Description: Mike Haggar meets with Interpol agent Hon-Fu, securing the last bit of legitimacy he needs to realize his designs on King of Fighters. WATCH OUT FOR: The French!
Hon-Fu is living the good life.
Bagging Yamazaki has been Interpol's biggest coup in months. Though their organization remains the pre-eminent international police force and their assistance is regularly requested by nations that are not America (read: lesser nations (read: France)) with local issues and cross-border complications, Interpol has in recent years suffered a dearth of talent. While their administrative skills and overall organization are almost unimpeachable, their ability to actually apprehend dangerous criminals has dropped precipitously over the years. The most formidable villains in the world have nothing to fear from the law, and nothing -- and no one -- Interpol has to offer can change that.
Hon-Fu is resting on his laurels.
It's an odd feeling, being the only skilled warrior on his force. Hon-Fu went unrecognized for a fair amount of time, and never thought much of it, so consumed with his own intense pursuits that he never actively sought promotion. He himself never gave much thought to the fact that he is currently, after the much-publicized and hastily-buried loss of Chun-Li, Interpol's strongest asset when it comes to taking down law-offenders. It's only now that his superiors are lavishing him with praise and rewarding him for his efforts; it's only now that people are taking him seriously. Fearless and proud, Hon-Fu was enjoying it, at first. But now--
Hon-Fu is bored.
No, stratch that-- Hon-Fu is uneasy. They took him in for the first few weeks, but as time has passed, he's come to realize that after all the medals and all the back-scratching, the 'promotion' they foisted upon now Special Investigator Hon-Fu has limited his movements in ways he never anticipated. He assumed they'd want to send him out on all kinds of missions, now that they're forced to take him seriously -- fortunately nobody found out about the Raiden and Fuerte incident -- but while they've paraded him here and there, he's been able to do little that's in any way productive. No big cases. No big leads. There are all kinds of criminals out and about in this world, fearsome and powerful. But Hon-Fu can stop them -- right?
Idly, leaning back in his comfortable leather chair, his shaggy bowlcut hanging low over pensive eyes, the Fearless Detective twirls his nunchaku in one hand, gazing out the window at the garden courtyard that surrounds Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. His new office is nice, that's for sure. It's only now that it begins to seem something like a gilded cage. And with no word from Daniel, his outside contact, and with Franco and Kim otherwise occupied, Hon-Fu feels himself a bit out of options. His superiors have already packed up early for the weekend, though there are a few hours left in the office day. Somehow, this irks Hon-Fu much more than usual.
It's like they don't take him seriously.
IN THE COLD OPEN JUST BEFORE THE OPENING CREDITS OF THIS EPISODE
An airplane cuts across the sky, soaring over the seemingly endless blue of the Atlantic. Mike Haggar, Mayor of Metro City, starts from his doze in his business class seat, headphones jostling askew. Fixing those, his enormous hand moves into his suit jacket, checking on - and drawing out - two envelopes. One is unsealed, simply printed INTERPOL. The other has nothing on its face, but the elaborate red wax seal is instantly recognizable to anyone... 'in the know.' Replacing his papers, Haggar turns, looking pensively out his window as the Match of the Millenium theme slowly fades in.
NOW
France. You know, Haggar doesn't really mind France. Lyon is pleasant enough. Still, he's vaguely uncomfortable whenever outside of America - hell, whenever he isn't in Metro City. There's always that nagging guilt when he turns away, like a parent worried his child is going to erupt in a gang war the moment he's out of the room.
OK, it's a rough metaphor.
/Ideally/, someone would have alerted Hon-Fu to his scheduled meeting with the Mayor, but hey, bureaucracy. Hon-Fu gets his moment of warning when the gigantic, easily recognizable man hoves through the courtyard, barely stopping to take in the sights, well-tailored suit looking like it actually /fits/ him. He vanishes into the Interpol office, flashing a previously-received guest ID.
Shortly after, there's a knock on Hon-Fu's door, one that rattles everything in his office.
SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE
Two French Interpol autocrats sip wine in their atelier and discuss high society while twirling their thin waxed mustaches. A French maid steps into the room, bearing champagne in an ice bucket. "Monsieurs," she says huskily, "you have forgotten your appointment with the Mayor of Metro City. He will be arriving at your offices shortly."
Blankly, the two men look at each other. Finally, one gestures dismissively.
"Let Hon-Fu deal with it."
The two men chortle, their glasses clink.
"More like Fu Manchu!"
NOW
Hon-Fu blinks in surprise as his intercom beeps. Almost falling back in his teetering chair, he nimbly catches himself with one foot, kicks off his desk to spin himself around, reaches out for his phone, realizes he's still whirling his nunchaku in the hand he reached with, hesitates, refuses to drop his nunchaku, and ends up kicking the phone out of its perch and catching it with his off-hand as the chair continues to spin wildly. "Hello!?"
"Monsieur Fu?"
"Look," he snaps irritably, already in a bad mood from his brooding, "I told you people not to call me that. I know you're calling me Fu Manchu behind my back."
"Monsieur Fu, we would never do that. Your guest is here."
"My wh--"
Hon-Fu, still precariously spinning, forced to contort himself to prevent the cord of his phone -- note to self: get cordless phone -- from entangling him, is almost unseated once again by Haggar's pounding knock. The Fearless Detective flails, his leg is ensnared in the phone cord, and he tumbles to the ground with a loud crash, the phone jangling distinctively.
"I-- I'm a little busy!" he shouts, distractly, as he tries to extract himself. Flustered, he glances over toward the ajar door. Who on earth could this be? "Fighting crime! Very important! Come back later, please!"
Ugh, his foot is stuck.
Did we say the door was ajar? The door is locked. There is actually a jar by the door. On a pedestal. It contains citron paste for making citron tea. Hon-Fu loves citron tea.
That's what we were talking about.
If Mike Haggar knew people were in a thing and calling it an atelier he would give them his Look. If you get that Look, you can no longer enjoy wine. It's one of his fabulous secret powers.
But that's neither here nor there. The main thing to remember here is that Haggar set aside a block of time over the protests of many extremely loud and obnoxious people to come here to France, where everyone is kind of loud and obnoxious, to meet an Interpol agent - an entire organization of obnoxious people of varying volumes as far as Haggar is concerned - and now he is trying to delay the meeting very obnoxiously with the flimsiest of excuses.
Haggar takes the briefest of moments to prepare himself in case Hon-Fu is not lying - predicting standard Ninja Attack positions and planning the perfect spinning clothesline - and simply opens the locked door through main strength. The door is fine! The entire locking mechanism comes with it, a chunk of doorframe hanging next to the knob.
He takes in the tableau before him, his expression beginning with his grim mask of combat, shifting to bewilderment, pausing briefly on anger on its way to its final destination of sublimely nonplussed. "Agent Hon-Fu?" He asks slowly, controlling his voice away from making it /too/ clear that he is... annoyed.
Hon-Fu is rolling across the carpet, limbs akimbo, attempting with utmost vigor and care to extract himself from his phone, cursing loudly in Cantonese as it appears he's entangled himself in his own nunchaku. His cursing promptly ceases, if only because he has to lift his jaw off the floor, when Haggar calmly bursts through his door, tearing out the frame.
A lingering silence follows.
Finally, in a comparative feat of strength, or so Hon-Fu will later tell himself, the Fearless Detective simply tears free of his phone cord, utterly ruining the implement, and smoothly rises to his feet, scooping up his nunchaku and whirling them into his sash in a single smooth motion. "Mayor Haggar," he says stoutly, his composure unwavering, as though none of this has happened. "Welcome to my office. Please, step inside and be seated."
