Philanthropy: The Brogan Chapter

Rain whipped across Brogan's face as he rode down the newly paved road to Sofuton, a sign of the changing time, not that it mattered, the things that did never change. He paid the rain no heed as it beaded off his water-resistant gear like water off a duck's back; he had long since acclimated to such mundane discomforts. Besides, he had a policy: why put off till tomorrow what you could do today? While others were sleeping, you could be eating their lunch.

World Without Poverty, or WWP as they had branded themselves, was a new thorn that had lodged itself in his employer's side, and therefore into his side. A self-proclaimed charitable organization that had originated and primarily operated in New Praven, but had begun expanding into other regions, most notably, its Southern neighbor.

Sofuton was only a short ride from Reastera, even shorter on the new-fangled auto-bike that had risen to prominence. On horseback, he had made the journey in around an hour, but on this new contraption, it took only 20 minutes. Actual progress: Brogan really did hate to waste time.

The WWP did the kind of things you would expect from a charity, providing food for the needy and clothes for the naked. These kinds of organizations were usually run by a temple—mainly temples to Marathaa—but the WWP by all accounts was completely secular. Furthermore, while the standard religious-based charities could never meet the demand, this new organization had resources to spare. This alone gave Brogan reason to suspect they were playing with a loaded deck, not that he disapproved.

He pulled his auto-bike to the side on the first main thoroughfare of Sofuton, a mid-sized city by any measure. Mid-size building, mid-sized population, standard income distribution, along with the expected number of urchins, bums, con-men, and drunkards. What set it apart, though, and what might ultimately raise it to greater prosperity, was that it served the smaller port towns of Crete's Crater.

No glory today, however. The rain and gray skies gave it a gloomy and soiled appearance of a landscape painted with mud. Well, time for Brogan to get to work.

Neither he nor House Uvald had a problem with the WWP per se. What they took issue with was the Touala's involvement. Traditionally, a great house wouldn't worry much about bottom rung philanthropy—orchestral halls would buy you a great deal more clout—but the times were changing, and the opinion of the common man could no longer just be ignored.

With the WWP's stellar efficacy, the Toualas stood to gain an immense amount of goodwill. The natural response would be to throw your support behind them as well, and let the difference wash out. However, the WWP did not accept donations or other aid, which only solidified Brogan's suspicions. What the WWP had with the Toualas was a shipping contract.

The Touala Company shipping office and warehouse resided in the Northern end of the city. It had grown busy over the last decade, with people always coming and going, often moving cargo or goods. A quick stroll past revealed that WWP operatives accounted for nearly half of the activity—you couldn’t miss their uniforms, a blue apron overlaying white with a matching cap. Some hustled about large pallets full of goods, but most activity seemed like local distribution. So many ants scurrying about. Brogan picked out a female distributor at random and followed, keeping his distance.

Marvril Touala, in his younger years, had wisely foresaw the need for large-scale transportation and distribution, and had spent the last 30 years building this network—his most recent enterprise was establishing wide-scale rail services. Needless to say, it had paid dividends, and now they had gained this unexpected windfall of popular support from their transport contract with the WWP. With one business deal, he had completely overshadowed all the capital Conroy had invested in the enrichment of the common man. This could not stand.

That is where House Uvald's chief, and only, security officer came in. A broad title covering many areas, brand prestige, for instance. And the Uvalds' brand needed defending... from not being outshone. A big task for sure, too big for any one man acting alone, you might think. Perhaps, but Conroy didn't invent a position for this wily ex-adventure because he could produce only mundane results.

The woman had loaded up a mule-driven cart overflowing with provisions and set off down the waterlogged streets, food nearly spilling over the sides. Brogan didn't trust this either. An organization with seemingly inexhaustible resources using this soon-to-be antiquated drawn cart? Sure, auto-carriage still came at a premium, but that wouldn’t last. Plus, Touala Company had an entire fleet of modern vehicles at their disposal. But Marvril knew the game; people could relate to a mule-driven cart.

It appeared she had several planned stops: orphanages, hospitals, and numerous destitute families. But that didn't prevent her from stopping at every beggar and bum she came across and giving them free rein to anything on her cart. This must be a common occurrence, because they only took what they needed and didn't hoard.

