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Quirky Row Chapter 26: Aftermath of the Brotherhood
🕑 Added 2024-12-10 17:00:07 +0000 UTCChapter 26: Aftermath of the Brotherhood
(Monday, November 1st, 2123)
Dane Vogel walked through sterile white hallways, approaching a massive steel blast door. It was early in the morning, but he had places to be, things to see, and people to fire. First on his agenda was dealing with what the Thule Society had tried to smuggle into his city.
It had cost him a lot of money and favors to get it transported down here into the Pyramid – as well as to arrange a few ‘accidents’ for anybody who’d seen what it was after it’d been dredged up from the wreck of the Sturmkopf – but it would be worth it. Hopefully.
At his side, the leader of the Masako, Kagami, followed along. The mercenaries had proved their worth already, driving off a few attacks by the Brotherhood shortly after Maero had been snubbed. And at least one of the group’s upper ranks accompanied Dane Vogel everywhere as a bodyguard in the wake of a failed hit. Also by the Brotherhood.
Even with the threat of the Brotherhood neutralized, however, Vogel wasn’t going to take any chances, and had kept the Masako on retainer indefinitely. The Sons of Samedi had gotten pushy recently, trying to hijack a few shipments of chemicals being sent to the Pyramid. Luckily, they’d been shown the error of their ways by the mercs.
In front of the doors, a familiar man in a black and orange Ultor security uniform was waiting, a grimace on his face as he spotted Kagami.
“Morning, Mr. Jackson,” Dane Vogel said, flashing his head of security a smile. It was not returned, the taciturn former Saint keeping his eyes on the mercenary.
Seeing his hostile look, Kagami glared back, unafraid to match the glower. Dex had not liked the addition of the mercenaries, feeling insulted that such a measure was even needed. However, he had no choice but to accept it, as not only was this decision made by his own boss, but the failures of the Ultor Security in previous incidents had made respect and faith in him plummet.
Ignoring the by-play between the two of them, Vogel slid a keycard through a reader, then placed his palm onto a scanner that slid out of the wall. A moment later the blast doors hissed open, just wide enough to allow a single person to enter.
Vogel stepped through, but when Kagami tried to follow, Dex stopped him.
“Only authorized personnel beyond this point,” Dex said, blocking the mercenary’s path.
Kagami stopped, but he leveled a glare onto the African-American chief of security, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
“Stand down, Dex,” Vogel demanded, glaring at his chief of security, who huffed and folded his arms, but complied, stepping back from the Masako’s leader.
The billionaire then turned to Kagami, an apologetic look on his face. “He is right, though. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here while I go in.”
“For that little display, though, you get to keep an eye on him while I’m conducting my business, Mr. Jackson,” Dane Vogel said, wiping the smirk off of Dex’s face, and he turned to man in disbelief.
“Play nice you two,” Vogel said, waving at the pair nonchalantly as he walked past the blast doors into the depths of the Pyramid, Ultor’s top secret research facility.
Here, all sorts of advances in science and technology were explored, but Vogel had eyes for only one department.
He strode into the Genetics Lab, where he found the head of the Pyramid, Eric Gryphon, waiting in front of a glass window, although his attention was focused on a tablet, it’s screen showing off charts and data from various experiments.
“Talk to me, Gryphon,” Dane Vogel demanded, his voice sharp, and the head of Pyramid turned to look at his boss.
“Of course, sir,” he said, tone professional, although there was a giddy note of excitement in his voice that Dane was able to pick up on. “We’ve been unraveling and decoding the Nomu’s genetic sequences, and have discovered it possessed three whole Quirks! We’ve only been able to make Nomu with two.”
“Three? What were they?” Vogel asked, unnerved.
“The tails were one, the blades it could grow were a second, and then there is what I believe to be super-human reflexes and dexterity in the form of enhanced muscle fibers and tendons,” Gryphon explained. “It’s ingenious, really. Whoever made this got around the trouble we’ve had with combining Quirks by matching them to each other genetically.”
