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Quirky Row Chapter 22: Siege of the Wolf's Head
🕑 Added 2024-10-30 16:01:01 +0000 UTCChapter 22: Siege of the Wolf’s Head
(Saturday, October 23rd, 2123)
“Alright, everyone, listen up!” Skunk shouted out, voice magnified by a megaphone.
The Third Street Saints in the underground mall stopped what they were doing, and turned to face their leader, who was standing with his inner circle by his side.
“The time has come. It’s now or never, folks. The Brotherhood is the weakest it has ever been! They’ve been driven back to the Docks, and we took out almost all of their remaining lieutenants during the boat raid, as well as a bunch of their equipment and hardware,” Skunk announced, earning cheers and applause from the crowd.
“Now, I know we failed to seize the weapons on the boat from the Brotherhood, but at the very least, they aren’t in their hands, and we’ve spent the last few days gathering all the gear we could get our hands on,” he continued.
“We’ve gathered here today for one reason; the coup de grace! Today is the last day for the Brotherhood! We know where Maero and the last dregs of his gang are hiding! We have them surrounded and cut off! So now, it’s time to deliver the finishing blow!” Skunk roared, and bloodthirsty cheers erupted from the rest of the Saints.
They were all decked out in combat gear, with many of them wearing bulletproof vests that had purple stripes and Fleur d’Lys painted onto them. All of them were armed with guns, from handguns and pistols to shotguns and automatic rifles.
The Saints were ready for war, and the Brotherhood was their target.
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The Wolf’s Head. It was an old, five-story building in a compound off of Poseidon Alley with two other structures. A warehouse on the left and a parking garage on the right. In the past, it had been a canning facility and shipping company. Currently, however, it’s owners were the red-clad remnants of the Brotherhood.
The Wolf’s Head had served as the gang’s base of operations for the last five years after being bought by Maero. It had been reinforced, and turned into a veritable fortress during the early days of the Stilwater Olympics in order to fend off the other gangs.
Concrete barricades made for excellent places to fire from cover, while the windows – those that weren’t broken or boarded up – had steel grating over them, preventing grenades from being tossed through. The doors had been reinforced with Quirk-tempered steel, and the interior was crawling with dozens of Brotherhood goons armed to the teeth.
The warehouse and garage were full of trucks and other vehicles that could sally forth and blunt a charge, as well as serve as getaway vehicles, necessitating the entire area to be sealed off and encircled.
“It won’t be easy. We need to strike hard and fast, before the heroes show up to muck around,” Skunk said to his lieutenants as they looked out at the building from a few blocks away. “That means we have to take the Wolf’s Head in an hour. No more, no less.”
“How many of the bastards are left?” Johnny asked curiously. “And what’s the final word on how to deal with them?”
Skunk glanced over at Defender, who spoke up thanks to the non-verbal prompt. “There are an estimated one hundred and ten Brotherhood spread throughout the three buildings, give or take a dozen,” the man in charge of the Brotherhood takedown explained. “Quite a few have deserted in the last couple of days, so it may actually be closer to less than a hundred. The failed raid on the Sturmkopf was the final straw for some of them. All that’s left are the truly deluded. The ones whose hatred for metamorphs and minorities is both genuine and deadly.”
“As for the rules of engagement? If they surrender, knock ‘em out and tie ‘em up. But if they won’t go down without a fight? Put them out of their misery,” Skunk declared firmly. “Your lives are more important to me than theirs.”
“Gotcha,” Johnny said, a vicious smile creeping across his face.
“We are going to divide our forces into four groups. Rafflesia, you’ll lead Group Four in taking the garage. Johnny, you’re leading Group Three and are punching any Brotherhood you find in the warehouse. Defender is leader of Group Two, and will assault the compound from the front, while I lead Group One in taking the building from behind,” Skunk informed them. “Corner Maero if you can, but don’t waste your time doing anything stupid like fighting him mano-y-mano. Shoot him in the face if you have to.”
“Hell yeah!” Defender said, pumping his fist into the air.
“Now, are the Saints in place?” Skunk inquired.
“Yup!” Rafflesia confirmed.
“And the machines?” he pressed.
“Double-yup!” the flower-themed villainess assured him.
“Then it’s time to rumble!” Skunk declared. “Places, people! We’re kicking things off in fifteen minutes!”
