xp_logs | Old Man of the Mountain

In Which Our Heroes Take to the Seas.

"Of course I have a plan." Christian said, shooing away Amahl's protests. They had, to his great displeasure, set down in Singapore and left the small plane piloted by Christian's chipper young wife. Instead of taking him back to relative safety, Kane had been quite clear that their involvement in Farouk's rescue had violated a truly remarkable number of international laws, and anonymity was going to be their best way to reach Madripoor in order to find Lhatsun and use his leverage to clear Farouk's embarrassing little espionage charge. They'd be looking for small planes registering in various airports, and Didi Lucrelira-Kane was going to stop in Hong Kong, and then book a perfectly normal flight path to Brisbane, making her untouchable, and sending Neramani's men scrambling to find Farouk in a country where she'd be an afterthought, assuming they guessed the right small plane.

Instead, Kane had mentioned with a grin, he'd made arrangements, casually mentioning that he'd 'booked a speedboat' for the trip. The two boomed hull of a Boeing Jetfoil loomed up from the dock in which Kane had dragged him along behind, complaining. It was a decommissioned ferry, the early forerunner of the USS Pegasus class, and the ship was a wash of rainbow colors and fading Japanese characters brightly advertising the line it had been dropped from.

"You never really quite gotten over the fact that Miami Vice was canceled, have you?" Farouk inquired acidly.

Kane sighed. "Y'know, for someone who was dodging roaches and lubricated gloves in a Bangkok prison a very short while ago, you are in a remarkably foul mood. Cheer up, Professor. And for the record, I am reliving my Royal Navy days. No sense getting a small ship when you can have a big one. Miami Vice? Don Johnson was a pussy!"

"Oh, I don't know..." Amahl scratched the week's worth of stubble that was rapidly becoming a beard. "I rather had a soft spot for the pastels."

"This." Kane declared grimly. "Is what happens when you lock yourself in a French college for half a decade."

Farouk dubiously assessed the vessel he was about to board, his every fiber expressing the complete lack of confidence in the ship's ability to stay afloat upon de-docking. "By the way... I think I'd like a gun."

The Englishman stopped in his triumphant ascent of the ferry's ladder and stared down at the Arab incredulously. "You what now?"

"A gun."

"What the bloody hell are you planning to do with it? Shoot me in the neck again?"

"You can't possibly still be bitter about that?!"

"No, I've mostly moved into the long standing grudge that I will get my own back at the absolute worst time for you phase. Besides, considering that you were aiming at the person seven feet to the right of me at the time, I think keeping you unarmed actually increases our offensive abilities." Kane pulled himself over the side and looked around.

Hawkins had been right; it was a shitpot, but it was a working shitpot, and there wasn't anything as fast that could handle the currents of the Malacca Strait as effectively on short notice. He noticed he was alone on the deck, and went back to side, where Farouk was still sulking on the pier. "You know, I was under the impression that you were in a rush."

"I can't believe that you're willing to leave me without any means of self-defense. It's simply... bad tactics." Perhaps a reasonable argument would work.

"Hit them with your stick. At least you're unlikely to hit me by accident." Obviously, it didn't.

"Now Kane-" He started, but Christian was no longer looking at him, instead his eyes drawn to the front of the marina, which he could only see due to his elevated position on the deck. There was a gout of fire, and Christian caught sight of one half of the front grates spin briefly in the air.

"Professor, either get aboard now, or you'll need to convince the Indian authorities about your need for a weapon."

Farouk's reaction to the frontal assault on the harbor belied his age, and even Kane was vaguely surprised by the agility with which he clambered up the rickety ladder. "The anti-intellectualism of this region is beginning to deeply trouble me," the academic puffed as he reached the deck and leaned (or arguably fell) against the railing trying to catch his breath.

"Well," Kane waggled his hand tentatively as he nodded for the helmsman to get them started. "Let's be honest - your last article was a bit superficial. I can see how certain quarters might give into the temptation for a polemical response..."

The armored personnel carrier emblazoned with the emblem of Singapore's Finest squealed in protest as its driver slammed on the brakes while simultaneously pulling the wheel to the right in order to avoid a sudden apparition that broke through the pavement directly in his path. Faced with a sudden overload of judgment, however, he failed to prioritize.

Kane pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "And you wanted a gun..."

Farouk observed the tableau of the APC driver staggering out of his vehicle and, somewhat unsteadily, joining the rest of his crew in a speedy retreat - just in time to outrange the falling crane which he rammed only moments before. A small smile, which for all its diminutive size carried a considerable measure of vindictiveness, flit across Amahl's lips.

"Delinquent." Kane muttered.

"Jealousy don't become you, Chris."

"Would you make that thing go away, please?"

Farouk sighed, "You did always lack the artiste's touch."

"The man is dead. Let him rest in peace."

Amahl gestured tiredly (and unnecessarily in Kane's private opinion) and the 20-foot figure of the scowling Andre the Giant melted into the air of the Singapore harbor. He was suddenly thoughtful. "You know what has been bothering me?"

Kane held back the obvious reply, recognizing the change of tone. "Yes. Yes, I do."

The two turned to stare toward the mayhem still raging on the dock.

"Where the hell is the Guard?"