Apparently hoping this entire exchange will be forgotten, Hon-Fu says absolutely nothing about Haggar completely destroying the entryway to his office. In fact, this is the most exciting thing that has happened to Hon-Fu in weeks, and he has absolutely no complaints. If Haggar tore through his doors more regularly, his life would be much more exciting. Plus, this will burn his superiors much more than him. Speaking of which--
"I apologize that my superiors are not here to receive you, Mayor," Hon-Fu says with uncharacteristic courtesy, though almost immediately his shoulders begin to slouch a little as he pulls out the only other chair in the room, moving it opposite to his own desk, and stands by his own leather chair, waiting for Haggar to be seated. It's clear that Hon-Fu is perfectly capable of formality -- in limited bursts. He's survived this long in Interpol. "I assure you that I speak for them in all respects." This is complete bullshit, but right now, Hon-Fu really dislikes those guys.
Once seated, he pauses for a moment, letting these several seconds of decorum reign, as though a kind of counterbalance for their respective first impressions. Whereupon he leans in, steeples his fingers, and grins, his eyes widening. "Never thought I'd see an American representative here," he then remarks. "I hope you've got a case for me, Mayor."
Haggar takes a steadying breath, and steps foward, trying to close the door behind him and scraping himself with the frame he took with him. He looks at it, turns, and... sort of wedges it into a reasonable facsimile of 'in place' before turning around, reaching into his jacket as he crosses the office. "As it happens, I have /the/ case."
He sits in the chair - gently, as most chairs are not rated for him - and places both envelopes on the table, the Interpol one first. "Honestly, I'm surprised someone hasn't already told you. I've cut a deal with Interpol." He reaches forward, shifting the Interpol letter to reveal the other, and its red seal. "I have a team of trained police officers entering the King of Fighters tournament this year, products of a new training program I've instituted. You know as well as I do that every dark thing in the world comes to light during King of Fighters."
He taps at the Interpol envelope. "Yer higher-ups have agreed to assign you to the team as oversight in exchange for allowing my officers to work outside of their jurisdiction on any information they may happen to dig up. Actually competin' is kind of a side goal, makes it more convenient to move around." He leans back, smoothing his mustache for a moment. "Technically, this puts them under yer command."
SOME TIME AGO
Two French interpol autocrats delicately imbabe appertifs in their gazebo and discuss the finer points of falconry while adjusting their berets. A French maid steps into the garden, bearing hors d'ouvre on a filigreed silver tray. "Monsieurs," he murmurs seductively, "the Mayor of Metro City has requested your assistance in infiltrating King of Fighters with an independent force of Metro City policemen."
Blankly, the two men look at each other. At long last, one gestures dismissively.
"Let Hon-Fu deal with it."
The two men chortle, their glasses clink.
"He can fly Hon Solo!"
NOW
Hon-Fu's brow furrows.
"King of Fighters," he murmurs to himself, as soon as he sees the red-sealed envelope. The gears are turning in the back of his mind; he is silent as Haggar speaks. He already rebuffed Daniel regarding King of Fighters, and though he would rather forget the majority of that day, and was quite drunk, he can easily remember what he said. Without a specific danger to seek out, they'd overextend their authority. Police have to lay traps, corner criminals alone, draw them out. There are rules in place, and dangers in store. Hon-Fu may be reckless at times, but he's well-accustomed to the rules and regulations that keep him doing the job he loves -- or the job he sometimes loves. He never would've barged into Yamazaki's lair, and never would have sought him out in a fighting circut just for kicks. Well-- hmm, alright, maybe he would. There's something appealing about that. Belatedly, Hon-Fu starts to see Daniel's point. But--
This is different. This is political. He can smell it.
Hon-Fu's grin has faded.
"You know," he says, his eyes unblinking, "I've had this conversation before. A detective I know wanted to put a team together to investigate the tournament from within; thought it'd be inevitably a good idea, what with the riff-raff that show themselves. I pointed out how tough it would be to pin anyone down, how reckless it would be to expose ourselves." Not that Hon-Fu has the right to accuse anyone else of recklessness; but accuse he does. "The fact was, much as I appreciate the man, he wanted to put /himself/ on the map. I didn't doubt his motives or intentions. But even a showy guy like me works from the shadows, bides his time. There was a self-aggrandizing element to his approach that seemed-- counter-productive." He doesn't mind self-aggrandizement as long as seems somehow constructive.