The Inner Circle of the Saints rushed off, each going to their assigned group. The four different blocks were ready to unleash their power onto the world, and show off to the rest of Stilwater that the Brotherhood was done for.
“…and three, two… one!” Skunk counted down, before pulling out his phone and dialing a number. “Activate the Fog of War!” he shouted into the device.
Seconds later a thick, chalk-colored mist began to fill up the parking lot in front of the Wolf’s Head. Half a dozen fog machines pumped out a dense cloud to block the sight of the Brotherhood snipers, and to announce the Saints’ presence. Shouts and assorted exclamations rang out from the Wolf’s Head, and it was clear they’d noticed.
Moving slowly through the artificial fog, Defender and his group carried riot shields and other defenses. Those with strength-enhancing Quirks lumbered forward with massive concrete blocks, like the kind seen on the sides of roads as dividers, to create barricades in front as they moved.
To the left and right of them, Johnny and Rafflesia’s groups emerged from the fog, swinging wide to reach their own targets. The parking complex and the warehouse soon erupted with chaos as Saints clashed with Brotherhood.
Meanwhile, Skunk and his group approached from the rear. They had their own cloud of smoke, one generated by Skunk himself, and it poured off of him in pale white sheets that lingered in the surroundings.
In order to keep his Quirk up and running, Skunk lifted his gas mask for a brief moment as he tossed a chili pepper into his mouth, wincing as the spiciness flooded him. His body heated up, and sweat prickled his skin, which rapidly transmuted into the artificial fog surrounding his group.
They arrived at the back entrance to the Wolf’s Head without issue, the Brotherhood too focused on the frontal assault to notice.
However, as one of the Saints picked the lock on the door, it soon became apparent the other gang hadn’t left the rear unguarded.
As the door was opened, a hail of bullets shot through the entrance, instantly killing the lockpicker.
“Scattered! Into cover!” someone shouted, and Skunk followed along, rolling out of the way.
“Are those turrets?!” Skunk exclaimed in disbelief, ducking into cover as bullets ripped into the ground where he’d been earlier.
“Looks like it, boss,” a Saint said nervously. “One on the ground floor, a second on the stairs leading to the second floor. Now what?”
“Anyone got any Quirks that might help us take them out?” Skunk inquired, glancing around at his team.
“I can turn a single limb intangible for a couple seconds, but can’t pass through anything living or organic,” one Saint in a purple tank top spoke up. “But my clothes also kinda fall off and get in the way if I try and make my torso untouchable, so I end up without a shirt or pants.”
“And I can sorta become extra durable by turning into concrete for a minute, although I don’t think I’d risk walking into a storm of gunfire like that. Because anything that breaks off in my concrete form doesn’t regenerate, and it can get… messy,” a second one with a purple bandana helpfully added.
“Okay, those are a good start,” Skunk nodded. He then turned to Intangible Guy. “Can you phase partially through something? Like, stick your arm through to drop something in front of the turrets?”
“Uh, yeah, but since I can only use my Quirk for a couple seconds, it’s kinda risky, ‘cause I could get stuck in the wall,” he warned Skunk.
“That’s long enough to throw a couple grenades through the wall,” Skunk said. “Just to make sure, though, could you throw some grenades like that?”
“I could do that,” Intangible Guy said slowly, thinking it over. “Yeah, that would work.”
“Great! Concrete Guy, you’re going to help Intangible Guy! Turn into concrete and walk in front of the turrets to draw their power for a second. Then, while they try to focus on the new target, Intangible Guy, you will chuck some grenades through the wall at the turrets,” Skunk instructed.
The plan kicked off, and Concrete Guy turned his body into a living concrete statue, and hurried in front of the open door, drawing the fire of the turrets. They were slow to turn, and the bullets shattered the ground around him, but he managed to move faster than the turrets could turn.
Meanwhile, while the turrets were busy tracking Concrete Guy, Intangible Guy hurried forward and stuck his right arm through the wall, hurling a grenade. He pulled back and flung another one, then another.
The three grenades soon went off, smoke and metal flying out the open door. A Saint whose eyes were on stalks like a slug or snail poked said eyes into the rear entrance as the smoke cleared.
“There we go,” he muttered. “Turrets are busted! We can go in, now!”
“Okay! We got a little delayed, and no doubt the Brotherhood heard or otherwise are aware of the commotion with the turrets. So let’s go hard and fast and take out Maero!” Skunk shouted, pumping a fist.
