... we live in a world which is
governed by promises and contracts and clocks. If there actually is any
such thing as free will, aren't we the idiots to fetter it! The chances
of doing things on impulse are being continually diminished. There are
points in the city now where it is not possible to cross the street
without the permission of the policeman.
Heywood Broun, Seeing Things at Night, 1921, Harcourt, Brace & Company
I recently loaned my copy of Bookhounds' Book of the Smoke to a friend, recently in this instance being pre-COVID. I just got it back yesterday and was thumbing its pages when I noticed this section (p32) about Green Park.
There is a tree in Green Park that has such an evil aura about it that birds will not nest in its branches and tramps will not sleep beneath it for fear they will not see light of morning.
That felt inspirational. I needed more material. I hopped across to Gutenberg, where useful tomes of all sorts can be found. I searched for Green Park, and came up with Heywood Broun. I don't know why. Google failed me, I suppose.
Still, Broun has something useful there. Governed by promises and contracts and clocks. A clever turn of phrase, yes. Something more?
Suppose there were parts of the world which weren't governed by promises, contracts and clocks. Where time had no meaning, and the immutable realities we take for granted no longer apply. A singular spot in space-time where there are no promises, contracts, or clocks. Where you could slip outside the fervent, febrile, onward-rushing beat of seconds.
Green Park used to be swampland. Lepers were buried there, and highwaymen haunted its lonely lanes. Horace Walpole, Prime Minister and Gothic author of the Castle of Otranto, was once held up at pistol-point in what is now Green Park. Fireworks displays and famous duels were both seen at Green Park.
Broun is talking about a lack of liberty and free will, a world in which you can't do anything by impulse. Suppose Green Park is one of those places where you can get all the liberty you could wish for, where there is nothing but impulse.
Where would you find yourself?
I think the answer must be beyond London, in a place where all possible versions of Green Park can and do exist. Where nothing you do matters and time no longer applies.
You would walk arm-in-arm with Chaos and the Infinite.
In game terms I would treat Green Park as a kind of fane (Rough Magicks) capable of providing 1 potential point of Magic to those willing to go there at night and open themselves up to the possibilities. The precise terms of this encounter I leave to the Keeper. It might be limited by time of year, astrological conjunctions, or a willingness to listen to a particular shadow.
I would further say that those doing so risk opening themselves up to Azathoth, with the appropriate penalties (+6 Stability, +5 SAN) - the killing blow that so many fell foul of. Coming to Green Park under these specific circumstances opens up reality; the student is skating on the skin of a soap bubble which at any moment might collapse in upon itself, revealing the nothingness at its core.
I would finally say that those who take advantage of this opportunity gain one of the following traits:
Contracts are either ironclad or completely void. In game terms, those for whom contracts are ironclad must always fulfil contracts to the letter or suffer a potential 5 point Stability loss. The same in reverse for those to whom contracts mean nothing; they must break that contract or suffer the potential 5 point Stability loss.
Promises are treated the same way as Contracts - ironclad, or void.
Time is special. Time no longer applies to the supplicant, not in the way it does to mortals. At first this might seem a blessing - they never age. Then one morning they wake up fourteen years old, and stay that way for ... however long. The next, they wake up ninety-eight. Or perhaps they don't wake up, perhaps their dream-self steps out of bed and performs in their place, causing potential Stability losses for anyone dealing with them since their dream-self is ... odd ... and lacks cohesion.
I would also say that anyone who takes advantage of this offer can never go to Green Park again. If they do, they risk vanishing into the London-that-Was and never getting out again.