He leans in, his elbows on the table.
"I get to supervise your team. My organization gets to disavow responsibility if things go wrong, because you're working out of their jurisdiction. We have no specific goal except the assumption, however likely, that dangerous individuals will show themselves at the tournament. You're taking a lot of risks here, Mayor. And Interpol's going to reap a lot of the reward -- if anything comes of it."
He still hasn't blinked.
"Forgive my crudeness," he says curtly, as though he doesn't much care who forgives what, "but what's your angle, exactly?"
Under normal circumstances, he'd probably be nicer to Haggar. He respects a man who can tear open his door (how is he not mad about that?). But everyone seems like they're trying to use him these days. No one seems to be taking his work seriously. Everyone has their own big ideas about how things ought to be done.
"Frankly, I'm dubious of our chances at achieving anything."
And only Hon-Fu is catching criminals.
"With all respect, I prefer to make a fool of myself on my own time."
The Mayor digests what Hon-Fu has said for a time, eyes lidded, hands clasped in his lap. Slowly, he leans forward, chair complaining, and rests his elbows on Hon-Fu's desk. When his eyes open, his gaze is piercing... and open.
"I won't lie to you or use double-speak. To a small degree, you're a tool in this, to let me loose my cops without having to worry about systems or bureaucracy getting in the way." The Mayor lifts his chin. "But if it was gonna be anyone, I'd want it to be you. To be frank, and I don't care what international incident sayin' this might cause, you're the only man worth a damn in this organization ever since Chun-Li Xiang jumped ship, when it comes to dealing with high-powered crime."
Haggar's arms drop, and he adjusts his tie. "But enough'a that. There's a difference between one detective with a good idea and an operation being undertaken by a force backed with resources. Whether we manage to nail anyone or not, it's gonna send a message. Look at what the world's got now." Haggar stands, pacing the office, getting fired up. He sweeps a gesture through the air. "Shadaloo does whatever the hell it wants. NESTS is banging so many chemistry sets together they might make a black hole any second. Rugal has both hands wrapped around the neck of the criminal underworld. Y'got a war in Thailand, a war in the streets of Southtown, and God knows what went down in that Taizhou place!"
"You got people doin' what they can, but the only bust Interpol's made in God knows how long is you finally nabbin' Yamazaki. Ikari can only do so much, and I'll be damned if I trust /Bernstein's/ kid as far as I can throw him." Haggar grabs the back of his chair, taking a breath. "I gotta feelin', as soon as my boys hit this pond, it's gonna rile some people up, make 'em tip their hands. At the end of the day, I'm tired of seein' the world tolerate people preying on the weak. There's gotta be a force to stand against 'em, understand?" The Mayor locks eyes with Hon-Fu, chest heaving, and suddenly realizes that everything might hinge on this. Technically, Hon-Fu's been ordered to cooperate, but if he refuses, Haggar can't do anything about it except try to pound it into his head - which he doesn't want to do. If Hon-Fu turns him down, he loses what legal footing he's barely balancing on now.
He's not the detective. Haggar's never been a man that can hide his emotions. He turns away, clamping a hand on his shoulder, wheeling it to relieve the tension building up. Having mastered himself again, he sinks down in Hon-Fu's offered chair again, arms resting in his lap, hunched forward. "If this works, maybe it impresses someone big, and maybe that means I can keep doin' this. I'm lookin' past King of Fighters here, I'm trying to create somethin'. I need your help to pull this off."
Hon-Fu stares in stoic silence. Despite the mayor's undeniably imposing presence, the Fearless Detective meets his gaze, well, fearlessly. But whatever sardonic tinge his eyes might have acquired during his previous speech is gone, now -- gone entirely. He manages, in defiance of his usual public persona, something of a poker face. But his eyes are a little too widened for that -- just by a smidge. And when the great wrestler finishes his takedown, as it were, of the international law enforcement situation of the day, Hon-Fu, though he hides it well, has to swallow to clear his throat.
