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Quirky Row Chapter 19
🕑 Added 2024-09-30 17:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 19: Luftwaffe
(Monday, October 4th, 2123)
“Um, not to tell you what to do, boss, but shouldn’t we have some, I dunno, back up with us?” Defender asked nervously. Pierce had taken his helmet off, so it was easy for Skunk to tell how queasy he looked.
“The boys did what needed to be done, and they have their hands full taking care of the Brotherhood goons we rolled over at the concert,” Playa said as he looked up from a series of beakers and vials filled with his transmuted sweat that he was messing around with, trying to make new stink pellets to replace the ones he’d used up fighting Matt Wolfe earlier. “That’s why I’m giving them a break. Plus, Shaundi needs some hard-hitters at her side in case Maero or some other Brotherhood goons decide to retaliate while the three of us visit these mysterious benefactors of his.”
“Alright, fair enough, but do you have to play with your chemistry shit right now?” Pierce asked, face turning green as the smell from the concoctions Playa was whipping up permeated the interior of the vehicle.
“I do have a degree in Cosmetology and Chemistry, you know,” Playa said dryly. “And I’m a trained Perfumer. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, that’s why we’re worried,” Pierce said, not looking reassured at all.
“Can’t you do this elsewhere? Or at least when we’re not in the car? We keep our drug labs in well-ventilated areas for a reason,” Johnny said, pinching his nose while steering with one hand.
“Not if I want to have some fun chemicals to use when we get to the airport,” Playa retorted. “Now shut up and drive!”
“Christ on a cracker, it’s gonna take forever to get the smell out of the upholstery,” Johnny complained under his breath before stepping on the gas and running a red light.
It was a few minutes past midnight, and the streets weren’t very crowded. But, as they got closer to the Stilwater Airport, more vehicles began to crowd the area, blocking things off and making it harder to speed on through.
“Whoa, there, watch it!” Skunk scolded as Johnny took a turn a bit too hard. “I nearly spilled my concoction!”
“Please don’t make him spill his shit, Johnny,” Defender whimpered. “It already stinks like hell, I don’t wanna find out how much worse it can get!”
“Don’t tempt fate, Skunk, Pierce! He’ll whip up a stench so bad it will peel the paint off the car! I’ve seen it happen!” Johnny warned.
“Shit, okay, shutting up now,” Pierce mumbled, clapping a hand over his mouth. Skunk just cackled madly in amusement from the backseat.
When they finally screeched to a halt in the airport’s parking lot, Pierce was the first one out, staggering a bit as he left. Johnny was next, and he grabbed a bottle of Febreze from the trunk which he liberally sprayed into the interior of the car. The last one out was Skunk, who rolled his eyes at his companion’s antics.
“Never driving with either of you again,” Defender groaned, holding his stomach. “No offense.”
“Some taken,” Johnny replied. “My driving is perfectly fine!”
“For getaways, maybe!” Defender protested. “Certainly isn’t safe, I’ll say that much!”
“Enough bickering you two. This is just gonna be a sneaky mission, so quiet down. I don’t plan on doing any actual fighting,” Skunk told them as he got out of the car, putting his chemical vials away. “We’re going to spy on Maero while he meets with his backers, and hopefully get a hint about who they are and what makes ‘em so dangerous.”
“We’ll have to act fast and be stealthy, though,” Johnny warned. “There are cameras all over the place, so if we get spotted, the alarms will start ringing shortly after.”
“Ditch the outfits, then,” Skunk decided, taking off his mask and tossing it into the backseat. “They’re a bit too conspicuous for stealth.”
Once undressed, Playa only kept the brass knuckles on him for defense, along with some chemical pellets. Pierce and Johnny both grabbed guns once the former had gotten out of his Defender costume.
Once that was done, they snuck across the tarmac and wove their way through the back of the airport.
“Any idea where Maero is?” Playa asked as they walked around, keeping to the shadows.
“A private hangar. If his benefactors are rich and shady like we suspect they are, they won’t want some schmuck from TSA patting them down,” Johnny guessed.