His Saints roared, and Skunk felt his chest swell with pride. Yes. His Saints. Julius may have formed them, but it was he who had led them when times became tough, and turned them into a force to be reckoned with.
He regretted how things had turned out with the Alderman and the sabotaged boat, but now, he was back, and the Saints were going to succeed in making Stilwater safe!
Skunk then put his pride in his gang aside, and put on his brass knuckles, while also drawing a handgun. The time for subtly and mercy was over. The only Brotherhood left were the worst kind of scum, and if they refused to surrender, then he would choose his life and those of his men over some Neo-Nazis.
“Breach!” he shouted, and rushed into the building, his gang all around him. They hurled their way towards the stairs, but a small group broke off to head to the lobby where a few Brotherhood goons were keeping Defender and his group pinned and unable to break in through the front.
Skunk nodded at the initiative, and made a mental note to reward them for their idea and actions when the battle was over.
Until then, though, he would focus on tearing through the building in search of Maero. The madman had to die. Only then would the fighting end.
On the second floor, their progress was stymied by a trio of Brotherhood armed with shotguns camping on the stairwell, guarding access to the third floor. They opened fire the moment they spotted a hint of purple, and one of the Saints with Skunk fell back, buckshot having torn their shoulder to pieces.
“Get him to the medics!” Skunk shouted as he jabbed a syringe full of painkillers into the wounded Saint, before passing his off to some runners who’d take him away.
“How do we get past?” another Saint, a recently promoted lesser officer, asked, taking the injured member’s place by Skunk’s side.
“Shoot them,” Skunk said with a scornful glare at the Brotherhood goons.
“Understood,” the lieutenant replied, and he gathered a couple of rifle toting Saints, and placed his hand on the shoulder of the Saint with the extendible eyestalks.
“My Quirk lets me see through the eyes of another person if I’m touching them,” he explained to Skunk. “And Peeper here has very flexible eyes.”
“Sure do!” the slug-eyed Saint said cheerfully, before poking one up around the stairwell. “They’re still there.”
“I can see ‘em,” the lieutenant mumbled. “Okay! Fitzroy, Gerald, aim up! Smithson, did you pump up their bullets?”
“Doing it now!” the last of the Saints with them announced as he touched the guns, and they glowed for a second. “Quirk deployed! Those bullets will tear through concrete like it’s cheese!”
“Good! Open fire!” the lieutenant ordered, and Skunk whistled, impressed, as the two riflemen emptied their magazines into the stairs, the Quirk enhanced bullets piercing through the floor with ease.
The shotgun wielding Brotherhood grunts were shot to pieces, the enhanced rounds treating their bodies as they had the concrete-laced floors; with contempt.
“What a mess,” Skunk muttered as he stepped past oozing giblets a moment later. “And good work. Name?”
“Hammurabi,” the lieutenant replied.
“Ah, ‘eye for an eye,’ clever,” Skunk said, nodding in approval. “I can see why Johnny promoted you. Good work.”
The lieutenant stood up straighter, pride radiating off of him at the compliment. Skunk then proceeded to the door leading to the third floor, and opened it carefully, making sure he wasn’t anywhere near it when it swung open. A hail of bullets from elsewhere on the floor lashed out, proving his caution to be the correct choice.
“Damn, that’s a lot of Brotherhood!” Peeper whistled in awe as he peeked around the corner, before recoiling as bullets peppered the doorframe he was spying out of.
The third floor was devoid of furniture, with only a couple concrete pillars here and there to act as cover. However, it was not empty of gangsters. Twenty Brotherhood armed with automatic rifles were positioned around the floor, hiding behind the walls and pillars. Whenever a Saint poked an appendage out of the doorway leading to the stairwell, they opened fire.
Worse was the fact that the floor and ceiling in the third floor had been completely removed, revealing the second and fourth floors. Only a rickety wooden board that had been laid down on the gap allowed anyone to move over to where the Brotherhood was hunkered down.
“See if we can’t just ignore them and move on to the fourth floor,” Skunk ordered one of his men, who ran off to see what the progress was on unlocking the door to the next floor.
“We can’t move up! They destroyed the stairs leading to the fourth floor!” the Saint exclaimed a moment later, panting a bit as he reported back to Skunk.