“Explain,” Vogel requested tersely.
“Ah, well, the Quirks – and probably the Nomu’s base body, too, come to think of it – were related. Perhaps cousins? Either way, the creator of the Nomu matched the Quirks via genetic compatibility, which allowed them to splice the Quirks together with the host body and reduce the risk of rejection. I’d say this method would let other Nomu created the same way last a whole eight months longer than our own with fewer health complications.”
Gryphon then waved a hand through the air dismissively. “There’s also evidence of some novel chemicals and gene-therapy methods used, but the real prize is in the way this Nomu was put together.”
“That doesn’t answer the question of where the fuck this thing came from!” Vogel snarled, jabbing a finger at the window, through which the corpse of the Nomu that’d been retrieved from the waters near Stilwater. It was strapped to a surgical table, and been partially dissected, but enough remained for it to be unmistakable as anything but a Nomu. The visible brain and darkened skin was a dead giveaway.
“Ah. Yes, right, that question,” Gryphon coughed awkwardly. “Well, as far as we can tell… it wasn’t made by us-”
“No shit,” Vogel muttered.
“-But! It is remarkably similar to our own Nomu, specifically in the way it was put together. As if they’d managed to copy our own data but made some tweaks to it. But that’s impossible.”
“You’re absolutely sure there have been no leaks?” Dane Vogel pressed.
“Yes, 100%,” Eric Gryphon assured his boss, before glancing at the Nomu. “If I had to explain it, it’s like cooking from a recipe, sir. You might have all the instructions, and the ingredients are the same, but there’s minute differences in their quality. Organic versus processed. It will still make the same dish, but the changes stand out.”
He looked at the remains of the Nomu Ultor had fished out of the wreckage of the Sturmkopf. “It’s amazing, really. So similar to our own, but a tweak here and there in the chemicals and protein binding phase has given it its own uniqueness.”
“I’m sure it’s very impressive,” Dane Vogel drawled out. “But what I want to know is who the fuck made it! I thought we were the only ones that potato-headed bastard had making these things, but now I find out he apparently has outsourced the work to God knows how many other people?!”
Damn that All For One bastard! What the hell was he playing at?!
Eric scratched the back of his head, inching away from his boss nervously. “Ah, well, I can’t say for certain. But I think it may be connected to the late and unlamented Maero’s, uh, backers.”
“The Thule Society,” Dane Vogel spat out. He was an asshole, he knew and accepted it, but Nazis rubbed everyone the wrong way, Vogel include.
“Yes. They, or somebody connected to them, created this Nomu, and I will bet this years entire budget for the Pyramid that our ‘benefactor’ gave them the same ‘recipe’ that he gave us. A man like that doesn’t have just one ace-in-the-hole, after all. He’d have contingency plans in case a facility became compromised.”
Eric Gryphon then shrugged. “Well, regardless of where it came from, their misfortune is to our benefit. This Nomu will help Dr. Rasheed enhance the production quality of our own.”
“Ah, yes. And how is the… good doctor doing?” Dane Vogel inquired. He was glad not to see the madman, but at the same time, not knowing where he was made the billionaire equally nervous.
“Dr. Rasheed is… resting. He’s been up several nights in a row studying it since the samples first came in, and I think he’s slept maybe ten hours this entire time,” Eric replied. “He is very eager to start applying the insights he’s gained from this Nomu into his own work.”
‘Why did I think hiring a serial killing cultist as the head of my illegal genetic experiments division was a good idea?’ Vogel wondered to himself. ‘Oh, right, because he’s one of the best in the damn world.’
‘Doctor’ Rasheed Guptamara was an insane surgeon from India whose Quirk let him cut apart and fuse things on a microscopic level. He’d used his Quirk and his medical connections to experiment on patients. The doctor had gone on to create a number of horrific chimera-like abominations by splicing animal parts onto humans, and tried setting himself up as a cult leader by creating ‘avatars’ of the Hindu deities by grafting multiple limbs onto a couple of people.