This guy might do it.
He might really pull it off.
This is a real man, right here.
Careful, Hon-Fu, careful. "You're an honest man, Mayor Haggar," the special investigator murmurs, his tone clear and unmitigated by his previous scorn or pre-previous outrageous shenanigans. (The doorframe is still crumbling slightly, flakes of paint and splinters of wood dropping onto the carpet. Hon-Fu elects to ignore this in favor of more pressing matters.) "I haven't had a politician be that straight with me in a long time." He straightens a little in his chair, which also constitutes leaning back, since he had spent that whole time leaning forward. "But seems to me, if you don't mind me saying so, Mayor, like being a politician is for you a means to an end. I... respect that."
Being a cop is a means to an end, too.
"I'll help you."
An end that Hon-Fu isn't achieving here, right now.
"I will need the members of the team you've assembled to report to me," he says slowly, clearly proceeding carefully, "to ensure we don't violate any international regulations during the course of our mission, if and when we seek to apprehend some of the tournament's participants or organizers. If I understand you correctly, these are local cops. If I'm to best ensure the success of your mission, Mayor, I'll need them to defer to me in matters of discretion." Because that's what Hon-Fu is known for: discretion. This is sure to go well. "Responsibility will fall with them, and with you, if we foul up, but I will consider it my primary role to make certain that doesn't happen."
He can't say that Interpol is a mess. He can't admit that criminals like Yamazaki -- no, though it's hard for him to admit it, /worse/ than Yamazaki -- prowl around at their leisure. And they haven't explained to him in a long time why they get away with it. But he tries to express, with what subtlety he can muster, that Haggar has impressed him with his mission -- and with his sincerity. Reminds him of Kim a little bit, insofar as he's a man with the same goals and a very different method. Less irritating than Kim, though.
Ugh, this kind of conversation isn't in Hon-Fu's nature.
"I don't know how your 'force' is gonna turn out, but I'll do what I can to ensure we at least don't run afoul of Interpol." There's a 'we'. Hon-Fu can't really hold it any longer. He kicks back, leaning far, and grins wide. "No need to thank me," he says archly, whether or not Haggar was planning on thanking him.
"I'm just looking forward to the work-out."
It's never been about the power and the money.
It's always been about Metro.
It's always been about Jessica.
...it has always, from the very beginning, been about Nancy.
Mike Haggar is not a man particularly known for compromise. He is hell to go into a meeting with when he has his mind set on an idea - he will defend and argue his point for hours. He gives no ground, he doesn't back away a single inch. When someone is able to make Haggar reconsider his position in a debate, that man is bought a steak and drinks free for the rest of the week.
Mike Haggar came here with the initial idea to cow Hon-Fu into going along for the ride, being a figurehead. He flexes his hands and knots them together for a moment, face betraying none of the thought and calculation going right now. He was hoping to dodge the idea of an Interpol agent actually /being/ in command. He wanted his cake - also, he wanted to eat it.
The chair rumbles back as Haggar stands, unravelling his hands from each other, lifting his right to his suit jacket. He brushes it once, twice.
The Mayor didn't get to where he is today without learning to take the measure of a man. He wasn't sure what to expect from Hon-Fu, but it's clear that the man has an iron will - of course he would, being one of the few members of Interpol thrust out into the most dangerous missions. His powerful right hand extends over the desk, Haggar bending at the waist so the agent doesn't have to reach over his head.
He nods, once, mouth stern beneath his thick mustache - and it breaks into a small grin. "It's gonna be a pleasure workin' with ya."
Hon-Fu has to be sharp to survive, too. While less able to put on even a pretense of masking his frustration or swallowing his pride -- hardly politician material -- he doesn't see anything dirty about working the system as cynically as possible to get what he wants. What he wants, of course, is justice. And that fundamental drive is what has united him with other kindred spirits, like Franco and Kim, those who at some essential level cannot deny their righteous need for a righter, fairer world. Though he wasn't sure at first, he can no longer deny that Haggar, too, seems like that brand of man.
