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Quirky Row Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2024-06-20 17:01:00 +0000 UTCChapter 8: The Calm Before the Storm
(Monday, August 30th, 2123)
“What the actual fuck, Troy?” A fist slammed into the desktop, cracking it and causing several of the people standing in the office to flinch.
The fist belonged to a slender, middle-aged woman with short brown hair, blue eyes, and thick-rimmed glasses. She wore a charcoal grey suit with a yellow shirt underneath, and a choker of gold around her neck.
Monica Hughes, wife of the deceased Alderman Richard Hughes and mayor of Stilwater, was a striking woman who looked to be in her forties, despite actually being closer to sixty. And she was pissed, if the cobalt blue aura of flames and electricity dancing around her was any indicator.
Around the room, several men and women in business attire flinched away as she expressed her displeasure. Fortunately for them, her ire was directed at another unlucky soul.
Mayor Monica’s eyes were glaring at Troy Bradshaw, Chief of Police for Stilwater, who was sitting in front of her desk in her office.
Troy had short-cropped black hair and sharp green eyes with a thin mustache on his face. He was dressed in his uniform, and didn’t look at all intimidated by the mayor’s display of her Quirk. He had more grey hair and wrinkles compared to five years ago, and had lost his goatee, but if Playa had seen him at that moment, he would have instantly recognized Troy from the old days.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Troy said slowly, not breaking eye contact. “Are you referring to yesterday’s news? Or the events from the day before yesterday? Or is this meeting about the breakout a week ago?”
“ALL OF IT!” Monica snarled. “How did you let this happen?! How did he escape?! And why aren’t you doing anything about it?!”
“Okay, first off, I am doing my God Damn Best over here,” Troy said, leaning in to match her glare with one of his own. “It’s not just the Saints making trouble now, all of the gangs in Stilwater have decided to ‘show their colors’ as it were. We’ve had no less than fourteen cases of gang-on-gang violence that have left at least one person dead per encounter since the events at the Culex Stadium, and those are the ones we know of for certain! The Ronin are poking the Brotherhood, the Brotherhood are probing the Sons, and the Sons are trying to expand into both Brotherhood and Ronin territory! So forgive me, Mayor Hughes, if I find it hard to find the time to deal with a third-rate street gang that doesn’t even have a tenth of the support or resources they used to!”
“Fine!” Monica scoffed. She didn’t like it, but her aura of crackling energy settled down after a moment as she cooled off, accepting Troy’s logic. “Do you have an explanation for how Skunk escaped from the prison?”
“From what we’ve been able to gather, there’s no grand conspiracy, no hidden Saints members, and no corrupt wardens willing the look the other way,” Troy confirmed. “Philip Playa woke up from his coma and was tended to by a nurse from the mainland hospital. Her Quirk lets her heal a person, but only up to a certain point, and it uses the body’s fat and such to do the healing. By all accounts, Playa was too malnourished to be healed up to where he could sit up, let alone run!”
Troy shook his head. “The reason he was so healthy after five long years is due to one inmate, Carlos Mendez. His Quirk lets him absorb and redistribute fat from other people. He absorbed a huge quantity of it shortly after Philip Playa woke up, then got himself injured so he had to be sent to the medical room. There, Carlos secretly transferred all of his taken fat to Playa, who was then healed by an unaware nurse. Her Quirk, combined with the excess of donated material, healed Playa up to near peak condition.”
“And then?” Mayor Monica demanded.
“And then they broke out with honestly embarrassing ease,” Troy admitted with a grimace. “I’ve ordered all guards to undergo retraining because that was frankly shameful. I’ve also scheduled a couple people to investigate implementing newer security features. They escaped through a series of old service ducts up onto the roof, then evaded capture by stealing a car and use of Skunk’s Quirk to blanket the island in fog. The two then stole a patrol cutter boat and left. We found the boat at the Marina, abandoned. We tried to track them down, but we lost their tracks after ditching their prison get-ups at a second-hand shop.”
