Realistic or Modern 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 — at the end of the world

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cells​

Theo had never been to prison before. Not until now. Not before, when everything was normal. Sure, he’d seen snippets of them in movies and on television before, but it pales in comparison to the real thing. The only thing worse was the real thing after months and months of the world having ended and the inmates running the show. Truthfully, Theo had hoped that maybe the guards or police or army or something had the run of the place, but he wasn’t surprised to find out that the inmates run things here. He was pretty sure he saw that in a movie too.

That movie didn’t end well at all.

Planting their homemade radio-jamming devices hadn’t taken as long as he feared it would with Maren’s help. She didn’t talk much, which was unnerving - but maybe he talked too much. It was hard to tell. When they were done, Maren darted off elsewhere to go ‘take care of something’. He had a sneaking suspicion that meant she was going to go help make someone eat lead in a few minutes, based on the way she said it. He was probably better off sticking with Haewon, though she also looked mad enough to shoot someone at this point. He wasn’t about to ask why.

The next step of their plan was actual insanity and he really had to weigh his options here. Help, and probably die, or not help, and probably die.

Super great options! He hated this place.

Handgun in hand - which he did actually know how to use, thanks for asking - and pressed against a wall behind Haewon, he held his breath as she peered around the corner. They were in the solitary confinement wing, where supposedly some people were being held. One of which was a doctor. It seemed ridiculous to throw an important person like a doctor in a cell, and only after Maren had caught him up on the prison politics did he really fully appreciate the massive pile of shit he just stumbled into.

Being a rebel sounded more cool when it was in Star Wars. Being a rebel in real life was actually terrifying as shit.

Meeting Haewon’s gaze, he nodded as she silently counted down. Three…. Two…. one… and showtime. He followed a few steps behind Haewon, slipping in behind her after the guard hit the floor. He couldn’t help but flinch at the second shot to the temple to finish him off. Cold, but merciful, at the same time - and it kept the guard from coming back later as another problem.

Theo crouched down at the guard’s side, rummaging for keys. For some reason he expected them to just be dangling there at his side, all obvious-like, but of course they weren’t. He had to rummage through a dead man’s pockets, and when he couldn’t find them in the man’s pants pockets to the side, he grabbed the body and rolled it onto its side.

“Asshole kept them in his back pocket.” He grumbled, sliding a jangling circle of keys out of the dead guard’s back pocket with a look of distaste on his face. One thing they don’t often show in movies is how, once you’re dead, your bowels start to let loose.

Theo flipped through the keys as he stood. There were several of them, and it wasn’t very obvious which was a key to a jail cell and which wasn’t. Some of them looked weird, some of them looked like regular house keys of all things. He might just have to try all of them until one worked - presuming one would work at all.

“Keep keepin’ watch,” Theo asked, peering carefully up and down the hallway. Those gunshots made a hell of a lot of noise and he expected people to come running any second. Their time was limited. So far, nobody else was around.

It was a Godsend that each door had a little window in it - it meant Theo could peek inside before trying the door. This allowed him to skip several empty cells until he found one with someone inside.

“Oh fuck,” He breathed out. All he could see when he peered inside was a body laying on the floor from the waist down - stripped down to boxers and socks. Was that the doctor? Maren had told him the doctor’s name was Victor, but he’d never seen the doctor before so even if he’d seen the face, would he know? He had to check anyway, because if this was for nothing, they could at least get out faster.

Theo attempted to jam one key into the lock. It didn’t work - he couldn’t even get it in. He tried a second one. It slid in half way, then no more. Then another, and another, and fuck this wasn’t working. It was the sixth key he tried that finally slid in and turned. The click as the door unlocked made him sigh with relief - though he was still cautious about what he’d find on the other side with that body. Was it one of the wasted?

“Victor? We’re here to get you o-”

Theo flinched and sucked in a breath as suddenly he was met with a fist grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt and shoving him backwards into the opposite wall. Before he knew how to react, he was being pinned to the wall with a broken metal bar at his throat.

The man - late thirties, sweaty brown hair dangling in his face - was on him in an instant. The broken metal pipe was rusted and snapped off at one end, and he wasn’t sure what it was from. Too narrow to be plumbing, that was for sure. The man was dressed only in his boxers and a tank-top, stained with sweat, grime, and blood. Dark circles were under eyes that darted up and down the hall like a cornered animal. Dried blood covered the man’s hands, streaked his shirt, and was splattered in fine droplets on his neck and face. Bruises were everywhere - shoulders, arms, chest, and face.