“I think all we need to do is keep an eye out for anything painted red,” Pierce suggested. “Like an Atlasbreaker truck or something.”
“Good point, the Brotherhood are nothing if not predictable, and noticeable,” Playa said.
“Don’t we plaster purple on everything, along with the Fleur d’Lys?” Johnny asked.
“Yeah, but when we do it, it’s brand recognition. There’s a difference!” Playa retorted and his second-in-command rolled his eyes behind his shades at that.
Searching the back area of the airport soon revealed a single red truck on display, parked next to a hangar that had a big ‘PRIVATE’ sign hanging from it. It was hard to tell, as it was dark and at a distance, but Playa was certain he recognized the vehicle in question.
“There,” Playa said, pointing towards it. “That’s Maero’s truck.”
“Looks like it,” Pierce agreed, squinting towards the Atlasbreaker. “What next?”
“We go in guns blazing?” Johnny asked hopefully.
“Tempting, but I think we should try and get close, see if we can overhear anything,” Playa suggested.
“I see an emergency exit. Think we can sneak in that way?” Pierce suggested.
“Good call,” Playa praised, and the trio hurried through the darkness over to side of the hangar where a door leading inside was. It was locked, but a smidge of acidic swear courtesy of Playa’s Quirk got it fixed in no time.
Then, when the lock was good and melted, the trio carefully opened the door. The hinges didn’t make a sound, and they were in, hunched over and trying to be sneaky. Luckily, the emergency door was away from the entrance of the hangar, and nobody was nearby to spot them.
The interior of the hangar was vast, and a large, sleek black jet sat within its walls, landing gear out and a door open on its side to allow passengers to embark. Nearby, a set of stairs led up to a catwalk, and at the end of it was a booth that overlooked the whole place.
With nobody in sight, the three members of the Third Street Saints carefully snuck over to and ascended the stairs, before slinking along to the booth, which turned out to have a bunch of buttons and switches for opening and closing the main doors, turning on and off the lights, and a host of other functions.
“That’s a nice jet. Wonder who it belongs to,” Johnny wondered as they peered down at it from the control booth. “And look, there’s the bastard himself!”
Maero was indeed there, visible thanks to their new position. He was scowling and leaning against the private plane’s front landing gear, facing towards the ajar hangar doors. He wasn’t alone, however. Standing nearby was a nervous older man, wearing a pilot’s uniform. He kept shooting glances at Maero, who ignored him completely.
“Yo, that’s Jessica Shawn’s father!” Pierce hissed at Playa and Johnny as he recognized the man.
“The airplane pilot?” Playa inquired, and his lieutenant nodded rapidly.
“Yeah. Guess that explains a few things about how his daughter ended up with Maero. The man’s connected to the Brotherhood. Or, more likely, their sponsors.”
“Makes sense,” Playa mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Hmm, looks like we are early. Or maybe Maero’s contacts are late,” Pierce noted.
“Could be both,” Johnny mused. He glared down at the Ink Demon and reached for his guns. “I could take him out right now, you know. Pop-pop, wouldn’t even know he was dead.”
“But then we’d never find out who his backers are. And I’d rather not have an unknown group supplying the other gangs if I can help it,” Playa said, placing a calming hand on his friend’s arm.
Johnny nodded in reluctant agreement, and let his hands fall away from his weapons as he settled in to wait.
The didn’t have to wait long, as less than a minute later, the sound of an engine outside made everyone in the hangar, hiding and otherwise, tense up, and turn their heads towards the open doors. A fancy black car drove up, and it parked next to Maero’s truck.
Four men stepped out. One was dressed in a refined chauffer’s outfit, and he helped a wizened, hunched over old man with a cane exit the vehicle. The last two to emerge wore black trench coats and fedoras, and had the look of bodyguards, with one holding a briefcase close to his side. All were baseline human, and Caucasian in appearance.
“Good evening, Maero.” A smooth, cultured voice with a hint of accent came from one of the trench coat-wearing men who stepped into the hangar.
“About time you showed up,” the tattooed man growled. “I was getting tired of waiting.”