“I see,” Mayor Monica muttered. “This is… not good.”
She stood up and began to pace back and forth, muttering to herself. Troy politely pretended not to hear the words ‘incompetent,’ ‘pigs,’ and ‘replace them all with robots’ coming out of her mouth.
Eventually, the mayor stopped walking and returned to her desk, her aides breathing a sigh of relief when nothing happened.
“I want that man arrested and behind bars, Troy. And no excuses or covering for your friend anymore!” she said sternly.
“I understand,” Troy said with a pinched expression.
“And I want you to work much more closely with the heroes,” she ordered, causing Troy’s left eye to twitch.
“Yes, yes, I know you don’t ‘approve’ of them, but they’re here to stay, so put on your big boy pants and work with them to stop my city from exploding into the largest wave of gang-based crime and violence it’s seen in five years!” Mayor Monica instructed him. “And no more passing the buck for your friends, Troy. Or I may have to do some investigating of my own.”
“The Saints will be brought to heel,” Troy assured the mayor, expression carefully blank.
“Good. Now get out. I want some good news soon. I’m trying to run a city and run for senate, here. And having explosions does me no favors!”
&&&&&
“Hmm, the Saints, huh?” a large, muscular man mused. In the background, the whirring hum of a tattoo-gun could be heard.
The man was seven feet tall, ripped with muscles and covered in red and black ink. Some formed sharp, angular shapes, others were in the forms of monsters and flames. He had brown hair done in a crew cut. A red-haired beauty was leaning against the back of his chair, but the cruel glint in her eyes revealed the fact that she was rotten on the inside.
Two other men were in the tattoo parlor. One was working on the brute, the other was fidgeting nervously at the front door, casting glances outside the window every so often.
“We should kill them, boss! Really hurt them! Teach them some respect!” A man with a blond mullet and plenty of piercings and tattoos said as he put down the tattoo gun. “They need to know that the Brotherhood won’t back down from a fight!”
“Calm down, Matt,” the second person in the room, a lanky, black-haired man, said nervously.
“Fuck you, Donnie! Don’t you want some revenge?! They murdered your friends!” Matt shot back. “Grow some fucking balls!”
“And that is precisely why I am saying this!” the man, Donnie, shouted. “They ripped through us over the course of a single year, dismantling what Price and Sharp had spent years building! If we aren’t careful, they’ll slaughter us, too!”
“Please, like they could do anything to us!” the red-head woman scoffed. “We have the most men out of any gang in the city, and the most weapons!”
She then leaned down to kiss the muscular man’s cheek. “Besides, we have Maero. Nobody is gonna be able to do anything to us so long as he’s leading the Brotherhood!”
“That’s right, doll,” he said, stroking the woman’s cheek fondly. “We don’t have to worry about a thing.”
He then shot sharp looks at his two lieutenants. “Don’t be mistaken, however. We should get ready to handle the Saints when they come sniffing around. I’ve got some deals in the works to bring in new hardware, but until then, we should shore up the defenses. No sense in letting foxes into the henhouse without a fight.”
“You think the Saints will come after us?” Donnie asked.
“Of course they will. We’re too big to ignore. They’ll probably try and take a few kiddy sized bites out of us before realizing we’re too much for them to handle and they’ll focus on the Sons or the Ronin. And if we break their teeth at the same time? Fine by me,” Maero declared. “Jessica? Be a dear and go see if there are any beers in the mini-fridge left.”
“I’ll spread the word for the boys on the street to keep an eye out for any purple-clad goons trying to muscle into our territory, boss,” Matt said, and Maero nodded as his girlfriend went off to the back of the parlor.
“Do that. And I know you’re annoyed they wrecked the Pep Rally, so if they do move against us, you can have first dibs when it’s time to punish them.”
“Sweet! Thanks, boss,” Matt said with a grin. “Feed Dogs was gonna rock the Pep Rally, but those Saintly shits ruined the whole event! They had to close the stadium, and we didn’t get paid a cent for the gig!”