Theo’s first thought was that he looked crazy.

His second thought was that this was a bad idea and he’d picked the wrong cell.

Miaow NanLia Bullyboy Squad Crono ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cells​

The scraping and chinking against the door’s keyhole filled the entire cell with noise. An easy thing to do, given how it was dead silent inside. Victor was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, metal bar in hand. Waiting for Elio.

He hadn’t noticed it while laying on the cot; it wasn’t until he needed something more firm under him to keep him grounded did he notice the rust on both ends of the leg of the cot's metal frame. It took a fair amount of effort and strength to wriggle the bar loose - first by kicking it free on one end, then wiggling it back and forth and back and forth until it snapped at the other end. The cot wasn’t so usable now, what with the way it slanted downwards away from the wall to the foot-end of the mattress, but he didn’t care. The ends of the bar were jagged, sharp, and rusty while the metal bar itself was otherwise solid and sturdy in the middle. It would make for a good weapon, whether it be to bludgeon or to shove it into someone.

That was precisely what he intended to do to Elio. No more games, no more fucking around, no more playing dumb, no more of all this bullshit. He’d heard the guards outside gossiping when they changed shifts: Weston was caught and was going to hang. While he doubted Weston would talk, he didn’t know what kind of shit they put him through first, nor did he know what anyone else knew. His thoughts drifted back to Tanner, and his grip around the bar tightened. Maybe Elio wasn’t going to be the only one to eat rusty iron.

Whatever else was going on out there, Weston hanging meant he was fucked and he needed to get free, find Hughes, find some damn clothes and shoes, and get the hell out of here.

Victor waited near the door, wondering why it was taking so damn long for it to be unlocked, but preparing himself to bullrush whoever opened it. He didn’t wait for the person on the other side to finish his sentence or step inside - the second the door was open, he was out - grabbing the man by the shirt, shoving him into a wall, and holding the bar across his throat.

The guy - the kid, honestly - wasn’t what he expected. He was expecting one of the enforcers, so he knew he had to move fast before he got shot, but instead he wound up with a scrawny kid that looked like he was about to piss his pants, giving him a wide-eyed stare and rambling something about getting out.

Wait, getting out? Victor felt his eye twitch and he glanced down the hallway, catching a glimpse of Haewon, before looking back to the kid.

“Give me this,” Victor growled as he yanked the handgun out of Theo’s hand as he took the metal bar off his neck, the kid offering essentially no resistance. Clearly on his side, and not an enforcer. At least he let Theo keep the keys - for now. Victor checked the weapon and made sure it was loaded and ready to fire.

Handgun in one hand, metal bar in the other, Victor stayed close to the wall and moved quickly towards Haewon - steps easier to keep silent even when moving fast thanks to his lack of footwear.

“I need shoes, clothes, a way out, and a goddamn cigarette.” He hissed at Haewon, peeking around the corner behind her. “So lead on.”

Miaow NanLia Bullyboy Squad Crono ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber

The kick slammed his lungs empty and he lost his footing. Cabrera dropped off height. He hit his head and ribs to the concrete, stars bursting behind his eyelids. His pistol skittered across the floor, just out of reach. Dazed and winded he dragged his chin up and looked around through the dust and chaos. People clashed, gunshots cracked through the air, bullets chewing flesh and concrete. Streaks of fresh blood dripped from his brow down his nose, threatening to sting in his eye and blind him.

His vision cleared just enough to catch Weston’s bulk charging across the room. Desperate. Running for his life. Arms tied he had no way to block the knife. Knife! Cabrera’s ribs screamed in protest, but instinct screamed louder—move. He hurled his weight and snapped up his gun, muscle memory kicking in. The weight in his palms familiar as breathing. His aim set on Weston’s back. Center mass. Perfect shot. But he let the iron sights slide and lock on the real target.

Clean shot under the armpit of the arm that raised the blade to strike Weston. The bullet pierced and jerked the attacker’s body. It dropped him spasming to the floor, blood rapidly pooling around him.

Concrete scraping his palm, Ignacio pushed up to his feet. The room tilted. His head throbbed, vision doubled, then snapped back into focus. Searching for one man now. He saw him, he saw King behind the VIP section where people lay hiding or shooting from cover. He saw King and his lips parted at the sight.