“They’ve turned this whole building into a killing ground,” Skunk realized, recalling the blueprints of the building he’d seen before. “The only way forward is to go through the halls till we get to the second set of stairs, or the elevator shafts. And I doubt Maero was dumb enough to let those stay operational.”
“And that means dealing with every two-bit thug standing between there and us,” a Saint with mint-green hair murmured.
“Pinch your noses, we’re going in, and I’m clearing a path,” Skunk announced a moment later after thinking it over. His Saints did as he instructed while he removed a few pellet bombs from his gauntlets, and gave them to Intangible Guy to throw through the wall into the room with the pillars.
A foul odor permeated the second floor a moment later, and several Saints gagged a bit, but kept their aim steady as they listened to the Brotherhood retching. Skunk also tossed a pair of grenades in afterwards, and the explosions caught several of the stunned red-shirted gangsters.
The Saints then poured in, firing at any Brotherhood who refused to surrender. Not a single Neo-Nazi did, and were put down like the rabid dogs they were.
“Third Floor secured!” a Saint announced as he laid some more wooden planks down to form a bridge across the gap.
“Alright, let’s go!” Skunk shouted, and they hurried on to the stairs on the opposite side. Ascending to the fourth floor, they found that it was full of rooms that’d been converted into barracks, with bunkbeds and couches all over.
And the Brotherhood had taken advantage of this, turning the rooms into choke points with the couches and beds flipped over and made into makeshift barricades in front of the doors and in the hallways. Armed with shotguns and semi-automatics, they could repel any assault the Saints threw at them.
“This is going to take a bit of work to get through,” Skunk growled in annoyance. He couldn’t just smoke them out or drive them off with his stink-bombs, either. They would just abandon the barricades, which would force the Saints to tear them down in order to get through. And while that happened, the Brotherhood could snipe the workers as they tried to dismantle the barricades blocking their path.
“How do we get through?” Hammurabi asked, gunfire ringing in their ears as Saints exchanged potshots with the Brotherhood.
“Send a runner to the first floor. I want to know how Pierce is doing on getting the elevators under our control,” Skunk ordered. A Saint nodded and ran off, returning a couple minutes later with an update.
“Boss! Lieutenant Defender says that his group has taken over the first floor and the basement, and they are currently working to repair the damage the Brotherhood did to the elevator controls,” the runner reported in.
“Then we wait until they’ve restored them, and use the elevators to assault the Brotherhood from behind!” Skunk instructed. “And get whoever can help with fixing the problem over to Defender! We’re running out of time!”
Skunk was aware he was on a timer. Sooner or later, the heroes would show up, and he didn’t want his gang to be caught between a rock and a hard place. Even if Maero and the Brotherhood were weakened, they might just fight even more viciously if they thought the Saints had to split their attention.
Tapping his foot impatiently, ten minutes passed before he heard explosions and screams ring out from behind the Brotherhood forces on the fourth floor.
“Sounds like Defender has come through for us!” he shouted gleefully. “Come on, let’s go and help him put down some Brotherhood dogs!”
Roars of approval rang out, and he strode confidently through the doorway. Defender and fourteen other Saints had come up through the elevators, attacking the Brotherhood from behind.
Gunshots echoed through the corridors as the Brotherhood clashed with the Saints, and Quirks went off, blasting apart the building. Skunk kept a tight lid on his own Quirk, but dodged around several attacks sent his way by a few red-clad lieutenants.
A Brotherhood tried to punch Skunk with a fist, his arm extending several feet like rubber, but the leader of the Saints jinked to the side and unloaded his handgun into his chest, ending him.
Mink, her fuzzy pink fur hard to miss, tackled a couple Brotherhood members and tangled them in her hair, pinning them down so a friend with finger nails made of iron could slash them into bloody ribbons. Hammurabi coordinated with Peeper, and Concrete Guy punched a Brotherhood member who’d grown metal scales all over his skin so hard his chest caved in.
Skunk flinched back as his danger sense tingled, narrowly avoiding being impaled in the face by spikes jutting out of the wall beside him. A quick look around identified the culprit as a Brotherhood lieutenant, whose Quirk seemed to be capable of growing spikes and thorns out of nearby solids. As he watched, a member of the Saints was impaled by half a dozen concrete spikes shooting down from the ceiling.
A Quirk like that was absolutely deadly in the enclosed spaces they were currently in, so without hesitation, Skunk pulled his piece and opened fire, two rounds catching the lieutenant in the chest while a third domed him in the head as he fell.