Paul Alexis had evidently had a well-defined taste in fiction. He liked stories about young men of lithe and alluring beauty who, blossoming into perfect gentlemen amid the most unpromising surroundings, turned out to be the heirs to monarchies and, in the last chapter, successfully headed the revolts of devoted loyalists, overthrowing the machinations of sinister presidents, and appearing on balconies, dressed in blue-and-silver uniforms, to receive the plaudits of their rejoicing and emancipated subjects. Sometimes they were assisted by brave and beautiful English or American heiresses, who placed their wealth at the disposal of the loyalist party; sometimes they remained faithful despite temptation to brides of their own nationality, and rescued them at the last moment from marriages of inconvenience with the sinister presidents or their still more sinister advisers; now and again they were assisted by young Englishmen, Irishmen or Americans with clear-cut profiles and a superabundance of energy, and in every case they went through a series of hair-raising escapes and adventures by land, sea and air. Nobody but the sinister presidents ever thought of raising money by the usual financial channels or indulging in political intrigue, nor did the greater European powers or the League of Nations ever have anything to say in the matter. The rise and fall of governments appeared to be by a private arrangement ...
Dorothy L. Sayers, Have His Carcase
In a spacious meeting room overlooking the courthouse in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., a vision to “save Haiti” took shape. The $83 billion effort would reinvent the Western Hemisphere’s poorest nation, lavishing it with roadways, electricity grids, seaports and airports.
Haiti’s new dawn, attendees at the May 12 meeting were told, would be led by Christian Emmanuel Sanon — a 63-year-old Haitian American and self-described pastor and physician now detained in Haiti in connection with the investigation into the audacious assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse.
Sanon’s stated mission during that gathering: Turn “Haiti into a free and open society,” said Parnell Duverger, 70, a retired professor who attended the Fort Lauderdale presentation and had drafted the redevelopment plan pitched by Sanon ...
The revelations of a grand plan to rebuild Haiti backed by Sanon and others — as well as the draft contract and list of costs obtained by The Post — add a new financial dimension to the roiling investigation into a presidential slaying that has upended the fragile Caribbean state, leaving it rudderless amid a leadership squabble. Haitian and Colombian authorities, along with the FBI and Interpol are scrambling to unravel a cast of suspects that they say includes a former Drug Enforcement Administration informant nicknamed “Whiskey,” an opposition politician, Colombia mercenaries and Haitian Americans from South Florida ...
Washington Post, Records reveal how Haitian American held in assassination probe financed a ‘personal security’ team
plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, The Wasps. Translation: the more it changes, the more it's the same thing.
Marx Brothers, Hail Hail Freedonia
A Ruritanian romance is a peculiarly 19th century phenomenon that occasionally resurfaces today. At its heart it's a yearning for Daddy. Through no real virtue on Daddy's part, beyond birth and a certain charm, Daddy establishes himself on the Ruritanian throne and all is well again. Nobody ever asks whether Daddy is the right man for the job, or whether the country was better off without Daddy on the throne. Nor does anyone insinuate that a usurper, whoever it may be, might be challenged by other nations. It's accepted as a fait accompli. Daddy's home. Nobody questions Daddy.
Similarly Christian Emmanuel Sanon seems to have believed nobody would challenge him once he attained the throne - beg pardon, the presidency. He doesn't seem to have had a plan for establishing control of the country, or opening new relations with Haiti's neighbors, never mind the United States. Nor did he really have a plan for paying for it, beyond taking out a mountain of debt and trusting to his ability to raid the country's coffers once established. A very 45 way of looking at the world; I have to wonder who Sanon was expecting to win the 2020 election.
There have been many versions of Ruritania over the years, from the Marx Brothers' Freedonia to Robin Laws' King in Yellow, itself inspired by Robert W. Chambers' version of a Ruritanian version of New York in which modernity (and representative democracy) is vanquished and replaced by Imperial Dynasties.
One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines in the first act, and I dared not think of what followed—dared not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words had dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead, but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition ...
A version of the Ruritanian romance turned bad that I have long wanted to see and have read several times is The Empire Builders, a play by Boris Vian. A respectable bourgeoise family led by Daddy flees a strange, unknown and terrifying Noise, running further and further upward as the stairs, rooms, apartments below vanish - or are absorbed. They pretend nothing is truly wrong.