Maero just smirked while Donnie looked between them nervously. ‘God, I hope this doesn’t end like it did for the Rollerz,’ he prayed silently.
&&&&&
“This is some funny shit, man!” a middle-aged black man with a rainbow bandana covering up his dreadlocks laughed. Beside him, a Caucasian college student with dreadlocks chuckled along with him. “You see what they did to the heroes at the rally? Hilarious!”
“Hells to yeah it was! Did you see the way Amber ate asphalt? I’ve got it on loop on my phone for whenever I need to smile,” his younger companion chortled. “Man, I can’t wait to see what they do next!”
A bald black man in a white suit with a green undershirt and a bone and shell necklace around his throat watched the other men laugh, while remaining utterly silent. It was rare to see the two getting along, so he didn’t want to disturb them.
All good things come to an end, however, and the mirth eventually died down in the slick green Hounfor limousine.
“I beg to differ,” the bald man stated, his voice deep with a hint of accent. “The Saints being back in business means our business in the city is now in jeopardy.”
He swept his gaze across his men. “Mr. Sunshine, Veteran Child, tell me the status of our stocks of Loa Dust. The Saints will try and target our supply lines to weaken us. If we can’t sell our product, our customers will turn elsewhere.”
“Our stocks are high. We have a large reserve that can sustain our current market for an entire four months alone if necessary,” Mr. Sunshine replied. “The production farm and the lab in Shivington are running smoothly as well.”
“And my dealers are pushing hard and fast. We’ve got a lot of different men and women working the streets, and if they hear anything about the Saints, they’ll let me know,” Veteran Child said, excitedly running a hand through his dreadlocks.
“Are these guys really that tough?” Mr. Sunshine asked, curious.
“They did kick some of us out of a building we’d taken over a while back, so they have some skill,” Veteran Child commented.
“Bah! Those men were weaklings! And that place was barely more than a drug den for our lazier soldiers. If the Saints come sniffing around our territory again, we will crush them. Besides, there’s only what, a dozen of them? And the only one to worry about is that madman with the guns. Johnny Gat, I believe his name is.”
“It’s only thanks to the Saints eliminating The Brute and weakening Los Carnales that we were able to take over from the Colombians and corner Stilwater’s drug trade in the first place,” the General reminded his lieutenants. “Even if they are weak now, they will grow in power. We must grind them into the dirt before they have a chance to get back on their feet.”
“We’ll get right on that, as soon as we push the Ronin out of our northern sections of territory. Bastards don’t know when to quit!” Veteran Child complained.
“See to it,” the General ordered, before pulling out a cigar from a golden case. “Either of you have a light?”
&&&&&
In a penthouse located at the top of a high-rise apartment complex in the cushy quarters of Stilwater, a young Asian man in a yellow and black jacket and designer shades had his feet kicked up on desk while listening to a report being delivered by a stern-faced, bald shaven Asian man who had a genuine Japanese Katana strapped to his back.
“This is all so boring,” he said, cutting off a report on the quarterly revenue of the Stilwater’s most powerful gang, the Ronin.
[“I apologize, Akuji-Sama, but this is important information to be going over,”] the sword-wielding man replied.
“Fuck’s sake, speak English, Jyunichi!” Shogo Akuji groaned, slapping a hand over his face. “It’s been five years, why haven’t you learned yet?”
His second-in-command simply bowed his head. [“I merely speak in your mother tongue because it is necessary for when you take over from your father, Akuji-Sama.”]
“Ugh, don’t talk to me about my father, dude,” Shogo whined. “Dad refuses to accept it, but the future is here, in America. Not over in Japan. Not with All Might running around in his backyard. The Yakuza are pretty much trash clinging to old, outdated ideas, and can’t and won’t make a move for fear of the Number One Hero punching their lights out. Heck, even All Might realizes how great America is! Why else would he dress like that?”
He then swung his feet off the desk and stood up, before walking out of the office and into another, much nicer, lounge.