This could be a problem. Brogan had intended to pump the homeless population for information—they tend to know things. But a well-fed beggar isn't a beggar at all, and would be much inclined to keep their benefactor’s secrets—well played. Well, he could always solicit the services of Urchans & Beggars; they had superior information anyway, though you would pay well for it.

After stretching the journey out several fold with the courtesy stops, she reached her final destination: a large but modest building looking to have been recently renovated. Brogan noted the presence of several other carts, driven by men and women in white and blue uniforms, offloading whatever foodstuffs they hadn't convinced vagrants to rid them of, a large bay door in the back swallowing up the surplus.

What was going on inside? Brogan prided himself on his infiltration acumen, but he wouldn’t have to sneak in; people freely came and went through the front door as desperate as rag clad panhandlers to gentlemen in fine coats. Through a large window, he could see row upon row of long tables with people partaking of generous portions. A restaurant? But no, that wouldn't be on theme. The kitchen staff plied their trade in the open, placing a bowl in the hands of anyone who approached. Not just placing, it appeared they actually had a menu and were trying to convince the patrons—if you could call them that—to take more. He would need to go in to further investigate, but before he could pull the door handle, he had to side step as the door swung open. A large man with a bushy mustache stepped out with a plate of food and offered it to a stray dog, who wagged its tail in acceptance.

They are even feeding the local vermin?? He started to grow irritated, a stiff frown cracking into his stone face. Still, he entered without making a scene, the interior display only solidifying his contempt. Not only were they offering generous portions to any who asked, he even spotted a formally dressed gentleman in attendance, though he looked an eccentric. And it went further, with an offering of clothing, shoes, and other necessities.

"Excuse me, sir, would you like some New Port stew?" A merry middle-aged woman asked. "It's most notable for its melted cheese." If not for the goggles, she would have seen Brogan's eye twitch.

"...No." It came off as rude, but still several shades more polite than a Brogan, not in the employ of House Uvald and obligated to maintain their image, would have offered. The terse reply had the desired effect, and she withdrew back to the safety of her cauldron, perturbed. Well, he had seen everything he needed.

Leaving the "soup kitchen," he took a long, sharp breath in through his nose, held it, and blew it out through pursed lips. What the hell was all that?? Back in his day, being an urchin or beggar meant something. It meant that if you wanted shoes, you'd best get some shoes. And if your clothing didn't fit or was falling apart, you'd best get yourself some clothing. And if you were hungry? Well, one could go about that in a number of ways, depending on what you were and how much you were willing to debase yourself. One thing was certain, though: nobody would make any of that easy. He would know; it had made him the man he was. He would have turned into a downright shit if they had just handed all that to him.

But that didn't matter now. The population was riding high on the free supply of quality foodstuffs, and the WWP had garnered a great deal of respect. And the Toualas were right there to shave a little off the top. That couldn't be allowed to continue.

As Brogan made his way back to the warehouse, the rain began to pick up. That scraggly dog from before, the one the man with the absurd mustache had fed, walked up to him, wagging its tail and looking up at him, its tongue hanging out. He clicked his tongue before rearing back an immaculate leather boot and giving the dog a swift kick, sending it flying into a trash receptacle with a crash. "Pff," he blew out, shaking his head as he walked off.

Brogan stopped back at his auto-bike to grab a simple leather backpack, notable only by its large size, before spending the rest of the working hours surveying the warehouse. Perhaps unnecessary, but always better to be on the safe side if possible. More importantly, he needed to wait until most of the workmen had gone home for the evening, as infiltrating would be easier without needing to evade staff, though Brogan had dealt with worse. Still, no point in taking unnecessary risks.

People milled about even after night fell; a place like this never really closed up, just slowed down. Regardless, Brogan spared no sweat slipping in unnoticed, working his way through the warehouse and fading into the shadows whenever a dreary worker came by. If spotted, he could play it off like he belonged there; the warehouse served many independent companies. Still, better to remain unseen so nobody could finger him for what he had planned.