Yet always ahead of them, with them, haunting them is the Schmürz. The audience is never certain what the Schmürz is, and the cast pretend it does not exist, though when they think nobody's looking they kick, whip and torment it as though it were the cause of all their troubles. Yet nothing rids them of the Schmürz.
Though a Ruritanian Romance horror plot has many echoes of Pulp I think it would be better played Purist, and The Empire Builders is the reason why. That slow collapse of established order; the grinding, inescapable Noise; the omnipresent Schmürz.
At its heart Purist is an inescapable doom. There is no killing Cthulhu, any more than Daddy can smash the Schmürz.
So, what three things hide at the center of a Ruritanian plot?
Daddy's In Charge. There's someone who ought to be on the throne - and it is a throne, whether or not deluded thinkers call it a presidency - and currently is not. The central focus of the plot is to put Daddy back on the throne.
Simpler Times. Aspects of modern life that Daddy doesn't like get pushed aside. It's a lot like living in a Studio Ghibli setting. Old fashioned, virtuous, and not a whiff of modern ways beyond maybe the radio, rotary aircraft or funky robot ninjas. Nobody ever asks whether indoor plumbing has been invented yet or where Porco Rosso keeps his latrine, probably because they wouldn't like the answer.
Wicked Viziers. Sometimes called Presidents, Councilors, Prime Ministers or similar. These are the forces keeping Daddy from the throne. They represent all that is wrong with modern life, and must be swept aside so Daddy can take charge.
Turn that Purist and make it a horror plot, and you have:
Daddy's On The Run. Maybe Daddy still has hopes of regaining the throne, but right now it's time to beat feet. If you're a little slow, a little late, it will go very badly for Daddy - and by extension, for you.
Times They Are a-Changin'. Black is now white. Dogs and cats, living together. Whatever was accepted as the norm is now completely and utterly other. Things are out of place, zeppelins fly overhead, Azimov's rockets are gearing up for launch to the stars. Lethal injection chambers in every public square. It's a new dawn, a new day - but Big Brother has replaced Daddy, and His eye is always on you. What is that peculiar Noise?
The Schmürz. Your sins follow you like flies on garbage. Always one step ahead, they greet you at every turn. You can beat them, punish them, blame them for your misfortunes but they cannot, will not die. The next door you open, there they are. In King In Yellow terms a Schmürz has a lot in common with a Walking Corpse (p166 Paris book) except it cannot truly die and has no attacks to speak of. It exists to be attacked and is indifferent to attacks - but it is always there.
Once upon a time there was a rich asshole named Ross Perot. He owned a nice house in Bermuda, but became very upset because he couldn't dock his yacht. There were reefs in the way. So he brought in a few explosives experts and blew up the reef. This was, as you might imagine, contrary to local law. The rich asshole told local law to fuck off, and off it duly fucked.
However, Perot did at least have the decency to make sure his explosives experts got off the island without spending a night in jail. He did this by putting them on board his private plane and zipping them out of the country within a few hours of the explosion.
I mention this because I, like many of you, have been paying attention to recent events in Haiti.
If you're going to go to the trouble of assassinating a president, why wouldn't you make sure the assassins fled the country?
Answer: you do that when you don't care what happens to the assassins, probably because they're idiots. With the possible exception of those few still on the run as of time of writing, who may be out of the country by now. Bet the triggerman (men?) had a plane or boat waiting. Either that or a shallow grave. Perhaps both.
Some sources claim the mercs had nothing to do with it, that President Moïse was actually killed by third parties shortly before their arrival. Plausible, certainly. It would mean the mercs are basically expendable patsies. Gullibles.
But, God a'mighty, how dumb do you have to be to answer an advert on the internet looking for someone to help arrest a president? Hands up who thinks American agents from whichever agency it may be can go to a foreign country, arrest and extradite any member of its government, whether the president or the local garbage collector. Go on, shame yourselves.