Said room was beautifully appointed in traditional Japanese design, with tatami mats and wooden paneling for the walls. A silk painting of a yellow dragon surrounded by a lightning storm was hung on the northward wall, while a few bonsai trees had been set up around a small marble fountain.
“Instead of discussing something boring, let’s talk about the Saints,” Shogo suggested as he sits down on a couch and turns on a massive plasma screen tv.
[“Very well,”] Jyunichi agrees, nodding his head. [“We know the Saints are weak right now, but their leader, Skunk, is as wily as a Tanuki, and can bring about immense devastation if cornered. We currently don’t know where their headquarters is, but when we do, I recommend a decapitating strike to eliminate them all in one fell swoop.”]
“Where’s the fun in that?” Shogo asked. “Besides, where’s your sense of ‘honor’ you’re always yammering about? We have time. Plenty of it, in fact.”
[“Time?”] Jyunichi asked, confused.
“Totally. See, we’re strong. Too tough to touch. The Saints won’t dare go after us because of it. That means it’s either the Sons or the Brotherhood who will feel the sting,” Shogo replied. “Once one of ‘em is on the chopping block, we can make our move, but not before that. Honestly, my money is on that musclehead Maero biting it first.”
[“And what makes you think this is what will happen?” Jyunichi inquired, curious as to what his young master’s thought process was.
“Because of racism, my man!” Shogo chuckled. “This is America! Land of the free, home of the bigot! The Saints can’t go against the Sons first, because they’re black, and PC activists will cry foul, regardless of the fact the Sons of Samedi are more of a paramilitary-cult than a gang whose drugs have killed more people in one year than car accidents in the past ten!”
“No, Jyunichi, it has to be the Brotherhood that the Saints go after first. They are going to collar the wolf and break it, make it into a domesticated little doggy. And when that bitch is under their boots, then we can strike. Until then, keep up the pressure on the Sons of Samedi and keep trying to push our south-western borders further into Green territory. Let the Purple and Red duke it out for now. Yellow will save its strength for whoever comes out on top.”
Jyunichi bowed his head to the younger man’s logic. Honestly, it all made perfect sense, and he would make sure everything was carried out according to his will, but Jyunichi couldn’t help but fear that Shogo wasn’t taking matters seriously. It was all a game to the future boss of the Akuji Clan, and that would wind up getting him killed.
“Oh, before I forget, schedule an appointment with Dane Vogel,” Shogo requested after a moment as an ad for Ultor flashed by on the screen. “We need to discuss business arrangements now that a fourth piece is on the table.”
&&&&&
“…and that concludes the quarterly earnings for the fiscal year, Mr. Vogel,” a man in a black suit and tie said, a pair of compound eyes and fly wings on his back.
“Excellent, Jonathan. Simply excellent! Our shareholders and the board will be very pleased by the growth this quarter,” Dane Vogel announced, clapping politely as the presentation ended.
The famous Head of Special Projects leaned back in his chair, a thin smile on his face. He had sweptback blond hair, and wore a charcoal black suit with the Ultor logo above his heart. Despite his smiling face, his blue eyes were cold and sharp, and they watched the room and its occupants closely.
Over a dozen of Ultor’s top executives were in his office at the top of the Philips Building, many of them sycophantically nodding along and applauding. Only a few didn’t, and he watched those the closest.
“Mr. Jackson, you don’t look all that pleased by our progress,” Dane Vogel called out. “Do you have something you wish to say?”
Dexter ‘Dex’ Jackson, formerly of the Third Street Saints, cleared his throat and nodded. “While I am happy we have seen record profits for the fourth year in a row, I worry about the influence certain disruptive elements in the city may have on us and our earnings. As Head of Security for Ultor in Stilwater, I fear it would be remise of me not to bring this up.”
A few murmurs of agreement broke out amongst the executives, and Dane Vogel quickly raised a hand for silence.