But he has too many pieces in play right now. He can't afford to let Interpol down. He's taken them to the point where he was able to use their resources -- and his own connections, forged as a respected investigator -- to take Yamazaki down, to /finally/ take him down. He can't blow that capital. Even now, trapped at this desk, he believes fervently, he has to believe, that Interpol can be a force of good in the world, not because he has some faith in the organization but simply because he's invested so much in it. Even if Haggar seems like he might even realize his ideals, Hon-Fu can't lower his guard. If these local cops foul up King of Fighters and make a show of themselves, Interpol will have to shut them down. Yet Hon-Fu's own ideal is already fomenting: that these brave men will succeed in some important way, that Interpol will be able to bask in the glory -- and that this will drive Interpol, at last, to further action, when they see the light.
Hon-Fu may seem at times like he seeks to advance only his own organization. His reckless tongue and casual hubris will likely reinforce that impression in the future. But in the end, he's using Interpol too, in his own way. He's a man of personal bonds, not organizational loyalty. And nobody here has his respect any longer.
Haggar may not have the advantage here yet--
"Heh..."
But Hon-Fu won't be able to disguise that for long.
"Likewise."
The hand is met with a-- well, a smaller one.
"So, when do we start?" he says, his casual confidence not entirely disguising his genuine earnestness. On some important level, at least, that speech really seems to have persuaded him. "When do I meet the crew?"
After the handshake (firm, with a certain amount of instinctive alpha male force), Haggar's hand goes into his suit jacket again, because suits are great for carrying files. He draws out a manilla envelope, and places it on Hon-Fu's desk. "Dossiers on the four teammembers. They're dealin' with a case in Metro - someone lower on the level of yer Yamazaki, but still a hell of a thorn. It'll be wrapped up by the time KoF starts up. Anyway, if you wanna meet 'em before the tournament, yer gonna have to fly out over there, I got some empty rooms in Haggar Arms I can set you up with."
The Mayor starts counting them off, one-to-four. "Seargant Thomas Miracle, he's the head instructor of the Division 8 Training Program that produced these guys. Tough as a bucket of nails, ex-army, lost his wife an' kids to Mad Gear." Haggar stops for a moment. He doesn't betray any particular emotion, he just... goes still for a bit. Then, like it hadn't happened, he holds up two fingers. "Sho Easten, pulled from SWAT, he's got a... black ops background. He's our gadgeteer and interrogator, one of the smartest men I've ever met."
"Sorsha Carcetti's a bit of a loose cannon, which makes her a perfect fit for D8. She's a goddamn freight train. If she hits her stride, Chun-Li's title's gonna be in jeopardy." Mike sighs. "...and then there's Carmine Kolodzik. He's a soft touch. To tell ya the truth, yer gonna take one look at this kid and wonder what he's doin' on the team, but he's special." Haggar reaches up, and taps his head. "Psychic, sensitive, whatever you wanna call it. He's the weak link inna fight, but if he has a hunch, he's probably on the right track. Keep an eye on 'im, he's got tin in his blood but he's still learnin'."
Hon-Fu is already shuffling through the files. He's listening, don't worry. But he has a one-track mind, and right now that track says D8. "Hmm, hmm," he murmurs, scanning the dossiers with a practiced air that in this particular case is unfeigned. "Alright." He doesn't catch Haggar's pause at the mention of Miracle's past, but he does nod and remain silent in response, which might be positively mistaken as a sign of respect. In fact, Hon-Fu's just completely absorbed in his own esoteric and more-or-less reasonable calculations. As anticipated, it's nothing to sneeze at. Haggar has a team of legitimates. And, as he implied, they likely are more legitimate than anyone else Interpol has to offer.
Well, maybe not this Carmine kid--
"...Psychic?"
Hon-Fu glances sharply at Haggar, and slowly grows a lopsided grin.
"You've covered all the angles. I'll make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble. That's the kind of resource I want to protect."