Nigerian 419 victims are Mensa members compared to Haitian American James Solages, who claims to have been hired to help execute a warrant, not a person. Or Manuel Antonio Grosso Guarín, former member of the Columbian armed forces, who posted pictures of his Haitian vacation on Facebook shortly before the deed.
The other question floating across my forebrain is why the hell did whoever the brains of the operation is need twenty eight people to shoot one man? [Assuming that the President's own guard didn't do him in prior to their arrival, of course.] Though I suppose the answer is, Brains didn't have anyone on the payroll capable of sneaking in like Sam Fisher, so Brains hired a mess of morons to ram-raid the place. Creche of cretins? Band of boobs?
Frankly, it just goes to show - if it needed showing - that thriller writers whose protagonists or antagonists are highly skilled ex-SAS/Special Forces types capable of killing a man sixteen different ways with a pencil, and who effortlessly execute insanely complex schemes while simultaneously completing the New York Times crossword, in pen, are talking out of their arses.
Paid killers aren't geniuses. Spies aren't charismatic James Bond types. They're silly, greedy little idiots playing with toys, or ex-military who've spent too long in the sun.
I mean, look at some of these clowns. The spy who couldn't spell. Kevin Mallory, who China paid a measly $25K for state secrets and is now spending his twilight years in prison. Mark Thatcher (fucked if I'll call him Sir, much less The Honorable) who bankrolled a coup and has since been refused residency in Monaco and Gibraltar, jurisdictions not famous for their integrity. Or, as Sir Roger Moore once said of Monaco's new quasi-criminal citizens, 'how do you say piss off in Russian?' The Achille Lauro PLO hijackers. Dangerous? Certainly. In the same way a 4 year old with a handgun is dangerous. But you'd never see these loons in a James Bond film.
Honestly, it gives me hope when I read about $80 million bank heists. Not that I want banks robbed, but at least someone's putting the effort in. That was a clever stunt. Or the Hatton Garden crew. Though to be fair the Bangladesh Bank Burglars were let down by a spelling error, and the Hatton Garden robbers were arrested after blabbing in a pub which the police were surveilling. Human nature strikes again.
Night's Black Agents and games like it thrive on highly skilled ex-SAS/Special Forces types doing the impossible and looking damn cool in the process. NBA even proposes the Hit as a potential active mission:
The agents must kill someone. This can be a simple sniping, or a gang rumble. Provide the target and his security, plan a weakness in one or both.
Of course, it doesn't come with an exfiltration plan.
Let's play with the concept, in a little scene I'll call:
A Large Splodge of Wonga!
[Wonga = cash. Quote from Simon Mann, one of Mark Thatcher's pals.]
The Hit went off more or less successfully. The agents might have lost some assets or a Network contact or two, but the target is down. Time to make that clean getaway ...
What happened to our clean getaway?
Mr. Smith let the side down, and either failed to arrange an exfiltration or just didn't bother. The agents are in hostile territory, with few escape routes. I've done something similar in Macau before, but that assumed vampiric involvement. This is a straight, old-fashioned hit, with no supernatural elements.
As to exactly where, I'll leave that to the Director. It could even be somewhere entirely fictional - in Swords of the Serpentine, say. The location's key characteristics are:
Relatively isolated. You can fly out or catch a boat, but either there are no land borders or the ones that do exist are cut off by mountains or similarly difficult terrain. Deserts, jungles, that kind of thing.
Alternatively it's easy to get across the border, but the folks on the other side are even less welcoming that the ones you're fleeing from. Diplomacy needed to wangle a safe harbour.
Heavily armed. The hostile territory's armed forces, police, internal security possess sophisticated armaments and aren't shy about using them. Shoot first and ask questions never is their operating protocol.
Even more heavily armed. Never mind the cops; the average citizen has a handgun, shotgun, SMG, machete, and is especially jumpy right now. So don't provoke an armed mob, not unless you like being barbecued.