“While I appreciate your concern, there is nothing to worry about,” the member of the board said with a reassuring smile. “The mayor and chief of police have assured me that they can take care of it.”
“Like they’ve taken care of the Brotherhood, Ronin, and Sons?” Dex scoffed. “Sir, if I may be so bold, the resurgence of the Third Street Saints could become a problem, especially if they manage to pull of what they did five years ago.”
“Feeling nostalgic, Mr. Jackson?” Dane Vogel queried.
“Hardly. I just know how dangerous they can be,” Dex replied firmly. “We ought to take care of them right away!”
“As it so happens, I agree,” Vogel said, surprising not just Dex but many of the executives as well.
“Really?” he asked, surprised.
“You show good initiative, Mr. Jackson. It seems I was right in hiring you after all,” the Head of Special Projects said with a wide, genial grin.
“Thank you, sir,” Dex said, giving the man a quick nod. “Do you have any ideas about what to do, then?”
“I do,” Vogel said, his grin turning shark-like. “I’ve contacted a PMC that goes by the name ‘Masako’ to do some cleaning and to add a bit of protection to the facilities here in Stilwater. They will arrive soon, once their previous contract is concluded.”
“Mercenaries?” an executive spluttered.
“Quite. Consider it a way to advertise some of our new products,” Vogel said. “We will be rolling out the first of the EDF Scout prototypes, among other things, and if these mercs like ‘em, well, what better way to advertise to the military than having their endorsement?”
More mutters rang out, but this time there was an approving tone to their voices. Free advertisement and testing for their new line of military grade hardware was always welcome, after all.
“If that is all, ladies and gentlemen, then I bid you adieu for the day. Please feel free to stop by the 7th floor lounge on your way out. Jaime made her famous coffee cake for today,” Vogel said, dismissing the group.
“Oh, Gryphon, stay behind for a minute, if you wouldn’t mind,” Vogel requested as the rest of the executives began to depart.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vogel,” the wide-shouldered man who oversaw many of the special research projects conducted by Ultor said, waiting until the room was empty before getting up and walking over to stand in front of his boss’s desk.
“How are things down at the Pyramid?” Vogel inquired once everyone else was gone. “Everything secure?”
“As well as a secret facility built smack dab in the middle of a city can be,” Eric Gryphon snorted. “I’m telling you, we need to find a better place for some of the projects we’re keeping down there. Especially the stuff we’re making for…”
“Don’t say his name!” Vogel hissed. “Don’t even use that asinine nickname of his! I’m pretty sure he has some sort of Cognition based Quirk in that unholy collection of his that lets him know whenever someone speaks of him!”
“I don’t know why you made a deal with that ‘thing’ in the first place,” Gryphon sighed. “Was it really worth it?”
“I made a deal with the devil, Gryphon, but like any businessman, I will honor said deal until I can find a way to bend it to my advantage,” Vogel said sharply. “Besides, how else do you think I managed to get all those loans and investments for Stilwater and Saints Row? Half a billion dollars doesn’t just magically appear, you know!”
“Fair enough,” Gryphon said, though he looked like he’d bitten into something sour. “But I still don’t like it. We’re breaking a shit-ton of laws for this guy, and for what?”
“We’ll be free of him eventually,” Vogel promised. “We just have to be patient.”
Gyrphon nodded sullenly. “If that’s all, I should leave. Got some inspections to run.”
When Eric Gryphon left, Dane Vogel let out a sigh, and leaned back into his chair. After a moment, he pointed a finger at one of the drawers on his desk, and after a second a quiet “click!” rang out. Opening it, he removed a folder, and spread its contents out onto his desk.
“What kind of name even is ‘Nomu,’ anyway?” the Ultor executive grumbled, looking at a picture of a twisted, blackened mutant with its brain exposed growing in a human-sized test tube. And it wasn’t the only one in view.
Dane Vogel shook his head after a moment and slid the folder back into its drawer, before grabbing a few files from the pile on his desk. He didn’t have time to worry about such things. He had a business to run.
