"It doesn't matter," he says with a shrug. "I never saw Jake again, so."

"I might look into it for my own peace of mind, honestly. I didn't like Jake, but... I wouldn't have called this. I didn't call this."

Jauhung understands, distantly, that Thomas would be more interested in that than he is, but... well, saying that "Thomas is dead" is directionally correct but is, itself, a much heavier way to put it than he thinks is merited. There was once a boy who lived in the US and who used the name "Thomas Black"; for various reasons, that boy is now living in Hong Kong and is called Hak Jauhung.

Nothing more than that.

Drag in, puff out.

Ariel starts fiddling with a loose bit of upholstery. "Ehonté didn't say how long he'd -"

Ehonté abruptly straightens up, opens his slightly-glowing eyes, and yanks his finger out of the socket. "All right, everyone, there have been sightings of us on seven cameras across the Hong Kong metropolitan area and three police reports of our arrest. If we're going to leave this hole, now's the time. Which is to say: move, move, move!"

...fine. Sure. He can be quick when needed. He puts his cigarette out and rushes for the door, ready to follow Ehonté.

Moving moving moving.

"If the sightings all stop when we leave -"

"I do this for a living, miss Wong. Most are backdated, and there will be thirty more in the next twelve hours."

"Cool cool cool."

"So where are we headed?"

"Heoi. More specifically, the Swift Winds mahjong parlor."

"A mahjong parlor. That's the caliber of mob front we're dealing with, here?"

"Gentle Wong feels that subtlety is not to her advantage."

Jauhung's been to Heoi. Finds his feet leading him there occasionally, actually, a bit more often than other places; he feels a sense of kinship with the floating shantytown hanging off of Hung Hom pier like a bloated corpse. He, too, is a parasite with few redeeming qualities who clings onto something (or someone) else for no reason other than that he's been doing it long enough there's no reason to stop, teetering on the edge of collapse if the wind blows the wrong way.

Plus, he can find people to fuck him up there more reliably than most other places.

In any case, he knows Swift Winds. Or knows of Swift Winds; he hasn't actually ever entered the building. He's not sure if he should be wishing he had, given the givens, but he's leaning "not". The upside is that he knows how to get there almost instinctively, knows the dirty alleyways with a perpetual smell of decay like the back of his hand. Whether that's better than Ehonté's chosen path remains to be seen.

Ehonté is confused, at first, but – the enemy knows his patterns. And Jauhung is good at this. He can fall back to watch their flank.

Aaand it seems like he's ended up leading the way for their little merry band somehow.

Nothing to it. They'll get there soon enough, and no one will notice them; they're just vagrants, after all.

Juuuuuust a trio of suspiciously well-dressed and magically charged and heavily armed vagrants, moving with purpose and grace towards their goals. Who match the description of the subjects of a manhunt.

Someone glances a little too long at them, and Ehonté lets them pass by then pulls the other two into an alley.

"This isn't going to work. Wong, can you do physical illusions or just mana?"

"I can do physical, but it's not gonna be pleasant for anybody."

"You would not believe how little I care about pleasantness. Illusions, please. You should be human, he should be an elf, I should be some kind of child but I'm not picky about what species."

"Ugh. Fine."

She draws a basic dragon line setup, plucks a mouse skull out of her hair, and starts channeling.

...maybe Jauhung should also get rid of the overcoat. Usually being an amorphous blob fits him just fine but perhaps here that description works against him. He supposes he'll have to get a single pack of smokes to keep in a trousers pocket.

Magic magic magic. Chanting, clouds of foul or perfumed smoke, swirling ghostly forms. The usual. (None of the smoke rises above five feet.) Within five minutes, the chanting comes to a head, and there's a horribly visceral sense of change. Jauhung's ears feel like they're being pulled like taffy, even though he can feel them in the same place they always have been. His spine is being stretched on a rack, even though it isn't going anywhere. His eyes are burning.

But all good things come to an end; eventually, there he stands, alongside a human girl with a passing resemblance to Ariel and a cherubic little elven boy.

"...beggars cannot be choosers, but did you have to make us blonde?"

"We're American tourists! You're my nephew."