The following week was one of subtle consolidation for Elias. Mickey O'Halloran, fueled by his Goblin powers and a potent mix of greed and fear, proved to be a surprisingly effective, if unsavory, asset. He delivered small but consistent hauls: petty cash from unattended tills, pawnable trinkets from unlocked rooms, and, more valuably, snippets of information gleaned from his nocturnal skulkings. He'd overhear drunken boasts in taverns, observe clandestine meetings in shadowy alleys, and report back with an unnerving, rat-like eagerness.
Elias had him focus on the fringes of Lou Scarelli's operations – the low-level enforcers, the betting parlors, the speak-easies that paid protection money. Mickey wasn't to engage, merely to observe and report. Each piece of information, each pilfered ledger page or carelessly discarded note, added a brushstroke to Elias's growing picture of Scarelli's network. The System logged Mickey's 'acquisitions' and offered the 10% energy conversion, which Elias consistently took. His System Energy was slowly, almost imperceptibly, ticking upwards: [75.35/100], [75.80/100], each fraction a testament to Mickey's newfound efficacy. His own Host Power, specifically his agility and perception, had seen a cumulative tiny increase to [3.08], the System diligently re-calculating with each fractional gain from Mickey's efforts. It wasn't dramatic, but it was growth.
Anya Petrova, meanwhile, was a different kind of asset. Elias met with her twice in a disused attic space of one of his older buildings near the Lachine Canal – a place with long sightlines and minimal risk of interruption. He provided her with a simple, well-made slingshot and a bag of smooth river stones. No firearms yet; too much attention, too much risk. But the Archer's innate projectile mastery applied to anything.
Her progress was astounding. Within an hour, she was consistently hitting coin-sized targets at fifty paces. Her enhanced vision allowed her to see the subtle shifts in wind, the infinitesimal tremor in her own hand, and compensate almost unconsciously. There was a fierce joy in her practice, the joy of someone finally wielding a skill that felt truly her own, magnified beyond imagining.
"It's like the stone knows where to go before I even release it," she murmured one afternoon, watching a pebble shatter a piece of discarded bottle glass perched on a distant fence post.
Elias observed, making mental notes. "Your focus is remarkable, Anya. Soon, we'll find you more… practical targets." He wasn't thinking of assassination. Not yet. But surveillance, retrieval of small objects from difficult locations, delivering messages with pinpoint accuracy… the possibilities were myriad. Her power level on the System interface read [Archer Lv.1], steady and reliable. The [0.2%] increase to his own visual acuity was noticeable; details at a distance were clearer than they had ever been.
Thomas MacIntyre remained his cornerstone. The Barbarian's strength was a comforting, grounding presence. He continued his duties as head groundskeeper, his enhanced physicality making short work of tasks that once took hours. More importantly, he was a visible deterrent. Word had subtly spread among the more observant criminal elements that Mr. Thorne's old Scotsman was… different now. Less approachable. Some had tested this, with ill-advised attempts at petty vandalism or intimidation on Thorne properties. They'd limped away, nursing bruised egos and more tangible injuries, with stories of the quiet groundskeeper's shocking, explosive strength. Thomas never overplayed his hand, just applied enough force to make the point unmistakably clear. His presence alone began to lower the petty crime rate around Elias's buildings.
One blustery evening, Thomas reported something more concrete. "The butcher shop, Leclerc's, down on Notre-Dame," he rumbled, his breath misting in the cold air of Elias's apartment. "Two of Scarelli's leg-breakers were in there this afternoon. Not buying meat. They were… leanin' on old man Leclerc. Saw them through the window. Didn't like the look of it, sir."
Elias frowned. Henri Leclerc was a tenant in one of his smaller commercial properties. A good man, honest, if a little too timid for his own good. He'd been struggling since the Depression hit, his profits dwindling. If Scarelli was squeezing him…
"Did you intervene?" Elias asked.
Thomas shook his head, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "My instructions were to observe and report anything regarding Scarelli, sir. Not to break heads without your say-so. They left after a few minutes. Leclerc looked like he'd seen a ghost."
Elias nodded. Thomas's discipline was commendable. Blind rage wouldn't serve them. Scarelli was a cancer, and cancers needed to be excised with precision, not just battered.
"Good. You did right, Thomas." Elias paced his small living room, the gears in his mind turning. "Leclerc is vulnerable. If Scarelli establishes a foothold there, he'll use it to pressure other tenants, perhaps even try to muscle in on my properties directly." This was a test. A challenge to his nascent control.
He stopped pacing. "Thomas, tomorrow morning, I want you to pay Mr. Leclerc a visit. Not as my groundskeeper, but as a… concerned citizen. Let him know that some people in the neighborhood are aware of Scarelli's interest and disapprove. Be… persuasive. Let him understand he's not entirely alone."
Thomas's eyes lit up with a grim understanding. "Persuasive, sir. Aye. I can do that."
"No overt violence unless absolutely necessary for self-defense," Elias cautioned. "We're sending a message, not starting a war. Not yet. But ensure Scarelli's men, should they return, understand that Leclerc's shop is… under new, unofficial patronage."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Thomas's face, the Barbarian's savagery bleeding through his controlled demeanor. "They'll get the message, Mr. Thorne. Loud and clear."
This was the next step. Moving from passive observation and recruitment to active, albeit subtle, intervention. He was extending his influence, drawing a line in the sand. Lou Scarelli, whether he knew it yet or not, was about to encounter a new kind of resistance in Montreal's underworld, a resistance backed by power he couldn't possibly comprehend.