Chapter 7: Fight or Flight
Written by: Joint Effort
Novigrad, Novmir
Day 8; 2562 kilometres travelled
He woke to the honking of horns and the cawing of crows, drifting through the now-open window. The olive drab curtains had been pulled to the side, giving Jonah a view of the street down below. As he slowly regained control of his senses, he became suddenly aware of the sharp, throbbing pain in his head. He tried to sit up, but collapsed back into his bed, too weak to move. He tried closing his eyes, and pulled the heavy quilt and scratchy blankets that had been placed over him at some point to his chin, but that did little to dull the knives in his head. He gave up on getting out of bed, and instead began reflecting upon the chaos of the past week in his head, in an attempt to clear his mind.
Eight days ago, he discovered Machinations, embedded in the wall of slate. He had brought it home with him, to study it further, having bluffed his way past Goblin and the other mine workers, only to be “escorted” to Diels four days after. He was given an ultimatum: surrender Machinations or surrender his life. He had no intention of surrendering either of those. He was given twenty-four hours to make a decision, and in desperation, he had fled. He made for the border, where he was nearly caught by an Edofasian guard, who likely had no idea what he was in possession of, but knew that it was something of immense value.
I don’t have any idea what I’m in possession of either, Jonah mused. He had come up with the name Machinations on the bus to Vyshegorod. He had paid for passage to Novigrad, but was ambushed by a group of Edofasian thugs. That was when he became acquainted with Pavel. The journey to Novigrad had been uneventful, until they boarded the metro. More Edofasian thugs. Another mysterious saviour, this time much better dressed. A cryptic conversation. What was it that he said? Jonah tried to remember.
“I will see you up ahead.” He said to himself. He wondered what that meant. How important, truly, was the life of an Edofasian miner and a strange object he pulled out of a mine? What kind of world had he stumbled into?
And there was last night. Just thinking of it sent another wave of pain through his head, but another phrase suddenly popped into his head.
The Horator is come again. What did the Temple have to do with him? Why does Diels want Machinations? Who is Pavel? Who was the man on the metro? So many questions with no answers to any of them. His headache had subsided somewhat by now, and he forced himself to crawl out of bed while peeling off his shirt, which was encrusted with dried vomit and blood. He balled it up, and threw it into the overflowing garbage can by the door. Another mess left for someone else to clean up. He reached for his bag, which was left surprisingly unmolested and undisturbed, unballed another shirt, and slipped it on.
The clock on the wall read 2 o’clock.
Jonah was suddenly very aware of how hungry he was. He hadn’t had a proper meal since the day he left Tara, living off of various packaged junk foods, with the occasional gas station sandwich thrown in. He stumbled into the tiny living room, spotting the brown paper bag he had been handed last night, grabbing it and tearing it open, spilling its contents on the armchair that Pavel had sat in last night.
First and foremost was a small pistol. It looked heavily worn, with scratches and dents covering the grip and the slide, but felt deadly all the same. The weight was surprising for him, but years of working in the slate mine meant that he would have no trouble wielding this weapon should the need arise. Jonah pressed the magazine release, drew out the magazine, and saw that it was fully loaded. However, in doing so, he had made the amateur mistake of keeping his finger on the trigger and accidentally pressing too hard, firing the round in the chamber with a boom that briefly deafened him and left a ringing in his ears.
“A’ru!” He exclaimed in shock. There was now a not-so-small hole in the wall, with a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the new crater. As if the place wasn't run-down enough already, he thought while leaning in to examine the damage. The wall had stopped the bullet, which was now no more than a crumpled ball of warm lead on the ground.
“Molchi, debil! Yob tvoyu mat’!” A voice cried from somewhere deep within the apartment complex. He held his breath and prayed that nobody would come investigating the sound, but fortunately for Jonah, it seemed that the residents of the building were used to such questionable activity. He stuffed the gun under the cushions of the armchair, making sure this time that the safety was engaged.
Next came a folding pocketknife, roughly the size of his index finger. That Jonah decided he could keep, and clipped it on to his belt. The other items seemed more mundane. There was a pack of cigarettes, a local brand, stamped with more incomprehensible characters and the spires and domes of the skyline of Novigrad. He stuffed that in his pockets, as well as a cheap plastic lighter bearing the face of some politician or national hero. There was a key, presumably for the apartment, which he stuffed in his pocket as well. All that remained was a small bottle of water, a packet of sunflower seeds, a sandwich wrapped in paper, and a tiny hip flask, presumably containing some local spirits. He unscrewed the cap and gave it a whiff, then decided to replace the cap and leave the flask on the armchair. The stuff was way too potent for him, and he certainly did not need a hangover on top of the splitting headache he already had.
He downed the bottle of water in three large gulps and devoured the sandwich, deciding to save the seeds for later. There was no sign of Pavel anywhere in the apartment, which worried Jonah. Had Pavel ratted him out to Diels? Did Pavel even know who Diels really was? His first instinct was to check his phone, but remembered that a) he had no internet connection, b) his cell phone plan only covered domestic calling and texting, and c) he hadn’t given his phone number out to Pavel, or anyone for that matter. Looking around the apartment for clues, he eventually spotted a torn napkin sitting on the kitchen table.