“You do not dictate when we do things,” the old man with the cane growled out, and Playa finally was able to place the accents as German.
“I’m the one doing all the hard work out here,” Maero retorted.
“And what a fine job it is! You lost the gold we gave to use as start-up funds, and have been driven back to only a handful of strongholds. Where you once ruled a quarter of the city with impunity, you’ve been put onto the backfoot,” the elderly man pointed out, causing Maero’s hands to clench into fists.
“I have it all under control!” Maero snarled.
“The state of your face says… otherwise,” the second of the trenchcoated men sneered. Maero growled, and his meaty fists clenched harder, drawing blood, but he didn’t react other than that.
‘Whoever these guys are, they must have some serious pull,’ Playa thought as he watched the interaction. ‘Maero threw hands with Dane Vogel, the most powerful man in Stilwater right now, but he’s hesitating to do anything to these guys.’
That was worrying, in Playa’s humble opinion.
“My associate, though blunt, is not wrong,” the old man stated. “Aside from the various set-backs, you haven’t been able to clean the streets of the mutant filth.”
“It’s the fault of the Saints,” Maero declared angrily. “They’re happy to have fucking freaks in their ranks, and protect them. You know how hard it is to instigate a race war in this city when you have bastards like them preaching peace and love and tolerance and shit?”
“I guess it must be very hard to do the job we paid you to do since it’s been five years and only a sliver of the city is permanently under your control,” the sneering man said. “And you can hardly blame the Saints on that. Do we have to find somebody more competent to do your job?”
“Enough, Iron Rain,” the other man in the trench coat snapped. “We’re not here to antagonize him.”
“Indeed. As bad as things have gotten, we can turn them around,” the old man stated, before snapping his fingers. The briefcase was brought forward.
“Consider this a taste of what we’ll be providing you,” the old man croaked, and the briefcase was opened up, revealing a disassembled, fancy looking sniper rifle which immediately had Johnny on edge and Maero’s eyes lighting up.
“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Johnny hissed. “That’s an RS13 ‘Dunkelzhan’ sniper rifle! The kind of shit used by German special forces!”
“Is that bad?” Pierce asked, and Johnny nodded.
“They’re deadly, with a lot of heft to ‘em,” the Second-in-Command of the Saints revealed. “I could go more into the specs, but that’d probably bore you guys. Point is, they’re not easy to get your hands on, and they can punch through light tank armor if you’ve got the right kind of ammo.”
“And now Maero has one. He could pick off our officers one by one if he wanted to,” Playa realized with a grimace.
“Uh, hey, guys?” Pierce muttered, still looking at the scene. “You might want to check out that briefcase again.”
“What is- oh, you have got to be shitting me!” Johnny uttered in disbelief, Playa nodding dumbly in agreement.
Neither had noticed it until Pierce had pointed it out, but the interior of the briefcase had a very familiar symbol, one they’d last seen stamped onto several bars of gold: The Nazi Swastika.
“Who the hell are these fuckers?!” Playa demanded furiously as he stared down at the men as they haggled over the briefcase containing the sniper rifle.
“Nazi symbols… military hardware… Quirkist ideology… shit, man, I think these bastards are part of the Thule Society!” Pierce exclaimed in disgust.
“The what?!” Playa uttered.
“The Thule Society is this Neo-Nazi paramilitary group over in Germany,” Pierce replied. “They see Quirks as the future of humanity, but view Heteromorphic Quirks as a sign of weakness. Of inhumanity. They are responsible for a lot of atrocities during the Quirk Wars, and are the reason Quirk Marriages are still legal in Germany and other parts of Europe.”
“What are they doing here in America with Maero?” Johnny asked.
“From the looks of it? Making a deal,” Playa said grimly. “I don’t think Maero’s shipment is as simple as just some guns. I think he’s importing military-grade shit to try and deal with us, and the other gangs.”
“So this is where the Brotherhood’s foreign assistance has been coming from! Now it all makes sense!” Pierce exclaimed. “The Thule Society got their asses handed to them by All Might years ago, but it seems they’ve recovered enough to start influencing things in other countries.”