The warehouse sprawled over a considerable chunk of Sofuton, a square building consisting of cinder blocks—Marvril wasn't about to go all out on masonry—composing one large room. However, with the freight and cargo forming corridors and room-like sections, it felt like a labyrinth. Certainly, first-timers would find themself wandering around as if lost in a dungeon. As a former adventurer, Brogan thrived in such environments, with the clear lack of central planning creating many alcoves to slink behind, to say nothing of the elevated position the crates offered.

With such a vast amount of goods in storage, Brogan had suspected it might take some effort to find the WWP's supplies; this proved incorrect. In fact, it would be hard to miss, taking up no less than a quarter of the entire floor space. Furthermore, that section saw little activity as everyone was doubtless sleeping off their overindulgence.

They stored their goods in square wooden crates, small enough that a single man could carry, but not so small that they could carry more than one. On each of the crates was stamped "World without Poverty" over what Brogan recognized as a trademark design—those were becoming popular—of a cauldron with a stirring spoon. Spanning the entire opposite side was the Touala Transport Company logo: a ship riding over rough waters. Of course, the Toualas would want credit for granting such a large windfall. He did not consider the fact that many of the other boxes in the warehouse also bore such marks.

But damn, there was a lot of food. If the city had walls, he would estimate that Sofuton could withstand a siege for 6 months on just what they had assembled here. With such wanton distribution of food, it would only be a matter of time before all the food vendors found themselves as destitute as the beggars. Perhaps a few would survive, spared by people with too much self-respect to take handouts. That didn't matter to Brogan, though. Still, it might be that his work could help them out, regardless.

The boxes had a third brand: the date. The earlier dates were in the front and the later dates in the back. If they practiced basic food rotation, the earlier ones would go first. Another thing of note: they had organized the crates into two sections, a large one and a significantly smaller one. Upon closer inspection, the large section was segmented into numerous subsections, all labeled with destinations in mind. How considerate of the Toualas Transport Company. This would make his job much easier.

He pulled a crowbar from his oversized pack and cracked the first crate open. Inside, he found the expected assortment of non-perishable foodstuffs: grains, beans, cheeses, dried and cured meats, preserved fruits, and even seasonings! Brogan huffed. Even kings didn't eat so well but a century ago.

He looked over all the crates; he had a long night ahead of him. Well, best to get to it, and he dropped his bag and started rummaging through, pulling bags of a powdered substance along with syringes—a more recent development—and a jug. With these tools, Brogan began his work.

He was still finishing up his work when the first WWWP staff started shuffling about the place. Not enough reason for him to stop unfinished, and as he had worked his way to the rear of the pile, they wouldn’t discover him. Once complete, he wiped the sweat from his brow and made a stealthy exit, slipping away like an autumn breeze.

The first and the last crates, that's all he had time for, and also the only thing he needed time for. The double bump strategy always delighted.

He had only poisoned the first day or two of crates, but also the last two days of crates. Of course, it couldn't look intentional, so he had chosen a poison with rather poor efficacy as far as killing went, being only deadly around 50% of the time—but miserable 100% of the time. Death, or at least mass death, wasn't his chief concern. Obfuscating the foul play involved and damaging the Touala's reputation was the objective. The WWP's reputation would also suffer, and while this wasn't specifically part of his assignment, Brogan took some joy in knowing that it would.

The toxin created symptoms akin to acute food poisoning, masking the actual poison and achieving the first objective. People would suspect bad food, which served the second issue of damaging the Touala's reputation. If they could receive credit for the WWP's work, then they could accept the blame for their failure.

The genius in his plan lay in the double bump strategy. After a mass outbreak of food poisoning, they would doubtless check the food crates, and it would only make sense to check the next crates to be distributed. Of course, they would find no fault with these and probably wouldn't proceed to check any further. And indeed, things would return to normal. However, just as their reputation recovered, they would be hit with the second wave of "food poisoning," and their fate would be sealed.

As for the crates destined to other locations, it was too much work to employ the same protocol, and Brogan resolved to just poison the later provisions for each destination.

Of course, the WWP could just dump everything and cut their losses. This would mitigate the double bump, but they would suffer financially—if such a thing even mattered to them. They could also get run out of town on a rail, but that might be too optimistic. Still, a good day's work, he noted as he walked out into a clear blue morning.