Game of Thrones. The hostile territory's government has a few would-be leaders waiting in the wings. Theoretically the agents could cut a deal with one of these claimants: safety in return for ... something.
Asset rich, aka Wild Geese. The hostile territory possesses something that the outside world really wants. That means there are important state and non-state actors who might get involved, for a price. Maybe the Chinese Embassy will provide safe haven, or that mysterious multinational conglomerate can lend a jet.
Start at Heat 6 minimum. After all, the agents did kill someone important. Starting Heat can increase depending on how messy the Hit was, but it will not start at less than 6.
Then let the good times roll.
Even if the agents are captured, there's always a chance bribery - the large splodge of wonga - will get them out. Of course, capture can be difficult to arrange when the country's up in arms ...
Although contests can resolve various sorts of match-ups, in a spy thriller the most common contest is the chase, in which agents elude their pursuers in dizzying displays of combat driving or parkour, bouncing off walls and bounding over cobblestones in some picturesque European town. These rules are designed to add depth and drama to such contests ... (NBA Main Book p53)
Thrilling contests have expanded significantly since they were first introduced. Now you can have Thrilling Digital Intrusion, Thriller Negotiation, Sneaking, Dueling, Heists, Hacking, Trailing - pretty much anything your larcenous heart desires.
However most Thrilling contests assume that the agents are competing against people, or at least enemies. Suppose that wasn't so. Suppose the true threat is that ticking bomb under the table. What then?
Hitchcock always regretted his most infamous bomb scene, in Saboteur (1936). A young boy is dispatched with a parcel that must be delivered by 1 p.m. Unknown to him, the parcel contains a bomb. He dawdles, and the clock ticks. 1 p.m. comes, and goes. "You, the audience, knew it was a bomb," Hitchcock said, "And I built it up and up ... and I let the bomb go off." The audience was looking for catharsis, and got tragedy instead.
But in principle every thrilling scene works the same way as the scene in Saboteur begins. Establish the threat. Make the parameters of that threat very clear, and make sure everyone understands the threat is real. No 'it was all a dream,' no fake-out. If X happens, then you get Y - and you really don't want Y.
Then let the characters try to beat the timer.
It might not be an actual bomb, though some of the most famous spy thriller moments feature a ticking bomb clock of one kind or another. It might be a sinking ship. A burning building. An oncoming storm that's about to wash away ... the bridge, the house, whatever it may be.
Whatever it is, it's a threat. Everyone knows its a threat. The only question is whether or not the agents get there in time. Or get out of there in time, perhaps.
Remember, all Thrilling scenes use the same bare bones (Resource Guide p27):
The object for the pursuer is to reduce the Lead to 0; the object for the runner is to increase the Lead to 10 or whatever other threshold the Director sets.
A chase involves tests of a particular General ability, called the chase ability. Usually, it’s the same for both sides.
Both pursuer and runner reveal their spends simultaneously.
If one failed and the other succeeded, the Lead changes by 2; otherwise whoever got the best result changes the Lead by 1.
The runner may choose to increase the Difficulty of the next test by 1 each time.
Both sides can spend Investigative abilities for various benefits – dropping an opponent’s ability pool, raising Difficulties, setting up a stunt or special move.
Relative speed and maneuverability can affect available options in the chase.
The more agile participant has the option of performing a Swerve, spending three points from whatever ability the chase uses (Driving, Athletics, etc.) to double Lead changes this round.
If the runner has a Lead of 7 or more, and the runner wins the exchange of chase ability tests, the runner can attempt a Sudden Escape, making a test at a Difficulty of 1 + the previous Difficulty.
In situations like these, the agent is nearly always the Runner. The General Ability is going to depend on the nature of the threat. Most likely Athletics, but it could as easily be Driving, Sense Trouble, or something else.
If the agents are trying to escape a burning building, it's definitely Athletics. If they're trying to get across town to the place where the suitcase nuke is hidden so their Bang and Burner can disable it, then it's probably Driving, and so on.