“That takes care of that problem,” he muttered, feeling an ache in his heart as he looked at the bloody corpse of the Brotherhood lying atop the body of a deceased Saint.
Glancing around, Skunk spotted another Brotherhood lieutenant that was spitting acid and blocking off the route to the upper levels, but Defender’s Quirk was able to block it, several couch cushions turning into indestructible shields, then a Saint who sorta looked like a bipedal dinosaur snuck up and stabbed the red wearing lieutenant in the ribs with spurs of bone jutting from his wrist, and the acidic Neo-Nazi collapsed, bleeding out.
“There we go!” Skunk laughed victorious as the Brotherhood was cut down. “Good job, Defender! You too, Spiky Wrist!”
“No problem, boss!” Defender assured him. “We’ve got this floor on lock down! Hurry up and clear out the fifth floor and get to the roof!”
“Damn straight,” Spiky Wrist nodded.
“Come on, then! All that’s left is the fifth floor, and then we’ve got a clear path to the roof!” Skunk shouted, getting vigorous nods from his men and women.
They rushed forward, bulldozing their way through the lightly guarded fifth floor. Hardly anyone was there, which was a surprise, but it turned out this part of the Wolf’s Head had been for cooking drugs, as several labs and a greenhouse full of weed was discovered as they tore through. The Brotherhood on this floor were quick to surrender, though a few were too crazed to do so.
“Almost to the top,” Skunk muttered, looking around as they tied up the Neo-Nazis smart enough to surrender.
He bent down towards one of them, getting in their face. “Where’s Maero?”
“The roof! He’s on the roof!” the Brotherhood bleated out.
“Hmm, good to know,” the leader of the Saints muttered. He turned to his men. “Check for traps!”
A few minutes later, they came back, faces pale.
“We found a Claymore mine waiting to go off right outside the door to the rooftop!” one of the Saints announced. “If you walked through, it would have gone off!”
“He’s desperate,” Skunk realized. He then checked his handgun and reloaded it. “Come along, boys and girls! We’re almost done here!”
Cheers rang out as they made their way to the top of the Wolf’s Head, some Saints wincing as the bright afternoon sun blinded them momentarily. Stepping out, they were surrounded by transformer boxes and air vents, the surface strewn with gravel that crunched underfoot.
“SKUUUNK!” a loud voice roared out, and the leader of the Saints turned towards the source.
There, standing on a ledge, with a few of his men at his side, was none other than Maero, leader of the Brotherhood. He was shirtless, his red and black tattoos exposed to the world, and his acid melted face was twisted into a scowling visage of pure hate as he glared over at Skunk.
However, Skunk was too busy staring in shock at the weapon Maero was carrying to care about the angry looks he was receiving.
“That’s a minigun!” Skunk exclaimed in horror. “Where in the fucking fuck did he get a minigun?!”
“DIE!” Maero howled, and the massive weapon whirred to life, while his goons beside him aimed grenade launchers and automatic rifles at the Saints.
“SCATTER!” Skunk shouted, diving for cover behind a boxy air vent. Not all of the Saints with him had acted as fast as he did, unfortunately, and two were completely shredded by the minigun as it opened fire, numerous holes ripping through the rooftop and into the piece of cover Skunk was cowering behind.
“Shit, we have to retreat!” someone called out, but Skunk put his foot down.
“No! We can’t do that, or we risk Maero escaping, and that will start this whole mess all over again!” he replied. Skunk poked out from behind cover and popped off a couple shots at the muscle-bound thug. The shots missed, but they hadn’t been meant to hit him. It was meant to encourage.
And sure enough, a barrage of gunfire slipped out from the Saints, sloppy and uncoordinated, but in enough volume to force the Brotherhood on the roof to take cover themselves.
“So, just out of curiosity, how many rounds does a minigun like that usually have?” he asked a nearby Saint as they reloaded.
“Uh, hard to say,” the Saint, whose Quirk had something to do with making objects soft and pudding-like if he recalled correctly, mumbled, unsure. “I think it’s like, four thousand or so?”
“Damn,” Skunk whistled. “Guess it’ll take a while for him to run out.”
“I give it a few minutes with the way he’s spraying that thing,” Pudding Guy muttered.
“Hmm, I see. Good work. Uh…?”
“Call me Flan,” Pudding Guy requested. “It sounds a little bit manlier than ‘Pudding.’”
