming down, shoots twice. Last is close to crash point, close to the earth. Many dungeons still to be found in your County, near the crash, the ejection angle was downward.”
“Moment.” Taking his phone out, Rowan called Cora. “Hi, Baby. Say, if our territory would have extended over some pre-existing dormant dungeons, what would happen?”
There was silence, and then Cora spoke slowly. “Nothing… even at our Mana level, it would take a couple of years before true dungeons activate.”
“The African President thinks the Traipenent didn't jettison the cores in circles, but in four bursts, V shotgun pattern, and the last one was close to us. We did find two cores just next to the Border, right?”
“Including the one that was stolen, yes. I’ll make a simulation and send teams out ASAP. If it's true, we can work with the lesser detectors and still find cores. Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“Maybe tomorrow? That Elf I’m supposed to talk with, Ibuprofen or something, is in Yosemite Park, team building with his folks.”
“Inglotal. Please make sure you remember his name before you talk to him, promise?”
“Scout honor. Love you, baby.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
Rowan turned his attention to the dictator. “If your theory confirms, I'll give you a core once we secure enough of them to be sure Earth doesn't explode."
“I need to be sure my country survives. If you give me one core now, I make peace for you in Vladivostok,” the dictator offered.
“But we’re not at war with Vladivostok,” Rowan frowned.
“You sabotaged them with cores and killed Knyaz before. They plan to sabotage you too. Ambush scouting parties, kill people you like.”
“We… err… didn’t kill the Knyaz. It was food poisoning. They have no proof…” Rowan protested, waving his hands in denial.
“Hahaha!” The Dictator roared in raucous laughter, throwing his head back. “Who needs proof? This world is not in Kansas anymore, to need proof. They not stupid, they know blonde works for you.”
“I guess you’re right…" Rowan sighed. "I can't afford to spend resources to watch out for those crazies. How will you convince Vladivostok to calm down?”
“I have a friend who has a friend… Do you know song? 'I have a friend in Minsk, who has a friend in Pinsk, whose friend in Omsk, has friend in Tomsk, With friend in Akmolinsk.'”
Rowan joined in singing. “'His friend in Alexandrovsk has friend in Petropavlovsk, whose friend somehow is solving now, the problem in Dnepropetrovsk.'”
“You’re funny,” the dictator said at the end. “I like you.”
You have befriended the African Dictator. The second partial quest is cleared.
Yeah… I’m a natural charmer.
“Tell me something. How are you going to solve the ruling problem?” Rowan asked. "A core means elections, and you can't cheat the System."
“Pour,” the man asked the stewardess for a refill, then swirled the Bourbon in his glass, looking again at the setting sun outside. Finally, he looked Rowan in the eyes with a deadpan expression. “I love my country. If people vote me out, OK. I don’t like job. Dangerous. Things not work in real life like naïve people wish. Wars every year, crazy people who think God anointed them to make revolution. If I'm voted out, I go retire. Maybe Vegas or your town. You have a good heart, funny, not politician. I trust. Vampire, mobster, classy, not politician. I trust. Politicians? Ptuah,” the man mimicked spitting on the carpet.
“When you'll be king, or whatever, ensure your people feel you're one of them…" Rowan said, staring into nothingness. "I offer a bottle of whiskey to any warrior I don't remember by name. People can swear about me, freely, and pay ten cents for it. They adore it. Ask their opinion about something they care about, like a vote about city planning, and make good on your promises."
“Cheers,” the African dictator raised the glass.
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ELFTRECK
After landing at a small airport and saying his goodbyes to the dictator, Rowan drove a small rented car for half an hour. That made his average speed eighty miles an hour, which was quite OK, he considered. It allowed him time to admire the landscape. When he arrived at Yosemite Falls it was night and winter. He knew from Viscardi that Inglotal had asked the Lord to arrange for cold weather all over the northwestern part of Calveor.
“Thane Allinder,” the elf saluted with a half bow.
“War Chief Inglotal,” he returned the greeting.
“I delayed our departure, to meet you.”
Rowan noticed behind the elf several others. Dressed in furs, their silhouettes made bigger by the vestments volume, but still looking slim and undernourished. “Where are you going?”
“Now that we’re free, we're trying to recover our old ways. I’ll escort our younglings to a hike, a rite of passage. We’ll run to the place you call Canada, in five days.”
“Gah…” was all Rowan was able to say, slack-jawing. Barely days after being freed from a dungeon, the elves were going to run about a thousand miles.
"Are you here to join our training?" Inglotal asked.
Rowan looked around, at the snow and the furs covering the Svartálfar. Ten seconds later, he nodded. “I could use some training.”
“Thane Allinder, the Dragon Slayer, will join us!” Inglotal yelled, raising his spear. A choir or cheers resounded before the notification hit.
Your third secondary quest has been cleared. + 1 Level and +1 AP awarded. +3 AP awarded. Hidden Quest discovered and cleared: establish a good reputation among the factions that swore allegiance to you. 6/6 objectives cleared. 6 free APs awarded.
New Quest: Complete the hike. +1 free AP