(The two mercs can either be real player characters, or not in the hotel. I am leaving this to the digression of PCs in this- I'd rather that they were generic mercenaries, but if you want your char to be one, go on ahead.)
(Also, this was a post partly written with Big's advice- it may explain why certain details could make sense.)
Arran had walked on, carried on. Nothing. A jeep went past, a few militants within. He looked at them, and they looked at him. They drove past. He knew they knew what he was. A mercenary. A white man, in a world where everyday people wanted freedom. And they did this in horrifying means. Means to an end. And for Arran...means to make money. He didn't care for it, it wasn't his worry what they were up to, but what he was going to do next.
After another half hour, at the break of dawn, he was in town. Shit was fucked here. Like the documentaries at home had showed, this was why poverty killed. The water was as safe as drinking his own piss, and he'd die from about two dozen tropical diseases, and countless STDs if he decided a local whore was his way of having fun. Not here. There were kids, six years old, checking and assembling Kalashnikov rifles. It sicked a part of his soul, as he walked through, aware he wasn't going to find something that would perhaps vindicate it all. He had to find a place to stay. He saw a small sign. Hotel. It had a bullet hole in it. Walking over towards it, the shacks and poor housing, the mud, shit and general excesses that didn't go into a sewage pipe from the slum leaking from filled ditches by his side, he saw something of a vague structure that looked like it had stood. It wasn't too close to the slum to be alien, but it was isolated enough not to be out of the ordinary. A good place to set up.
Walking in, Arran looked around the reception of the lodge, before pinging the bell. A recepionist ran in from the back room. This place looked shitty, but it would do, Arran thought to himself. It was a lodge of some sort, perhaps for backpackers. A young woman, no older than 20, walked up, smiling.
"Hi...I'm looking for a room, paying in American Currency. You good with that?" Arran said, rather a little sternly in his deep highlander Scots accent that sounded like it had sunk Longboats already.
"Yes of course, Sir." She simply said, writing something down, before taking out a key. Her accent was a strong African one, and she seemed a little tired, though formal and polite.
"There $10 deposit, it is $4 a night, Sir. This is a key for room 12, upstairs. Single Bed, there is a stove and any basic amenities. We prefer minerals, on manager's request." She added, noting something down, as he drew the note. He didn't have much- he didn't want a lot. The P226 would achieve a lot more- and cash wasn't going to be accepted everywhere. Places like this, maybe so. And he had enough to sustain. But guns, ammunition, supplies, he'd need minerals. Diamonds, Gold, Silver, Copper Wire would even fucking do if he bartered hard enough. For now, he wanted a roof over his head.
"No problem...minerals you say. How the fuck you are still open in this chaos?" He asked rather coldly, as she was taken aback a little.
"Sir, there are other mercenaries here. You are not alone; two checked in late last night.."
"Shite. Well, alright. Thank you." He replied, getting his answer, walking on, bergen still on back as he headed to his room.
It wasn't anything special, but what it was, was a place to at least lie his head. Think. This was freedom. Getting out the joint was great. It meant he had time to think, to enjoy this. And while it was in a humid shithole, the fact was that for the moment, things were calm here. Just. He checked the P226, his axe close by, and his stuff unpacked, but not entirely so in the case he had to move. He wanted to keep an eye open. Sleeping with one eye open may be a good idea. Now what, he thought to himself, trying to just think. Other mercenaries? There were two here, but he couldn't tell which rooms or where they were. Would they rob him? Probably not, because they didn't know he was here. He took his shirt off, and leaned back, aware the lock was on his door and the windows shut locked, just wanting to get a nap and think on it. Enjoy sleeping without yelling dickheads in a prison cell. It was too good.
Arran opened his eyes. the realization someone was here.