“Fair enough,” Skunk said with a nod. “Gimme a sec, I’m going to whip up a quick smokescreen to blind him and his goons.”
He yanked up his gas mask and squirted a packet of Freckle Bitch’s ‘Red-Headed Step-Child’ hot sauce into his mouth, wincing as the flavor burned his tongue. His sweat glands began pumping, though, and combined with the sweat he’d worked up fighting through the Wolf’s Head, a thick, grey mist poured off of Skunk almost instantly.
“Okay, guys, While they can’t see us, reorganize! And grab some heavier weapons!” Skunk ordered, and the Saints broke apart, scrambling to find new cover.
Scowling at the thick grey fog obscuring a large portion of the roof, Maero summoned one of his tattoos – a wolf – and tossed it a pouch which it grabbed in its mouth before running off towards the Saints.
It dove into the smog, and lunged at several Saints hunkered behind a ledge while loading up a rocket launcher. As the living tattoo attacked, the bag it was carrying exploded, taking it and the Saints out in a violent bang.
“Oh, and now he has satchel charges!” Skunk shouted in exasperation as several detonations tore apart the roof. “Of fucking course he does!”
“How does he know where to direct his ink monsters through the smoke?” a Saint wondered nervously, and Skunk blinked behind his mask. That was a very good question, and he glanced up suspiciously.
Above them a hawk was circling, and though it was too far away to see it accurately, Skunk would put good odds on it being none other than another one of Maero’s animated tattoos.
“See that bird?” he said, pointing into the sky. “Shoot it down!”
Although confused, his men nodded, and peppered the sky with wild shots. One got lucky, and the bird circling them burst into ink, which rained down onto the roof.
Over with Maero, he flinched as his connection to his creation was severed, before scowled and swore under his breath.
“Sturm! Blow that cloud away!” he ordered one of his men, who nodded and stepped up. Holes opened up in his palms, and compressed bursts of air were unleashed, blasting apart the gaseous cover Skunk had thrown up.
“Damn, an Aerokinetic!” Skunk grumbled. “Take that bastard out!”
“Can’t! Maero’s still hosing us down with that damn minigun!” another Saint shouted back, before cringing and ducking back as a barrage of bullets ripped into the ground nearby.
“Damn it!” Skunk growled in annoyance as his fog cover was blown away.
But then, God, Fate, or maybe Karma, (or perhaps just good old fashion luck) decided to intervene on the side of the Saints, and Maero’s deadly weapon suddenly sputtered to a halt as the ammo belt jammed, causing the weapon to become useless.
“He’s out of bullets!” a Saint screamed in joy, and Maero grunted angrily as his minigun fell silent.
“CHARGE!” Skunk roared as he broke out of cover and ran towards the Brotherhood, and the Saints let out battle cries as they followed him.
Gunshots echoed out, and gangsters on both sides fell, but the Saints were more numerous, and managed to cross the distance and reach Maero and his remaining lieutenants.
Maero summoned several whips of ink from his arms, and used them as deadly flails to keep the Saints away, as well as deflecting bullets with them.
“Face me, Maero!” Skunk shouted out in challenge as he ran at him. “Just you and me!”
“Fine!” Maero snarled. “I owe you for all you’ve done!”
“You brought it all on yourself, Nazi scum!” Skunk retorted. “Now, time to die!”
He brought up his handgun and fired at the Brotherhood’s leader. As expected, however, the ink whips countered the shots, and Skunk dropped it when a tendril of ink lashed out and sliced off the barrel of the gun.
Instead, Skunk raised his fists, his brass knuckles glinting in the sunlight, and Maero sneered back at him, raising his own fists in a mock boxing stance.
The two lunged at each other, fists flying. Maero was bigger and stronger, and a single hit could deal tremendous damage, but Skunk was faster, able to weave around the blows with considerably more ease.
As the two fought, Skunk scored a few blows to Maero’s ribs, but they hardly did anything, and the burly crime lord managed to ignore them and bulldoze through the punches, lunging towards Skunk and grabbing him by the throat.
“You think you’re so great,” Maero sneered as he reached up and tore Skunk’s gas mask off of his face. “But you’re just another weakling hiding behind a façade to feel bigger than you actually are.”