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Namazu NanLia Tool BeyondDandy Safton @spottednewt
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[Tool]

Lincoln
Execution Chamber​

Madison didn't have to wait long for Cabrera to get away from Weston, though not of his own volition; from Madison's perspective, Cabrera went pinwheeling off the gallows thanks to a well-placed boot on his keister. Now that Cabrera didn't have Weston behind him, protecting the former from Madison's bullet, she aimed at Cabrera's skull and made to squeeze one home..... but Weston's shouted plea stayed her hand. Only one eye had anybody home when she looked up at the leader of the Rebels, moving away from his swinging dissolution at a stumbling lope, but the intellect in her chestnut gaze remained sharp as a wet razor. Did Weston think there was a shortage of bullets to go around? Did he underestimate his hangman?

Detective Jones had a bad feeling about this.

Nonetheless, if there was any time to keep her trap shut and fall in line like a good little soldier, this was it. With only a hair's hesitation, her arm swung towards King. Or, more accurately, towards the thicket of guards, right-hand goons, and pompous pricks ready to throw themselves between King and harm's way.

Her way.

With a calm that came with clarity of purpose mixed with a rainbow of drugs, Madison let her breath out slow and chose another target. Compensate for the bad eye. Anticipate the movement.

Bang. Rinse and repeat. Apply directly to face. Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline.

It was way easier to get a nice, clean shot when one was standing in front of god and everybody, back straight and pathologically unafraid, accepting the inevitability of death as a fair trade for doling out death to others. Though she wasn't looking to get herself perished, there wasn't much to keep her going except what was right in front of her: monsters. And, to be fair, being on PCP helped with the bravery.

Several more guards went down, none of them with anything less than a headshot. Center mass would only compound the problem.

Keep calm. Do the job.

When Weston came near, yelling to be let loose, Madison wordlessly holstered the gun in her off hand and drew something between a machete and a military hunting knife, and though she put the blade in place against the rope, she didn't dare drop her primary weapon.

"Saw!" She yelled in Weston's ear, bracing the handle of the cutter against her hip and returning her gaze to the sights of her gun. If Weston sliced himself open, that was fuckin on him.

Line it up. Breathe. Be sure. Take the shot.

Bang. Repeat. Bang. Repeat. Bang.

Bullyboy Squad Namazu

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Tigran thought all of this was fucking offensive. He’d seriously considered trying to find a way to poison the ranking leadership that gathered around King. Maybe a spiked bottle of wine or tampered-with soup. Unfortunately, he had zero knowledge of how such things worked, nor did he have a plan he could pull off in time for the execution.

The way the enforcers and trusted lackeys gathered around King, flocking to him like he was some fucking God, was cult-like and sickening. The way they talked about Weston - a man he knew better than all of them - was filthy and awful. They were all wrong. All of them. He’d never liked any of these people; he only ever tolerated them for his survival. But now? He could barely keep his mouth shut.

The worst of it was the way people who had previously called themselves his friend stood down and stepped away, clearing the path for him to die. Some friends they were. It only went to show the character of the people here if that was what they were willing to do. He cast a few burning glances at Temma. That black sequined dress, like the kind a cheap whore would wear to a funeral, got under his skin. Some friend she was. A friend doesn’t put more effort into their clothing, hair, and makeup for an execution than they did for trying to stop the execution. Not that he ever truly felt like Temma was his own friend. Oh sure, he acted friendly - because that was his fucking job.

He had been more or less willing to play the Samaritan’s stupid games to keep himself protected at first, even if he spent more than enough nights sobbing in his shower or hanging his head over a toilet sick at his own actions. But he knew he couldn’t do it forever. If it weren’t for the rebellion, if it didn’t look like there was any way out of this, he probably would have eaten a bullet already. That was the thing he couldn’t let die here. It wasn’t just about Weston. It was about hope. The hope that they could get out from under this torture and not live every day terrified and disgusted and contemplating whether life here was better than no life at all.

And that was exactly why Tigran came up with his plan.

The handgun was tucked under the front of his waistband, safety on but loaded. He didn’t dare put it behind his back or at his side, knowing how at any point any of these Samaritans could decide to get handsy with him. Many didn’t - many were toxically hetero, but that didn’t stop some people from trying to play grab-ass with him. He ducked down behind others as people started reacting to the shooting and shouting, watching as Derek covered Temma and started ordering people around. Some hit the floor and covered their heads, as if that’d stop a bullet, and others tried to take cover. Some whipped out their weapons but seemed uncertain who to aim for.