“And the Brotherhood makes the perfect foothold. Racists hand in hand with racists,” Johnny spat in disgust.
“We can’t let the Brotherhood get their hands on those weapons,” Playa declared solemnly, eyes locked onto the sniper rifle. “We must deal with the issue.”
Pierce and Johnny both nodded, fully in agreement.
“I’ll keep an ear out for news about any boats coming in from Europe,” Pierce promised.
“Great. For now, though, let’s focus on making sure Maero doesn’t go home with a new boomstick,” Playa said. “Any suggestions?”
“A couple,” Johnny said. “You still got your stink bombs with you, boss?”
When Playa nodded, Johnny grinned like a shark.
A few minutes later, Johnny and Pierce were down below, having crept along the cat walk and down the stairs. They were hiding just out of sight, waiting for Playa, who was still in the control booth, to act.
They didn’t have to wait long, as all of a sudden, the lights in the hangar turned off, plunging the whole area into darkness. There were shouts and other exclamations of shock from the Nazis, which turned furious as Johnny and Pierce rushed forward to steal the sniper rifle.
There was a loud bang as one of Johnny’s guns fired off, accompanied by a scream of pain, and then a triumphant cheer.
“GOT IT!” Johnny shouted, and Playa nodded happily before ducking out of the control booth and running down the catwalk’s stairs to the emergency exit.
He flung the backdoor open, and cries of surprise and disbelief rang out as he blinded the Neo-Nazis with moonlight that streamed in.
Laughing maniacally, Johnny was completely unaffected due to his sunglasses, and Playa wondered if he’d worn them when the lights were turned off. He had the briefcase under his arm and a wide grin on his face.
At his side, Pierce was a lot less happy, but he ran along, taking up the rear. He had taken off his shirt and was holding it up, running his Quirk through it to turn it into an invincible barrier.
“Kill them, Blitzkrieg, Iron Rain!” the old man shouted furiously, even as he was escorted away by his chauffer back towards the limousine.
Behind them, Maero and his Thule Society allies finally reacted, and sent forces after them. A massive ink tiger charged after them while one of the trench coat wearing men shrouded himself in ribbons of crackling lightning and sent bolt after bolt flying their way. The other Neo-Nazi began to shoot at them as his fingers transformed into gun barrels, bullets pinging off of Pierce’s Quirkified shirt.
“Go, go, go!” Pierce shouted as he and Johnny booked it out of the private hangar and joined Playa in racing across the tarmac. “My Quirk won’t last much longer!”
In the distance, the airport was lit up with plenty of lights, along with dozens of the unique facilities. Unfortunately for the three Saints, there was also the telltale flashing blue and red of police lights.
“Um, Playa?” Pierce spoke up nervously.
“I see them,” Playa grunted.
“Isn’t that where I parked?” Johnny asked, and his two friends nodded.
“Yeah, it is,” Playa replied.
“We need to find another way out of here,” Johnny said.
“We are. To that end, we’re going to steal a cop car,” Playa declared. “Or one with the keys in the ignition. Whichever we find first.”
“Risky,” Pierce commented, before flinching as his shirt suddenly burst into flames as a bolt of lightning fired by the Thule Society supervillain Blitzkrieg hit it. “Bad news, my shirts gone! And I’d just bought it, too!”
“Find cover!” Playa ordered, directing his men to split up, which they did. There was a roar from the living tattoo Maero had created, and it turned its attention towards him, causing the leader of the Saints to grimace in annoyance.
As for the others members of the Thule Society, Iron Rain went after Johnny, while Blitzkrieg kept throwing bolts of lightning after Pierce.
‘I’m sure they can handle it,’ Playa thought to himself as he watched Pierce scream like a girl as he dodged another lightning bolt. ‘Yeah. Definitely.’
He then glanced over his shoulder towards the black tiger on his tail and cursed softly. Playa didn’t dare underestimate Maero’s inky creation It was just as deadly as a real tiger, if not more so, and immune to bullets due to its nature as a construct and not a living thing. He’d have to be creative in how he took it down.
