"Big cities really do have more to offer after dark."
Ryan had barely ventured into the slums when he heard the sounds of a brawl in the distance.
He got there quickly — and found it far more brutal than he'd expected. Every person in the fight was armed. Most carried ordinary clubs, but there were also knives and spiked bats studded with sparse iron nails. The gang members in the center threw themselves at each other without reservation, going for vital points whenever the opportunity arose, and within moments multiple people had been left crippled. Yet neither side showed any sign of stopping until one was completely incapacitated. No one on the periphery flinched either — every last one of them stood gripping a weapon, itching to get in.
Wait — how much do these people even get paid to go at it like this?
Both gangs prioritized targeting anyone still capable of fighting, not going out of their way to finish off the injured — but it was still a bloody spectacle. Plenty of fighters limped or crawled to the edge of the fray before their own side could drag them to the rear. Beyond basic tourniquets, there was no further medical attention given. Had it not been for the visible agony on those crippled faces, Ryan might have wondered whether they were human at all.
They're savages. Compared to this lot, I'm practically a model citizen.
He'd just killed someone himself, and this was still making him want to cover his eyes.
He didn't learn until later — when he delivered a kidney strike to an isolated, incapacitated thug and made his quiet exit dragging the body — that this brief, brutal clash had been fought over some lucrative opportunity. And not until the victorious side finally claimed their bloody prize and both groups carried their wounded back, did Ryan notice something remarkable: not a single person wore any expression of real concern for the injured. They all spoke of the "treatment" ahead with complete confidence.
Are they deluded? Or is this treatment genuinely Extraordinary in nature?
Not wanting to rule out the latter, Ryan carefully memorized as many of the crippled faces as he could. After pinpointing the locations of both gangs from a safe distance, he withdrew.
If those cripples are walking around unscathed tomorrow, this goes straight to the Church, not the police.
Decision made, he finally turned his mind back to his original purpose. The good news: the sensation had returned. When he'd landed that kidney strike, he'd been paying close attention — and yes, there it was again. The same sensation as before. Lighter this time, though — the foreign presence had merely shuddered slightly, nothing like the dissolving feeling from when he'd killed the Extraordinaire who'd been tailing him.
And the sensation had come at the moment of the strike itself, not at the moment of the man's death.
So it's the act of assassination that matters? And the difference in intensity — because one was merely incapacitated while the other was an Extraordinaire?
He mulled it over on the walk back.
Right — the man I kidney-punched also didn't produce anything like that crimson gelatin. That thing is definitely tied to Beyonders.
He shook the cigarette case, popped it open to confirm the crimson mass showed no unusual changes, and kept walking. He had to think carefully about how to safely report what he'd seen to the authorities, so Ryan skipped any further late-night activity and took his various preoccupations to bed, drifting into sleep.
The second morning in Avignon, Ryan confirmed the "gelatin" was still unchanged, spent a penny to learn that a gathering was being held that day, and decided to treat himself to more expensive white bread for breakfast.
After eating, he picked up a dark grey worker's jacket and matching trousers, then used the knowledge the Assassin potion had given him to disguise himself as a workman — a somewhat conspicuous workman, given his size.
Using his rough appearance and his Assassin abilities, he cautiously confirmed that the victors from last night, who had been crippled only hours ago, were now moving with only a slight limp.
Ryan quietly resolved to report them to the Church, abandoned his plans to rent a room or open a savings account in Avignon, and spent what remained of the morning scouting a different gang that seemed a more appropriate target.
At noon, having changed back into his regular clothes, he sat down in a restaurant and, in a completely unhurried manner, worked his way through three servings of pepper-sauce steak, three sausages with mashed potatoes, a small glass of red wine, five beef puddings, and one strawberry ice cream.
He paid the rounded-up bill of ten sous, and walked out well-satisfied, leaving behind a wake of low, startled or disdainful murmuring.
Pricey, but genuinely good. And oddly enough, I didn't feel strange about the whole dessert-after-a-full-meal thing. Must be some residual influence from the big idiot's body.
He made his way to the Wild Dog on Cross Street and this time ordered a two-penny Enmart ale. After confirming from the barman that Ian Doyle had already arrived, Ryan knocked on the corridor room again.
"Afternoon, Doyle. Has it already started?"
"Please don't drop the 'Mister.' I don't believe we're quite familiar enough for that, this would be...?" The blond-haired Ian Doyle looked at him steadily.
"David John. Don't worry, I'll remember next time." Ryan was leaving first thing tomorrow morning anyway.
"Very well, Mr. John. It has begun. Shall I take you now?" Doyle didn't press the point.
Ryan nodded and received a mask and a cloak. He had his doubts about how useful the disguise actually was, but novelty won out, and he put the cloak on anyway.
He followed Doyle through the door he'd fetched the dagger from the night before, walked through a stretch of enclosed courtyard hemmed in by walls and buildings with only the sky overhead, and pushed open the door of an otherwise unremarkable house.
Now this feels familiar.
Closing the door behind him, Ryan made for the one occupied bedroom. Midway, a male voice reached him — bored in tone, but faintly curious.
"Hey, 'Old Gentleman.' How come the gathering's starting early this time?"
"Ha — haven't you all been complaining that I'm too cautious and the intervals between gatherings are too long?" The slightly aged voice laughed in response.
A brief pause.
"Well, I may as well tell you now. A rather generous stranger asked me to find an Extraordinaire willing to help him. He made clear that money was no object."
Knock knock knock.
Ryan's knock sounded at the door.
"Come in! I'll go into detail once there are more of us." The Old Gentleman's voice shifted from projected to discreet.
Looking up at Ryan as he entered, the Old Gentleman — masked, but well-dressed in all other respects — gestured toward an oversized chair in the corner with a thoughtful expression.
"I hope that chair over there will suit you, sir."
The man who had spoken earlier, who looked to be just barely over 170 centimeters, suddenly understood. "So that's why there's such a big chair today."
"My thanks." Ryan dropped into it.
"And what should we call you, new friend? A codename will do," the Old Gentleman asked from his seat by the fireplace, with an air of easy warmth.
"Just 'Big Guy' is fine." Ryan said without much thought.
"Ha! Very descriptive. 'Beer.'" The man with the unremarkable voice extended a hand from under his cloak and pointed at himself.
Apart from Ryan, the other two were naturally chatty, so the room remained lively as they waited for the rest to arrive.
From their conversation, Ryan had learned that Nighthawks of the Evernight Goddess church captains were generally Sequence 7. He watched the Old Gentleman — dressed now in full formal wear — stand and address the gathering:
"I think that's enough time. Let us officially begin."