Bounding off the small stage area King had set up on and where some of the other “entertainers” were gathered, Tigran motioned for the startled whores around him to follow. “I’ll get them to cover!” he shouted, just in case anyone could hear him or noticed he was moving away. A likely story. Of course Temma had warned them more than once that if things get dicey, tuck tail and run. They were merchandise, and damaged merchandise doesn’t earn its keep.

The funny thing is, sometimes damaged people can do a lot more damage when they finally lash out. And that’s what they were. People, not merchandise.

Not all of the whores were in on it. The ones with the least backbone, the ones broken down so far that they could hardly function, were left out of the plan. Those were the ones that were being shepherded out a doorway, crying and shrieking and pale. Four others though, just as resolute and angry as Tigran, were ready to end this bullshit or die trying.

The small group, dressed in their nice and clean designer jeans, tailored suit jackets, and tight dresses, hopped off the stage and for a split second, looked like they were running too. Until, that is, they all pulled concealed weapons out, took aim, and started pulling the trigger. They’d cover the back as much as they could, squeezing King’s people in. There would be no easy sneaking out the back.

The five of them took down an equal number of enforcers - some directly standing with King’s entourage, others rushing towards them. None of them could get a good clear shot of King yet, but Tigran kept his eyes open for the chance. What he did have, though, was a split second opportunity of another kind in front of him.

The crowd parted slightly, and several feet in front of him lay Temma, with Derek over her and shielding her body. He had a clear shot of Derek’s head and back. Tigran raised his weapon and took aim.

NanLia Safton Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamer​

The moment Toni heard the lock explode, his body dropped into cover. Knowledge sharpened by instinct—he knew exactly what was going on. The world exploded in blinding white but his eyes were squeezed shut, covered with his palms. Screams erupted as the bangs went off, but they were muffled by his ear protection.

Rebels stormed in with gunfire. Brass casings pinged off concrete, bodies hit the floor. More screams. More chaos. Toni and his men didn’t join it. He stayed put, waiting and listening as both sides blazed through their magazines until they were halfway through and… Click. Click. Click. Dummy rounds you stupid fucks.

Toni and his men sprung up from cover. He zeroed in on the King nearby—a group of enforcers covering the big man from the other side, where the enemy was. They didn’t know shit. Toni stepped over and shoved the loaded Glock to the back of King's head. He didn’t even have to bark any orders. As confused shooters on both sides tried to check their ammo, one of Toni’s men aimed an automatic AK up and sent a burst of gunfire into the ceiling. To nail everybody’s attention when Toni shouted.

“Shut the fuck up!” His gaze skipped between faces of high ranked Samaritans as well as rebel leaders—his boys now aiming at both groups. Toni smirked when the chamber gradually grew quiet. “For once in your life, you gon’ shut the fuck up and listen.”

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Neveah watched the gathered crowd in the pit, the various levels of elite gathered under King’s law, here to witness the death of one of his officers. It was … disgusting. Anyone else would have combated against a fighter from Derek’s team, had their skull crushed and then they would have gone one to party.

But of course not, the privileged get privileges even when their traitorous fucks. She snapped her gum, the noise muted from the earplugs, and after a rather loud bubble pop that earned her looks from solemn attendees, she raised her hands placating and moved away from them, further back and against the wall. It was almost time anyway.

The doors burst open and she turned her back, waiting for the feel of the flashbang in her core to dissipate before she turned back and the scene before her was glorious. The Monster, Dr. Frankenstein's, raged in glorious fury, aiming without second thought or consideration before firing. If she were anyone else, Nev might have idolized the bitch, or at least attempted to recruit her.

She kept herself busy, helping the rebels take out any elite that didn’t immediately cower though there was one person in particular she was looking for. Dutchess. That bitch needed to die, for real this time. She knew too much and if she uttered a word she was fucked. Unfortunately, she didn’t spot her before Toni was shouting orders from where the elites sat and she knew she didn’t have time to do it now … it’ll have to wait until later.

Neveah pushed and shoved her way through the infighting, blasting anyone that got in her way until she was there, behind Madison as she freed Weston. As silence broke over the pit, people looking to where Toni and his team were, Nev lifted her pistol, letting the barrel settle on the back of Madison’s skull. “Apologies, Monstrua. This isn’t going to go the way you had planned…”

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[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Weston flinched as he heard the crack of a gunshot go off nearby. Way too close for comfort, but it didn’t hit him or Madison and that was all that mattered in this instant. He didn’t see the man that went down behind him, just like he didn’t see that knife raised for him in a way that could have spelled his end if it wasn’t for Cabrera’s save.