Gone with the guys. Some trouble in town. Will be back in evening. -Pavel
The note calmed Jonah's racing heart somewhat. Pavel’s Edofasian handwriting was surprisingly tidy, almost scholastic. Perhaps he had learned the language in school. Pavel had left the message short and vague, a complete departure from the blabbermouth of a man he'd met on the train to Novigrad, but that wasn't surprising, given the events that had transpired on the metro. He had seen the look on the man's face last night. Jonah couldn't blame him for wanting some time away from all this and to plan things out.
His stomach still felt empty, and his head was killing him, so Jonah decided that it was probably a good idea to go scout out the neighbourhood and familiarize himself with this grim locale, maybe find a pharmacy where he could buy something for the pain and a place where he could have a hot meal. He saw that his wallet was still where he had left it, which was surprising, then donned his jacket and began heading for the door.
Three tidy knocks came through the door as he laid his hand on the handle. There was no peep-hole, so there was no way for him to see who it was.
“Pavel? Is that you?” He asked, hoping that it was.
“Open the door, sir. We would like to speak with you.” Came the reply. The voice spoke Edofasian with an accent that Jonah had only heard in historical documentaries and propaganda films. It was distinctly Candanadian. For the older generation, hearing that voice would bring back memories of the old days, and often unpleasant ones at that. Hearing the voice did nothing to calm his nerves, which were already on edge. Another wave of pain shot through his cranium.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” He managed.
“We only wish to speak with you. We mean you no harm. Please, open the door.”
“Only if you tell me who you are.”
“All will be revealed in good time, Herr Northlane. I know you have questions for us, so please, open the door and we can get down to business.” That confirmed it. The person, or people, on the other side of the door were Candanadians. Jonah reached for the knife on his belt.
“You said you are unarmed?”
“We are. That I can assure you of.”
“Alright.” He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Before him stood three men in dark blue suits, same as the man on the metro. Two of them wore sunglasses over their eyes, and all three had a badge pinned to their lapels. The crowned tri-maple. The two men standing in the back had their hands clasped in front of them, and the man without sunglasses held out his hand. Seeing no visible weapons, Jonah relaxed and took his hand off the belt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Northlane. I am Klaus Dietrich, Head of Consular Affairs at the Royal Candanadian Embassy in Novigrad.” He said with a smile. His dark brown hair was slicked back with gel, and the blue of his suit seemed deeper, richer than that of the men behind him, who remained silent and motionless.
“G-good afternoon.” Jonah shook the man’s hand. “What do you want with me?” He asked again.
“I don’t mean to alarm you, sir, but this is not exactly a safe place for us to discuss that. If you would come with us, there is someone at the embassy who would like to meet with you.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You do, actually. You could stay here and wait for those who are pursuing you to find you, or you could come with us and find a, ah, more permanent solution to that problem of yours.” Dietrich smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “Up to you.”
Jonah sighed, silently cursed the artifact, and stepped through the door.
Diels’ Diary, Entry Number One
I have been approaching this situation entirely incorrectly. The subject seems to be far better at being an international criminal than the average slag miner. He's thwarted several attacks on himself, or, more accurately, he's had people defend him. In the latest incident his entire assassination team died in the attempt. Luckily, the Novmiran government is chalking it up for the moment to an increase in gang violence. But these mafia types are only good for keeping tabs on him. Any attempts of actually retrieving the artefact have failed. And now with Candanadians knocking at his door, it's time we do this properly. And I start taking this seriously.
The vast spider web of intrigue had flies stuck to its tendrils.
Twenty men arrived in Diels's office. It had taken days of calling arguing and paying off various military officers, ranging from the regular Edofasian National Army Rangers to top secret fixers. The oddest one was an old Temple Ordinator assigned to a church here in Novmir, their job in Novmir being much more hands on than back home. But finally, Diels had gotten what he wanted. Direct command over the Edofasian agents abroad in the rest of North Terra. Ará Orún. Generation Twenty, as they were designated. These men had their histories removed. They were no one from no where. They had one job – to obey their commanding officer without question. On their own they were ruthless, tenacious, and absolutely cold-blooded. In the hands of Diels, they were capable of nearly anything.
“Now then. Responsibility means you are able to accept the consequences of your actions. This includes when you make mistakes. Now, I am capable of mistakes. I did not take the target seriously, and so, I toyed with him. However, with the involvement of foreign actors-” Diels spat out the last two words. “-we have little time. But the target is already interned at the Candanadian embassy. Whether or not he's agreed to anything will be known to us shortly. Another direct assualt on him will only result in a firefight and is to be avoided unless it comes to that. This ‘Pavel’ is on his way to an ambush. Pick him up and bring him to me. Catch and release. He's more useful alive for now. In the meantime, most of you will be sent to ports of entry to ensure the target doesn't escape. The rest of you will be preparing for the retrieval mission. I want that place cleared of civilians by the day after tomorrow.”
The men didn't speak a word. They simply followed Martha out of the room.