"The locks are shitty, my friend. Stay back." Arran jerked, realizing there was a handcuff to the bed frame, with one hand free as he tried to reach for his P226. The click of a Makarov could be heard, as Arran stopped, realizing what was going on. The shaven man walked over, crouching, pistol ready. He was out of reach, and besides, even with what Magnus knew, Arran was good at fucking people up, but not great. He knew a vague amount of him- not everything, but ex-SBS held out. The Swede spoke with a certain manner, like he wasn't going to be overtaken in tone.
"My name is Magnus. Now, I understand what predicament you are in. In fact, that document told me everything. I always keep an eye out. You just stumble into the one place where you are not pulled off the street and forced to work for your life. In fact, you played it good. It's just that document." He said, as Arran looked.
"And the fuck does that mean!?" Arran said, not shouting but avidly pissed, his Scots accent amusing Magnus, his own Swedish one being a deep and bellowing one that held steadfast in command of English.
"I draw dots that you and another mercenary were in on this. Because it so happens that about two mercenaries wonder into this country, two different methods, with that paper confirming all. You came for Scorpion."
"Who the fuck are you talking about? What mercenary?" Arran said, stopping his resistance, as he looked up, aware that as good as Magnus was, he wasn't going to kill him. He had something about him- he was talking too calmly, like he was going to get him involved in something.
"I don't know either. All I do know, is where he is held. He was dragged off a path and put into the back of a technical, and now he is in a militia's wing, as a white guy with a pistol against half a dozen militants with clubs, machetes and knives. The reason I am still here rather than knowing what and why you are here is because it interests me personally. Because I also think there's more. You don't, and I don't for certain about it all. But I have a hunch. You see, you can go free this friend of yours. But what does it get you? Simple. A friend in a place like this is an invaluable resource. You will die on your own, Scorpion is untouchable and you are not. The mosquitos, the two factions out there, the civilians and even your own fucking government will take you and make your life hell, if you understand me." Magnus said, standing up, tossing the key at Arran, as he uncliped himself.
"And why shouldn't I shoot you then?" Arran said, taking his P226 to hand, holding it low, as he was aware that Magnus was really playing with fire here, but he was holding it aloft.
"Because you have literally nothing to gain and everything to lose. I am not your friend, Mr Mackenzie. But I am a person who understands how problems work here. And I know that you are good at what you do, perhaps the right person to start solving your share of problems isn't yourself. Like the fact you have no leads and are on a timer till a militia eventually will find you and do terrible things to you at this rate. You know how you will do this, but I feel you need a little push before you slip up. You question too much; so go get some answers, find this man, and I'll contact you when the time is right. For now, you are on your own. Good luck." Magnus said, nodding, as he walked away, Arran speechless as he got off the bed, realizing there was a note that Magnus had left. An instruction of sorts. The Police Station, a vague drawing of it's outline. Now that was new. Getting up, he took his kit, leaving his bergen, his Oakleys over his eyes as he looked at a hole in the floorboard.
Gathering his most important kit, he buried it underneath the floorboard, his GPS and identity papers. It had made him think. He was rusty, he needed to fucking think before he died, Arran said to himself. No more fucking about. Remember your training, he said to himself. Stop being a bitch. He pulled the clip out of the Swiss pistol, checking the magazine, before slotting it back in. He tucked it away into his hidden holster, grabbing his Boonie and kit.
"Fuck me...he better be right, or else I'm going to have a shit run." Arran said to himself, looking at his room, before thinking things through about what next, exhaling as he took his key and he left the room. Before he completely walked out, he attached a piece of string with a piece of old gum to the outside of the door and to the hinge, in a hidden crafted way that would tell him if anyone got in- not that it entirely mattered. His valuables were hidden, and anything he didn't mind getting stolen, or at least would keep in the open to not compromise himself, was left, as he headed out, onto the street and out of the hotel. It was a matter of time till he'd wondered past shacks and made it to a corner behind a set of dilapidated slum houses, where he saw the derelict building. The abandoned police station, just as described in the picture. Same shape, it was small but it was a place that the could easily get to. He had work to do, Arran thought to himself.
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