It was damned impressive how Madison could just stand there in the thick of things, chaos around her, and pick off enforcers loyal to King one by one. It wasn’t exactly like shooting fish in a barrel - these fish tried to bite back - but did she miss any of her shots? It didn’t seem like it, but there was so much going on that it was hard for him to keep track. Assuming they lived through any of this, he’d ask her later how she managed this.

Thankful that he could get some help with his bindings and be covered at the same time, Weston ducked down and began to saw his rope bindings back and forth against the machete-like knife that Madison provided. It was a good thing she held it in place and let him do the work - she needed to be focusing on her shots. Nothing good could come out of trying to play a game of ‘pat your head and rub your tummy’ with an oversized knife and a firearm.

“I owe you!” Weston called back, having to raise his voice to shout at her over the screaming, gunshots, and the clanging and thudding of weapons against bodies and other weapons. Orders were being barked from every corner of the room, though it was unclear who exactly would be able to hear and follow them. A good number of onlookers had already fled through the doors that the incoming rebels had busted open and filtered out into the halls. Weston had no idea where they’d go from here - back to their rooms to hide, or to take this opportunity to make a break for it - but it was for the best. The fewer bystander casualties, the better. They’d deal with the fallout after the fact.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cabrera stand. A good thing - he wasn’t too injured. He’d grabbed his gun again - possibly not a good thing - but at least it wasn’t being aimed at him. The fool bastard was too busy staring at something - King, maybe? Anger roiled in his gut again that Cabrera had seemingly made his choice, and it wasn’t him he sided with. That was not something he needed to deal with right now. Another piece of the fallout to be dealt with some other time.

Finally getting his bindings sliced apart, he shook them off his wrists, letting the frayed and cut ropes fall to the ground. Weston heard the tell-tale click-click-click of someone trying and failing to fire near him. Glancing up, he saw someone shake his handgun in frustration, only to get decked in the face. People were moving too fast to easily take stock of who was on whose side.

When the burst of gunfire went off, Weston flinched and ducked low before spotting Toni and his men. Seeing King with a gun to the back of his head brought an immediate, wide grin to his face. Toni had gotten close faster than the rest of them. He could have kissed the son of a bitch in that moment just for this.

Prematurely thinking that they were getting the upper hand, Weston got to his feet - only to look over and see Neveah’s pistol settling onto the back of Madison’s head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed quietly at Neveah - though it was too late. He remained still, not wanting to make a sudden movement in case that set the tattooed woman off and made her pull the trigger.

This didn’t look like the upper hand. This looked like a knife in the back.

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Tool BeyondDandy ​

 

[Tool]

Lincoln
Execution Chamber
tw: lady parts​

Madison was a lot of things. The woman was brave to the point of psychopathy. She was dedicated to whatever had earned a place in her esteem (a cause, a rebellion, a person, an idea) with the same pure intensity that made stable-boys take up their father's swords to fight dragons. Madison could even make some pretty intuitive, perceptive leaps in cause and consequence, motivation and morality. Good enough to make detective, anyway. Madison was not accustomed to taking a metric fuckton of drugs or dealing with their effects filling her up and whispering around the edges of things.

The journey from police-woman and motorcycle-enthusiast to coked-up, one-eyed badass was less straight line and more corkscrew.

When the room went mostly silent, the woman knew something was off, but even Toni's announcement, said with all the maturity of a tween having grown his second chest hair ever........ even that didn't make things click home. Her heart was too loud, sizzling in her ears quick as summer lightning, while some part of her rattling soul noticed the smell of nail polish remover.

The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head, along with words spoken by..... somebody. The voice sounded both female and apologetic, but Madison couldn't have repeated the sorries under oath. They were just words, but the release of tension along the blade by her side a moment prior meant Weston was done with it. So that was good. She needed that blade. Weston said something, too, but Madison couldn't focus enough to discern what.

Saints of rust and dust, if she was getting shot in the head, it was going to be frontways like a goddamned adult.