Naturally, this pissed off the Indian Government, and he fled during the raid on his compound, and ended up wandering South-East Asia for a while doing freelance work. Dane Vogel had reached out to the man because, like it or not, Dr. Rasheed was a capable geneticist in his own right, and he needed somebody to build the Nomu for him.
‘A necessary evil,’ Dane had thought at the time. Now? He was less sure. The doctor seemed to have a sick fascination with the Nomu. Oh, Eric Gryphon had his own appreciation for the damned things, but that was purely from a scientific standpoint. Rasheed… seemed to worship them, and the man who’d taught him how to make them.
‘Fucking fuck, what have I gotten myself into?’ Vogel couldn’t help but ask himself as he stared into the lifeless eyes of the Nomu on the slab.
He received no answers, and eventually shook his head, resisting the urge to sigh.
“Very well, keep me updated on any progress you make,” Vogel ordered, and Gryphon nodded.
With that, the boss then turned and stalked off. As unsettled as he was, he still had work to do. Running a multi-billion-dollar company wasn’t easy, after all.
&&&&&
Elsewhere in Stilwater, other people were living their own lives and doing their own thing. Among them was a particular duo who were walking down the street that afternoon.
“I still can’t believe you managed to score a meeting with the Artificer of all people,” Playa muttered, impressed by his friend’s connections.
“I told you I know people!” The infamous lieutenant said.
“I’ll never doubt you again,” Playa promised.
“Good,” Johnny said with a nod.
“How did you two meet?” Playa asked.
“We frequent the same message boards on Quirky,” Johnny replied, and Playa blinked slowly at that.
“Not sure what I was expecting, exactly, but it shouldn’t surprise me that the Artificer is a gun-nut like you,” Playa said.
Johnny just winked and shot a pair of finger guns at Playa, before turning serious. “Alright, this is the place.”
‘This’ turned out to be a rundown arcade, with a ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door.
Johnny just walked right in, and after a moment, Playa followed behind. He trusted Johnny, and if he said this was the place the Artificer had said to meet them at, he’d believe it.
The Artificer. The only name people knew for a famous Support Tool inventor. They were mysterious, with nobody knowing their true name, age, gender, or what they looked like. All deals were done through proxies at seemingly random places. But people were willing to put up with these – as well as pay massive amounts of money – to have the Artificer build them something.
Why were the Artificer’s items so good? Well, due to their Quirk. They could ‘imbue’ the effects of other people’s Quirks into inanimate objects. Ever wanted a freeze ray? Find a guy who could shoot ice, take some of their hair and blood, then give it to the Artificer. A few days later, a drone would deliver a gun whose bullets would encase whatever they hit in ice.
The Artificer paid top dollar for interesting and unusual Quirks, and his creations were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars at the cheapest. There was no way Playa would pass up on the chance to get his own custom Quirk-weapon.
As Playa thought about what sort of weapon he wanted to commission, Johnny approached an old arcade machine in the corner.
“Really? Pac-Man?” Playa asked. “Damn that thing is ancient! Might be worth a bunch if it still works!”
Johnny snorted in agreement, and inserted a quarter into the coin slot. With a clatter the cabinet came to life, and Playa watched his friend play through several levels of Pac-Man. When he got the high-score, Johnny put in three letters. H. Z. Q.
The screen abruptly went blank after he did so, only for it to flicker back on, revealing a digital, 8-bit smiley face.
“Hello, Johnny,” an 8-bit voice greeted from the arcade machine’s speakers, and Johnny waved at the screen.
“Hey there, Artificer,” he said, before slapping Playa on the shoulder. “I brought him.”
“Ah. Mr. Playa. Or do you wish to be called ‘Skunk?’”
“Since this is cape business, I think ‘Skunk’ would be appropriate,” Playa said after a moment.
“Very well, then,” the Artificer. “Do you have the samples?”
“Sure do. Not sure why you’d want my Quirk, though,” Playa admitted, scratching the back of his head as he took a ziplock baggie full of his hair from a pocket.