He's still thinking as he shuffles the files together. "Well, we have a decent shot at holding out long enough to get some information," he murmurs, his eyes still lowered to the desk, his brow furrowed. "We have to move fast, though. Let's keep our eyes open for -- heh -- the unexpected." There's no real mirth in the next smile he offers Haggar. At this point, it's hard to know what constitutes 'expected' in the King of Fighters: everything or nothing. "I don't mean to cut us down too much before we begin, but we'll be facing some serious opposition. I'm talking like one-on-one fights with-- well, with Yamazaki. We have to do what we can with the time we have. If we don't make it far, we need to linger."
Even as he talks, his mind is somewhat elsewhere. Chun-Li's title, huh? Whether or not Haggar meant to drop that, it's picking at a wound that Hon-Fu himself has been pondering about as Interpol has only seemed to become less effectual. Hon-Fu may be the toughest guy at Interpol now, but he knows he doesn't stand a chance against the Strongest Woman in the World. Not that he's scared of her, but-- well, you know.
He's starting to wonder if he knows why she left.
Haggar responds with a fierce grin, a light coming into his eyes. "Every D8 candidate is trained to handle the same situations I've had to." Which may be a horrifying thought - an entire army of people trained to tear through huge violent gangs solo, if necessary. "They won't balk, and they'll give 100%. Anyway, entering the tournament itself is more equal parts formality an' cover. Once yer in, you'll have an excuse to hang around, and the organizers will keep you in the /official/ loop, at least." He pats his chest. "I'm enterin' too - Oyaji Team, this year. I'll be keeping my eyes just as open."
There's a faint buzz, and Haggar discreetly, politely turns to the side, glancing down at something in his pocket. He frowns - things are finally bubbling over back home that he has to start dealing with things personally.
BACK IN METRO CITY
Haggar's assistant's outstretched, plaintive fist slowly sinks under a sea of roiling lobbyists, constituents, and whiners, his fingers locked in a death grip on a cell phone.
BACK AT THE RANCH
Haggar focues his full attention on Hon-Fu once again - the boy'll be alright for at least a few more minutes. "Even if we don't make any major busts, we'll definitely gather information. Again, the long game here." The faint buzz again, and Haggar frowns.
Hon-Fu grins back. He can't help himself. Everyone knows the 'situations' that Haggar has had to 'handle'. If the redoubtable Mayor is serious about that -- and Hon-Fu isn't entirely convinced he is, if only because an army of Haggars is a fairly terrifying thought -- then they even have a fighting chance. But the man has a point: even if they can only make a show of it, they'll have an opportunity to do some searching.
"Right, then, it sounds like you've--"
Hon-Fu's gaze flickers to the source of the buzzing.
Whereupon his own phone, despite being seemingly destroyed during his previous debacle, begins to ring as well, in a mangled and distorted sort of manner.
ELSEWHERE
Two Interpol autocrats are lounging about their palatial estate in their berets giving each other homoerotic backrubs while bathing in dessert wine. Soon, they grow bored, as they do of anything, and glance at one another thoughtfully. Finally, one of them brightens.
"Want to prank call Hon-Fu?"
Laughing, they clink their wine glasses together, which of course are not filled with the wine they are bathing in, because that would be disgusting.
"He'll be Hon-Fooled!"
HERE AND NOW
"Looks like my bosses," Hon-Fu mumbles, not sounding too pleased about it as he regards the damaged display. He means 'looks like' quite literally; he can't really tell entirely through the cracks he left in the plastic. "Er, I'd better... take this call, but..."
He grins again, his eyes brightening. It's not that he trusts Haggar, exactly. It's not that he has any confidence in this organization of his, necessarily. But maybe-- maybe-- there's a chance that-- well.
"I'll make arrangements to join your team soon."
This might just work.
"Let's play... the long game."
That dream of justice they all had--
It's in reach once again.
Log created on 19:34:14 01/21/2011 by Haggar, and last modified on 00:18:43 01/31/2011.