And so he ran until he reached the airport’s parking lot, drawing a lot of attention from the red-eye flight passengers. Screams rang out as people saw the tiger chasing after him, the monstrous ink-forged beast quite noticeable.
“Hanging out with a bunch of Nazis, Maero? I thought better of you!” Playa shouted towards the tiger. He had no idea if Maero could share senses with the tiger, though given it was this far away from its creator, the Brotherhood’s leader had to have a way to control it at a distance.
“Didn’t All Might already slap your friends’ shit around nearly two decades ago? And they still want more? Are you guys idiots or just masochists?” Playa taunted, ducking behind a nearby car. There was a thunderous roar as the inky tiger slammed into the car, knocking it onto its side, with Playa just barely able to scramble away before the vehicle crushed him.
Rolling to his feet, Playa glared at the tiger as it jumped up onto the car it’d just bowled over. “Damn, you’re not very concerned about collateral damage, are you? I guess you and your buddy Matt have that in common. Whoops! I mean, had that in common. My mistake.”
The tiger froze, and Playa smirked viciously at it. “Hmm. Seems like you can hear me, huh? Well, good. And that’s right, I offed Matty boy before I came here! Guess who was the one to sell you out? He cried like a bitch when I beat him to death. Fitting, given what his Quirk was.”
“I’LL KILL YOU!” Maero’s voice roared out from his construct, and Playa grinned at figuring out a bit more on how the man’s Quirk worked.
“You can try,” the Saint shot back.
With a howl of rage, the tiger leapt at Playa, claws posed to rend his flesh, but the Saints’ leader had been anticipating a move like that, and ducked under the blow, carefully avoiding the slashing attack, and rolled to his feet a short distance away.
Unfortunately, Maero’s ink monster was a lot faster than a regular tiger, and as soon as Playa had dodged it was already spinning around.
Instead of just tackling him again, the tiger slammed itself into Playa’s side, sending the purple themed villain flying back.
Playa gasped in pain as the tiger bodychecked him and sent him tumbling across the asphalt. He came to a halt when he slammed into a car.
“Not good,” he muttered, clutching his chest. It hurt. A lot. “Did I break a rib?”
“I’ll break more than just that!” Maero shouted through his creation, and the monstrous black and white tiger turned to face him.
Scrambling back up, Playa noticed that his impact against the car had popped passenger’s side door open, and he dove inside the vehicle, closing the door behind him.
‘Damn, no key,’ Playa grunted in frustration. ‘I should have paid more attention to Lin’s hotwiring lessons!’
The tiger was not deterred by its prey hiding from it, and the tiger slashed at the car door, ripping it off its hinges in an effort to reach Playa, but he opened the car door behind him and rolled out the other side.
The tiger suddenly found itself trapped inside the car, its bulk unable to squeeze through. Well, at least until it remembered that it wasn’t a real tiger, at which point it began to liquify into ink in order to slither through the cramped confines of the car’s front seats.
However, Playa wasn’t going to let it escape that easily, and reached into his pocket, withdrawing several of his special chemical filled capsules.
“Take this!” Playa shouted, hurling his handful of pellets at the tiger, which exploded on contact, spilling a variety of noxious smelling liquids all over it.
Maero’s former tattoo began to shriek and writhe as if in pain, its body running and melting. The chemicals Playa has tucked away inside the pellet bombs were interfering with the ink that made up the tiger’s body, and slowly breaking it apart until it was nothing more than a foul-smelling puddle staining the car’s seats.
“Heh, just as I suspected. Liquids mess with Maero’s ink by diluting it,” Playa said with a smirk, pleased his hunch had paid off, before wincing a bit as he put a hand to his chest. “Oof. Hope that blow earlier didn’t break any ribs. Already got beat up at the concert, and this isn't helping.”
He took a deep breath and then glanced quickly around the area. There were a lot of people observing him, cellphones out, and he winced.
‘Damn, they can see my face. Just gonna have to hope they don’t connect the dots. They saw me use chemical pellets instead of my Quirk, so I don’t think they’ll recognize me as Skunk, and after my facial reconstruction surgery in jail, nobody outside the gang knows what I currently look like,’ Playa thought to himself.