“Your Quirk is interesting. There aren’t many Quirks that produce smells, and yours works by altering your sweat’s chemical make-up to do so. I can think of several ways to take advantage of that fact. There are many rare and unstable chemical formulas that require complex technology to produce, but you can make them with your Quirk instantly, so long as you know what said formulas are,” the Artificer explained.
“I suppose that’s true,” Playa nodded, still a bit sheepish at being praised like that. “Still, it seems like I’m getting the better deal here. Some hair in exchange for a custom weapon?”
“Johnny is also cashing in a favor I owe him, but yes, that’s the deal,” the fake voice of the inventor said. “Anyways, please put the bag in the drop slot for the leftmost Claw Machine.”
With a nod, Playa took the bag of hair and did just that, slipping it into the slot where the prizes would normally be deposited.
Once done, he returned to the Pac-Man machine, only to find a list had sprung up on the screen.
“Go ahead and scroll through the options,” the Artificer offered. “Everything on there is what I can provide at the moment.”
After some time staring at all of the choices, Playa finally came to a decision. “This,” he said, using the arcade machine’s control stick to select a couple of items from the list.
The Quirk he chose was one called ‘Return.’ It allowed an object imbued with it to teleport back into his hands. Distance was limited to a mile, but he’d be harder to disarm. As for the weapon he was attaching it to, he’d gone with a heavy-duty six-shooter revolver, a .45 Long Colt to be precise. It had some extra options and add-ons, making it even deadlier.
“Good choice. That Quirk is popular and very functional. Combined with this modified revolver, you’ll be a real terror on the streets,” the Artificer praised as they acknowledged the selections.
“Surprised to see you going for a gun,” Johnny admitted. “Thought for sure you’d try and go with something like your brass knuckles, or to augment your gauntlets.”
“I thought about it, but I need better firepower,” Playa said. “I love my knuckle dusters and my gauntlets, and I will be upgrading those soon, but I don’t have a proper ability to fight at range.”
“Makes sense,” Johnny agreed.
“Yeah. I also plan on trying to integrate my stink bomb capsules with bullets. Find a way to shoot my capsules further than I can throw ‘em. And with a revolver, I can load different types of rounds easier than with a magazine fed handgun like a Glock,” Playa elaborated.
“Huh, not a bad idea. Need any help with that?” Johnny asked.
“Sure do. Thanks for volunteering,” Playa said, smirking at his friend.
“It sounds like you have a handle on what you want to do with my creation,” Artificer said, somehow managing to inject a note of approval into his digitally synthesized voice.
“Can’t exactly go in without a plan, can I?” Playa shrugged.
“If only more people thought the same way,” the inventor grumbled through his avatar. “Anyways, expect the delivery of your new weapon in a week at the most.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Playa said, nodding politely at the Pac-Man machine.
“Indeed. Goodbye, Skunk. Johnny, I’ll see you later.”
“Eyyy! You know it!” Johnny said, shooting double finger guns at the arcade machine.
There was a rumble, a beep, and it shut-down, the screen turning dark.
“Well, that’s that. You in the mood for Fro-Yo?” Johnny asked Playa.
“Sure, there’s a new place over by…” Playa began, only to pause as his phone buzzed. Taking it from his pocket, he saw that a text had been sent his way. Reading it, his eyes widened in surprise, then a wide smile split his features.
“We gotta get to the hospital, and quick!” Playa announced.
“Why, what’s happening?” Johnny asked, worried.
“It’s Carlos! He’s waking up!” Playa said happily.
A grin split Johnny’s face at the news. “Hot damn! I’ll call Pierce, you call Shaundi! We’ll meet ‘em there!”
Playa nodded, and quickly dialed up his lady lieutenant. She responded on the second ring and agreed to meet up with him and the rest at the hospital ASAP.