He tossed Skunk’s mask to the ground and stomped on it, all while hoisting Skunk into the air by his throat one-handed. “That’s the difference between you and me and the rest of the gangs in this city, though. Unlike them, I don’t feel the need to hide my face or my name. I am Maero! Leader of the Brotherhood! And everything I’ve done, I did without pretending to be something I’m not. And even though you’ve tried your best to ruin my empire, I will rise again from the ashes, stronger than before!”
“So. Any last words?” Maero demanded, leaning in closer, a sneer on his lips.
“He who smelt it, dealt it,” Skunk managed to cough out.
“What?!” Maero uttered incredulously, before doubling over, face turning green.
All around the roof top, everyone stopped fighting as a truly rancid smell over took them, the sweat on Skunk’s brow transmuted into a sulphureous stench that had everybody gagging, even him.
As Maero dropped to one knee, he released Skunk, who immediately capitalized on this by bringing both fists up into the air and then slamming them down onto the back of Maero’s skull, sending the larger man crashing down onto the rooftop.
That proved to be a mistake, however, as the ground underneath them creaked ominously before giving way, the weight of two people plus the abuse it’d suffered over the years resulting in a chunk of the roof collapsing.
Maero and Skunk fell, plummeting down through the ceiling and landing in a groaning heap in the middle of a room somewhere on the fourth floor.
Skunk staggered to his feet, head spinning, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Donnie scrambling away from the collapsed ceiling in shock.
Glancing around, the place had a large chair like one would find in a barbershop, and a very old and ratty couch. There was also a bunch of ink and needle guns lying about, along with an upturned trolley the two had knocked over when they’d fallen through.
‘Must be Maero’s personal tattoo parlor,’ Skunk guessed, but before he could think about that any further, Maero recovered from his own daze and tackled Skunk to the floor.
“Your little buddy screamed real good when we trussed him up for his ride,” Maero sneered as he brought up a broken shard of glass to Skunk’s face. “I wonder, will you scream just as nicely when I’m through with you?!”
Skunk saw red – and not just because he was forced to look up at the Brotherhood leader’s tattoos – and violently headbutted the larger man, stunning Maero for a second.
Skunk took that tiny window of opportunity to knee Maero in the groin, which caused the larger man to drop the shiv and flinch.
Skunk then grabbed the glass shiv Maero had dropped, and lashed out, plunging it into Maero’s neck.
The tattooed gang leader let out a pained gurgle, fury and disbelief burning in his eyes, and Skunk gained a burst of strength that let him shove Maero off of him, turning the tables as Skunk was now the one straddling the gangbanger.
“Now who’s the prison-bitch?” Skunk sneered as he prepared to plunge the makeshift weapon into Maero’s face.
‘That doesn’t sound right even in my head,’ Skunk thought to himself with a wince. ‘I think I have a concussion.’
Before he could do anything, however, Donnie came running in with a folding chair, swinging it into Skunk’s side and knocking him off of Maero.
“Maero, we gotta get out of here!” Donnie shouted, only to grunt as his ribs earned a kick from Skunk.
“NO! You’re not getting away!” the Saints’ leader roared as he staggered to his feet.
But it was too late. With one hand holding in his gushing neck wound, Maero thrust out his arm and grabbed his mechanic lackey with a tendril of ink, and then leapt through a nearby window.
Wings of ink emerged from the tattoos on Maero’s back as he fell, and they turned into gliders which let him and Donnie make it all the way over to the parking garage, where fighting was still going on in the upper levels, flashes of gunfire visible and audible in the distance.
Maero landed on top of the parking garage, and he and Donnie went over to his tricked out Atlasbreaker truck, the Behemoth, getting inside. Several other Brotherhood members did the same, abandoning their defenses and jumping into vehicles. They then burnt rubber and sped out of the parking garage, knocking over anyone foolish enough to stand in their way, which included Rafflesia, who’d been at the front of the scene leading the assault.
“Boss!” Defender cried out, panting a bit as he rushed into the room. “Oh, thank God you’re okay!”
“Damn it, he got away!” a Saint exclaimed in frustration after looking around and failing to spot Maero, angrily chucking a piece of rubble in the direction the trucks had sped off.
“He won’t be gone for long,” Skunk snarled, a hand on his back. “We will find Maero, wherever he’s gone. And we will hunt him down and put him down like the rabid dog he is.”
His eyes traced the plumes of exhaust as the cars vanished into the distance. Maero would not escape. This, he vowed.