Normally, Madison would have spun, grabbed the perp's wrist with her right hand, and moved up with the heel of her left, up and fast in order to bend the elbow the wrong way. The knife and gun changed things a little. The gun fired as Madison moved, and she instantly lost hearing in her left ear as well as a little off the tip, but hey, things on that side of her face already weren't doing great, but it was the knife that changed things most drastically. It drove up and into her would-be assailant's elbow and put a little space between the humerus and ulna. The two arm-bones weren't broken up, but their relationship status had changed to 'it's complicated' and neither of them was particularly happy about it.

The movement also gave Madison a real good view of her attacker's face. Tattoos, dark hair, shocked expression...... hey! It was vagina girl from earlier!

"The fuck're you doi-"

Madison had planned to ask Vagina Girl what the fuck she thought she was doing, how come everybody's guns had gone real quiet, and couldn't she do much, much better than grown-up big-boy over there, but something hit her swift and hard from behind. It was a see-sawing cock-up. On the one hand, the back of her head had been through a lot and was a singed cunthair away from giving up the ghost entirely. On the other, Madison was on a lot of drugs, specifically designed to keep her going. Ultimately, Vagina Girl was let go and Madison's blade retrieved with a wet tearing noise, and though the ex-detective was decidedly unsteady on her feet, the wide sweep of her blade managed to slice through fabric and belly alike before a length of rebar came down between shoulder and neck with a wet thwack. Madison fell to her knees and everything listed sideways.

And that is when understanding came over her in a wave. Toni had played the rebellion for a bunch of chumps. Morons. The rebels had been used, because of course they had. This had all been a setup, because Toni and his gang refused to believe they didn't have to be monsters. They were too scared. Cowards.

Tired chuckles boiled from somewhere deep inside the woman, even as the boots drove into her side, her back, her face, hitting her until the ceiling was the color of blood and a steel toe kicked her right into the arms of Morpheus, still laughing.

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Namazu

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[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Toni’s eyes locked on Weston’s, adrenaline ripping through his veins, making his pulse pound. He didn’t even blink. No remorse. In that second, with his Glock pressed to the King’s skull, he was Lincoln’s top dog. It was a rush, a kind of power that buzzed through him like liquid fire. That's how God had to feel.

His gaze snapped to movement, to the one-eyed bitch twisting like a snake. Steel flashed in her hand and time slowed. Neveah’s scream cut through the silence, raw and jagged, hitting his ears like shattered glass as Madison’s knife drove into her elbow. It tore through it before she yanked it free with a sickening squelch—blood spurted in an arch, thick and red. Neveah’s limp forearm twisted at a funny angle, tendons and bone exposed in a mess of slick, torn flesh.

Heat exploded in Toni’s chest, burning away the shock. The same rage that used to come on him during enemy drive-bys. Toni’s grip on the Glock tightened and his breaths came in a snarl. “GET HER!” His voice savage in his throat. He fought the urge to lunge, tear that blade from her hand and stab her breast thirteen times. Nobody touched his crew. Nobody fucked with his ex except for him. But he couldn’t move. Not yet. Not with the King’s head still under his barrel. One wrong move and this whole plan would go to shit. He'd worked too hard, put too much on the line to blow it now.

“Get the doctor!” He yelled to one of his men, watching the drug-crazed face laughing before another one kicked the white puta into blackout. Toni would play with her later. For now he had to make sure nobody else did stupid. He swung his aim at a young rebel and shot him to the head before swiftly jabbing the muzzle back into King’s temple.

“ANYONE ELSE?!” He gave them a couple of moments to collect while his ex was being tended to on the side. Then he addressed King.

“Sorry about that, my grace,” he mocked. “Had to make sure I got your attention.” He let go of Marcus and knowing his men had their barrels aiming at the room, he stepped forward to stand in front of King, locking eyes with him. “The happy bunch that crashed your party wanted your head. You owe me.” He gestured the gun around them. “I could take your Kingdom. Wear the crown.” He paused and glanced at the rebels, at Weston.

“But I won’t.” He looked back to Marcus. “No more tyrants. I’m going to be your equal. Things will run different around here. The way people want.” The way he wanted. “I’ll keep em happy for you. And those not happy I’ll keep in line.” He rose his pistol again, aiming between Marcus’s eyes.

“So what it gon’ be, King?” His mouth twisted in a smirk.

Crono Miaow Namazu NanLia Safton Tool BeyondDandy kaileaf ​

 

[BeyondDandy]

Lincoln
The Execution Chamber​

The commotion in the room was a flurry of cries and moans, broken by the sound of gunshots. Marcus King, his handmade suede suit stained with the blood of those faithful enough to protect him, hunkered in the semicircle of his enforcers. The assurance that had brought him to this gathering unarmed now appeared to be hubris, a mistake he detested.