Stilwater General was a nice place, certainly better now in recent years than it had been previously. That could all be thanked on Stilwater’s Number Three Hero, Scapegoat. The afro-toting African-American hero had a potent Quirk that could be used for healing, and one unspoken rule that was followed was ‘Don’t fuck with the white mage.’ Or rather, don’t mess with the people responsible for putting you back together.
With Scapegoat’s presence at the hospitals in Stilwater, they had become one of the few safe havens and truly neutral zones in the entire city.
It was why Playa and his crew could roll up to the hospital and not be turned away despite sporting gang colors and tags when they entered through the front door.
“Are you here to see a patient?” the receptionist on duty asked, not even phased by the appearance of some of the city’s most wanted walking up to her.
“Yes, please. Carlos Mendez,” Playa said politely.
“Room 208,” she said as she printed out guest passes. “Keep these on you at all times.”
Take them, the group consisting of Playa, Johnny, Pierce, and Shaundi went to the elevators and let the scanners check their passes before entering and going up to the floor where their friend was staying.
Upon entering his room, there was a cheerfully cry from Shaundi as she saw Carlos was able to sit up, no problem.
“Hey,” he said, only for whatever else he was going to utter being replaced by a wheeze as Shaundi rushed him and delivered a crushing hug to the poor, recently recovered, boy.
“Careful, Shaundi! Don’t break him so soon after he’s fixed!” Pierce joked. She pouted at him but released Carlos all the same, letting him wheeze out a ‘thank you!’ towards Pierce.
“How’re you feeling? You know, aside from the near-death hug,” Playa asked as they crowded around his bed.
“Like I’ve been asleep for ages and my whole body still hasn’t gotten the memo to wake up,” Carlos replied, shifting uncomfortably in his bed.
“I see. Good to have you back,” Playa said, carefully patting his shoulder.
“You really rescued me?” Carlos asked, his voice
“Yes, I did. I never leave a man behind,” Playa said. Carlos teared up at that, and looked away.
“Yeah…” he murmured.
“You’ll never guess what happened while you were out!” Shaundi said excitedly. When Carlos looked at her, she grinned widely.
Carlos was then regaled with a quick and abridged summary of what had happened to the Brotherhood after his attack and coma.
“I can’t believe I didn’t get to see it myself, or help out,” Carlos muttered. He was frustrated he hadn’t been able to avenge his brother with his own two hands, but his eyes were leaking tears of joy at finally having the criminals who’d terrorized his friends and family taken down.
“Here,” Playa said, handing Carlos a USB. “I kept some footage of the fights we had.”
“I’ll play it every night,” Carlos vowed.
“Great! Now, you rest and recover. Once you’re completely healed, the Saints are gonna need you for the fight against the Sons,” Playa told him.
“You still want me in the gang?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course. You did good work with Pierce. That you were captured and tortured was no fault of your own,” Playa said. “Do you still want to be in the Saints?”
“Yes!” Carlos exclaimed, and Playa nodded happily.
“There you go. So, get well soon.”
Carlos nodded, looking a bit worn out. Understandable, given he’d just woken up from a multi-week coma.
Everybody patted Carlos on the shoulder and wished him well (Shaundi hugged him again, squeezing the air out of his poor lungs in the process) and began to leave.
As Playa stepped out, he caught sight of an African-American hero in doctor’s garb, a pair of toy goat horns in his afro, staring at him. Playa stared back, and his companions tensed up as they also spotted the city’s 3rd ranked hero.
“Afternoon, Scapegoat,” Playa said slowly. “How are you?”
“Well enough, Skunk,” the afro sporting hero said. “Do you mind if we speak. In private?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in that. Right?”
“Of course not. You haven’t broken any of my rules, so you are not on my shitlist,” Scapegoat replied.
“Alright. I’ll be back in a bit, guys,” Playa said, waving off his friends’ worry. Shaundi and Pierce nodded, and departed, but Johnny hung back, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall, keeping an eye on his boss and the hero.
“So, what’s up?” Playa asked. “How can I help you, Mr. Hero?”