In a Bomb scene, you must let the audience have information. In this instance, the audience are the agents. The agents have to know up front that there is a threat, and that it is a serious threat.
That means in the previous scene there has to have been a vital core clue that gave the agents this information. Further, the Director should underline this threat both in that previous scene and every so often in the Thrilling scene that follows, using dialogue or camera pans to show the advance of time. Let that clock tick. If it's a burning building, let it burn. Make it very clear that unless something is done something awful will happen.
In Saboteur, Hitchcock does this with actual clocks. Every so often as the young boy travels across London the camera pans to a clock, three times in the final minute of the scene. When Hitchcock doesn't pan to a clock, he pans to the bomb itself. He does that four times in the final minute of the scene, and when he's not panning either to the bomb or a clock Hitchcock pans to a cute puppy sitting next to the bomb who's about to get obliterated. For added pathos, I assume.
The Pursuer's pool should be greater than the Runner's pool. The size of the Pursuer's pool ought to be established in advance, and in full view of the agents. This is different from the usual contest, where opponent's pools are shrouded in secrecy. This exposed pool is the ticking clock. There's no point in a clock that does not tick. It is that relentless advance of time that builds tension. Or, in this case, those dwindling pools.
See, where the agent does not know the opponent's pool there can be a little bit of calculated guesswork - gambling by another name. The agent bets, not knowing precisely what cards are in the Director's hand. The agent might look for tells, or make a decision based on the opponent's apparent threat level, on the assumption that a mook's pool must be smaller than a named opponent's pool, a named opponent's pool is probably smaller than a supernatural opponent's pool, and so on.
Whereas knowing exactly how many points are in the opposition's pool provides a different kind of tension. The agent has to decide how much they want to risk, knowing that the opposition can match or raise any bet they make. If the opposing pool is larger than the agent's, then that tension increases.
Precisely how much larger will determine how much pressure the Runner is under. Let's say the Runner's pool is 12. A Pursuer with a pool of 12 poses a threat, but not perhaps a very serious one. A few good rolls early on could establish an unbeatable Lead. A refresh, through Thrilling dialogue or Investigative spends, could push the Runner over the edge.
Whereas a Pursuer with a pool of, say, 17 is a significant threat. An early Lead can be beaten down with Pursuer point spends. Moreover if the agent knows that the Pursuer has a pool of 17 then those early Runner bids are going to be very tense.
Swerves should be common. Part of the roof of the burning building collapses, or some unexpected flammable materials are discovered. An accident unrelated to the Thrilling sequence forces the driver to take a different, less helpful route to the target.
Neither side has a Maneuver or Speed advantage. You can't beat a ticking clock by running faster than time itself, not unless you have supernatural powers.
In Hitchcock's Saboteur, the Swerves are London's street scene, whether it's someone selling toothbrushes or stop signs that delay the bus. All these moments, mundane though they may be, increase tension because the audience - the agents - know there is a bomb. A swerve in your bomb scene can be equally as ordinary. Monica the secretary stops to gossip with the doorman, unaware that this delay could cost lives. The Uber driver takes a wrong turn, or delays a little to flirt with his passenger. Every little moment counts.
One other thing the Director might consider is allowing Pursuer refreshes. Ordinarily the NPC doesn't get to use Thrilling Dialogue to refresh 3 pool points. That kind of thing is purely for the agents, to give them an advantage. So it should be - when the opposition is an NPC.
When the opposition is the ticking clock, it might do the agents good to panic a little. A refresh, with some appropriate dialogue, will ratchet up the tension, particularly since this is all happening in full view of the agents.
It's probably not useful to do this more than once, given that the Pursuer started with a higher pool anyway. However, one of the more effective moments in Saboteur's bomb sequence comes when the timer slips, 1 p.m. comes and goes - and the bomb does not go off. So the audience takes a breath. Half past comes and goes. Still no explosion. It's almost 2 p.m. ...