He then looked down at his outfit. ‘They’ll know I’m part of the Saints though.’ The purple shirt with the big white Fleur d’Lys on the back was an obvious give away.
“Uh, hey,” Playa said, waving at the stunned crowd. “Just gonna… leave…”
He then turned away and booked it, running from the airport drop-off point. There was a moment of silence, and then an uproar as people began shouting, screaming, and calling for the police.
As he ran away, a familiar car zoomed over to the leader of the Saints, pulling up alongside him.
“Hey, boss. I see you got away from that mean kitty. Need a lift?” Johnny asked nonchalantly.
“…Johnny, why is there blood and a dent on the hood of the car?” Playa asked nervously. “I’m glad you managed to get it back and all, but still.”
“I ran over the guy who was chasing Pierce,” he replied simply. Pierce nodded, looking green at the memory.
“I see. And what about your opponent?”
“Dead,” Johnny said simply, patting the gun jammed down his pants. “Iron Rain? More like Iron Lame! He couldn’t aim for shit, and even if he could turn parts of himself into guns, that didn’t make him bulletproof. So I shot him. A lot.”
“Well… okay, then. Good riddance to Nazi garbage,” Playa muttered, going inside the rear seats. “Get us out of here.”
“Can do,” Johnny replied with a nod, and he took off as the sound of sirens rang out in the distance behind them.
“What a night!” Playa said with a sigh, running a hand over his face.
“Sure was! Killed a Brotherhood lieutenant and Maero’s right-hand man, found out who Maero is working with, and we put down a couple Nazis. And of course we stole a real fine sniper rifle. Gonna have to break that baby in on the firing range ASAP!” Johnny said cheerfully.
Playa nodded, feeling extremely tired now that he was out of immediate danger.
“Let’s get the city ready for whatever bullshit Maero has planned," he suggested, and Johnny nodded. It was a long drive back to the Mission.
111 ^^^ &&& ^^^ 111
Maero paced back and forth in his apartment like a caged tiger, growling softly and flexing his hands into fists.
As soon as he could, Maero had called Matt’s cellphone, only to receive no answer. Then, he’d called up his men to find out what’d happened. Donnie was the first to report back in. Turned out Skunk hadn’t been lying when he said he’d killed the Brotherhood’s second-in-command.
They’d also looted the Kennel, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down, including rescuing the Heteromorph girls slated to be sold later in the week. It was a major blow against the gang, and the Saints had had the gall to rub it in his face.
They would pay for that.
But first, Maero had other business to attend to. It was the wee hours of the morning, and he was waiting for a call to come in. One that would decide how he’d proceed from then on.
The phone rang, and the Brotherhood’s leader and founder grunted as he pulled out his cellphone from a pocket and plopped down onto his couch in the living room.
“Maero,” a familiar old voice rasped out.
“I see you managed to get away,” Maero said, leaning back into the couch. That Iron Rain and Blitzkrieg had not went unsaid, but the implication was clear.
“After experiencing the Third Street Saints for ourselves firsthand… we are able to see why you’ve had trouble eliminating them,” the raspy, heavily accented voice on the other end of the line admitted.
Maero smirked, but it was not a happy expression. More predatory than anything else. “I’m glad. So, do we have a deal?”
“Indeed. Past mistakes are forgiven. And we’re including… a little extra in the shipment, specifically for taking down those insufferable Fleur D’Lys sporting rats.”
“Wonderful. The Saints won’t know what hit ‘em!” Maero declared.
His benefactor hung up shortly afterwards, ending the call, and Maero growled loudly. His eyes flickered over to a picture of him and his Inner Circle standing in front of the Kennel shortly after taking control of the southside of the city during the Stilwater Olympics.
“I think it’s time I pay Dane Vogel another visit,” the leader of the Brotherhood decided as he stared at the images of his friend and lover. “Don’t worry Matt, Jessica. I’ll get revenge for your deaths! One way or another!”