“First of all, I’m not here to discuss things as a hero,” the medical professional replied. “Although I can confirm, as a doctor, that your friend, Mr. Mendez, will make a full recovery with only minimal scarring on his body.”
“That’s good,” Playa said with a pleased bob of his head. “Now, why do you want to speak with me?”
“I wanted to warn you. About the General,” Scapegoat said, and Playa’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. What did the leader of the Sons of Samedi have to do with this?
“His Quirk doesn’t just let him remove the ability to feel pain. He can negate any of the body’s senses,” the hero explained solemnly. “As in, he can take away the ability to smell from his minions if he so chooses.”
“He can?” Playa asked, disturbed. Bad smells was pretty much his whole thing as a villain! And the General could no-sell it like that?
“He can,” Scapegoat confirmed. “However, it has limits. It only works for twenty-four hours, and he can only affect one sense at a time. If they can’t smell, then they can still feel pain.”
“Hmm, it will be situational, then. He’ll have to know when to use it beforehand,” Playa guessed.
“That’s right. The General is a meticulous planner. He likes to set up schemes that trap his opponents and cut off their options. Part of which tends to be misleading people about what his Quirk can actually do,” Scapegoat revealed.
“And how exactly did you come by this information?” Playa couldn’t help but ask suspiciously.
“Because I know him,” Scapegoat admitted. “Specifically, he and I used to run a gang together.”
“You did?” Playa blinked in surprise at that.
“Yeah. The Voodoo Boys, down in New Orleans. That was years ago. Before All Might busted our gang, and every other villain in the city,” Scapegoat admitted.
“No shit?” Playa exclaimed.
“I used to be called Witch Doctor, and the General’s villain name was Zombie,” Scapegoat said, looking down at the floor as he reminisced. “I thought we were tight. But as soon as All Might came knocking, he ditched me, left me to take the fall for all his shit while he ran and escaped back to Haiti to lay low. Luckily, my Quirk was too useful to keep in a supermax prison, and I hadn’t actually killed anyone while part of the gang, so I got a nice little plea deal. So long as I worked my magic as a hero and toed the line, I wouldn’t have to spend the next sixty years locked away.”
“And you took the deal,” Playa noted. Scapegoat nodded, clenching his fists.
“What else was I gonna do? Of course, they still keep a close eye on me. Especially after the General moved in and set up his damn gang,” the healing hero admitted with a sigh. “They stuck me in the most hellish city in the country for a reason, you know. Close enough to LA that I can heal whatever rich Hollywood asshole or Silicon Valley socialite needs it, but firmly kept away from the rest of the country.”
“Sucks,” Playa said. “So, you’re warning me about the full scope of the General’s Quirk because you want me to take revenge on him for you?”
“You’re already gonna be doing that when you take down the Sons of Samedi,” Scapegoat pointed out. “This way you’ll have a little edge.”
“True. But why tell us? Why not one of the other heroes?” Playa asked.
“Do you really think any of us can really take down an entire gang on our own?” Scapegoat asked. “We aren’t that powerful. We’d have to work together, and that doesn’t happen all that often. Especially with how poorly run this city is.”
“It’s gotten better,” Playa said, feeling like he had to defend his home even though he agreed with the man.
“Admittedly, the new mayor is better than some of the old ones, but that’s kinda a low bar,” Scapegoat scoffed. “Regardless, I’m telling you because I think you’ve got the best chance out of all of us to do something permanent about the Sons.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Playa drawled, but he nodded all the same. “And thanks for the info. Oh, and also, thanks for keeping our boy Carlos safe.”
“I was just doing my job,” Scapegoat demurred.
“Yeah. Still, it’s appreciated,” Playa said, giving the man a nod, then turned and walked off.
‘I should give a generous donation to the hospitals here in Stilwater,’ the leader of the Saints thought. ‘Might as well do some good with Maero’s blood-money.’
And unlike some places, Playa was certain the donations would be used by Scapegoat appropriately.
&&&&&
“This has been a great day. A new weapon, Carlos waking up from his coma, and now you’ve made this amazing dinner. Really, I’m being spoiled,” Playa said, grinning as he reached for a flakey, buttery biscuit, only to get his hand slapped away by Aisha.
“Nuh-huh! No eating until everyone is here!” Aisha scolded him.
“Fine,” he pouted, sulking his way over to the couch while Johnny snickered at him from the recliner.
“Be glad she didn’t break out the rolling pin, that shit smarts,” Johnny joked.
“I can still do that!” Aisha warned them, and both men recoiled and hurriedly turned their attention to the TV.
Playa felt he’d earned a break, and enjoyed the hilarity of watching people try to navigate an obstacle course without their Quirks.
But as he did so, he couldn’t help but feel a bit concerned about tonight’s Post-Halloween dinner party.
“You sure it won’t be awkward, Aisha?” Playa asked in concern, glancing back at the woman as she bustled about the kitchen. “I mean, I’m a supervillain, and she’s a hero.”
“It’ll be fine! There won’t be any issues, she’s never tried to arrest Johnny and he’s here all the time,” Aisha said. “Besides, she already knows you’ll be here.”
“Hmm. Well, at least it won’t be a surprise,” Playa muttered. The doorbell then rang, and Aisha perked up, and hurried over to the front entrance.
“Maya!” Aisha said happily as she opened the door. “So glad you could make it!”
“Sis!” Maya said happily, embracing her older sibling. “There’s no way I’d miss this!”
Stilwater’s Number One heroine pulled away with a pout. “We never get to see much of each other, anymore.”
“I know,” Aisha said softly, a sad smile on her face. She then cheered up as she led her younger sister into the living room. “Now come on in! And tell us what you’ve been up to!”
“Sure thing,” Maya agreed, before nodding at Johnny. “Hello, Johnny.”
“Hey there, Maya,” he said in greeting, waving lazily at her. “No hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings for what?” Playa asked, drawing Maya’s attention towards me. She looked ready to respond, but Johnny beat her to it.
“Who do you think it was that caught me after my failed attempt on Troy’s life?” he asked, and Playa blinked in surprise, shooting Maya a look.
“I’d just gotten my official hero’s license and was on patrol at the time! How was I supposed to know those explosions were your fault?” she huffed, turning away with a pout.
“Nah, it’s cool, I know how these things work,” Johnny said, shrugging it off like it was no big deal. “When in costume, you’re on the job, and anything goes.”
He leaned back into his seat, glancing Playa’s way. “And I suppose if anyone was gonna catch me, might as well be little Maya. Heck of a boost to her career, too.”
“Well, I can’t deny that was a bonus,” Maya admitted, before shooting Aisha an apologetic look. The former singer just waved off her sister’s non-verbal apology.
“I’ve told you many times that I also don’t blame you for doing your job.”
“Mmm. I know, but it’s nice to have it repeated. Anyways, hey there, Phil. You still a furry?” she asked, shooting him a teasing smirk which had Playa groan.
“Ugh, not that again!” he muttered. Playa then shook his head. “Anyways, how’s work? Tough being the Number One heroine in Stilwater?”
“And California as a whole,” Maya said proudly. “I spend half my time down in LA these days. Still, wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
She then narrowed her eyes at the gang boss sitting in her sister’s living room. “Just don’t go blabbing about crime stuff around me. I’d have to break out the handcuffs, and I’ve only got the fuzzy pink ones on me that I borrowed from sis.”
Maya then shot Playa wink at that when he spluttered, red faced, and Aisha and Johnny burst into laughter at his expense.
“Alright, folks, it’s dinner time!” Aisha announced as the oven dinged, letting them know the food was ready.
Stomach rumbling in hunger, Playa joined his friends at the table, feeling happier than he’d been in a while.
‘Yeah, today has been a good day,’ he thought to himself with a small smile. He then frowned. ‘Tomorrow, though, it will be time to start dealing with the Sons.’