King's mind raced as his guards fell one by one, writhing in pain but not dying. What on earth was going on? Weston, Cabrera, and that wretched woman—Madison, the one Weston insisted was innocent—came into view. She was the nucleus of this chaos, and now, her treachery burned like acid in his gut. Their bodies would serve as warnings, and he would have them all annihilated.

Suddenly, the back of his head felt the warmth of a barrel as a crisp click echoed behind him. He stopped.

Toni's sharp, authoritative voice pierced the atmosphere. King knew it at once. The bastard had him. Toni had orchestrated this quagmire, dragging the weight of MS-13 with him, and now the room’s attention shifted to King, the supposed unassailable ruler of Lincoln.

As Toni presented his demands—a partnership, governing Lincoln as equals—King's lips tightened into a frown. As equals? King's stomach turned at the mere thought, but there was no immediate solution. He nodded stiffly, buying time while silently seething.

King finally remarked, "You have a deal," in a silky but venomous voice. As if the incident hadn't just made him feel ashamed, he straightened his coat and adjusted his tie. His subsequent remarks were calculating and icy. “But under one condition. We put Weston in the gas chamber along with all of his rats.”

The room froze. At the command, Cabrera's chest tightened. His eyes large, darting between the unconscious Madison, Weston's restrained figure and King. His mind spun through options, his heart squeezed, screaming at him to do something. He stepped forward.

"I'll take the woman." He said.

Toni's head snapped towards him, eyes narrowing. "Like fuck you will."

"You can have what's left when I'm done with her." Cabrera's voice came out rough, cold. Toni didn’t look happy but he pointed his gun at Ignacio in a casual, non-threatening manner.

“You got one night, mano.”

That’s all Cabrera needed.

"Sir." Ignacio looked at King. "She had to be the rebel leader we’ve been looking for, not your Second In Command. Maybe you should give Weston a second-”

King interrupted him with an authoritative stare. “I want Weston dead. His rebellion, his treachery—it ends tonight.”

Cabrera’s jaw ached from how clenched it was. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “We should lock all slaves in their cells as quick as possible. Guarded by low ranked Samaritans, just in case. So the rest of us can focus on hunting down anyone else that might pose a threat.”

King nodded assertively, his piercing eyes unblinking. Although he could sense the cracks in his empire growing, he was determined not to allow this uprising to topple his rule. King's mind whirled with ideas of retaliation as Toni's men seized power and his loyalists attempted to bring order to the chaos.

Madison, Weston, and Toni would not escape this alive. Not in the end.

Bullyboy Squad
Namazu
Tool

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber... and The Gas Chamber​

Weston was so, so tired. Tired of always fighting, tired of watching every word and every movement and every look. Tired of being on edge and scared. Tired of pain. And very, very tired of being betrayed. He didn’t want to give up, didn’t want to roll over and die, but really needed a win for once. At this point, he’d be content to be exiled so he could just leave this whole pile of garbage behind him and be done with it. Not that such a thing would ever happen - people were far too petty for that. Maybe he could take a few people with him if he were exiled. Madison, Wren… that was about it. Everyone else could get fucked.

Madison’s strike against Neveah was too fast for him to even fully track, not out of the corner of his eye. He saw blood and the glint of steel though, and that was all he needed to know it was time to act (no matter how damn tired he was).

“No!” He called out, dropping to his knees to try and cover Madison as she went down in the center of a flurry of kicks. He took a glancing blow to the shoulder as someone missed Madison and hit him instead, but it didn’t hurt as much as it could have. Not after the beatings he’d already taken, and not in comparison to what Madison was receiving. It terrified him how she laughed as they attacked her, but what was even worse was when she went silent. It brought back memories he didn’t ever want to revisit. Somewhere among the chaos of murderous limbs he found her hand and gave it a squeeze - a silent plea to please not die on him, not after all this.

Someone, he had no idea who, grabbed him and yanked him off. Enforcers he knew the names of, knew the stories of, and once had the respect of threw him off the beaten unconscious woman and onto his back. He rolled once onto his side, helped along by a kick to his lower back from someone until he was on his stomach and pressed to the cold floor. There was a streak of blood near his face and he had no way to tell if that was his own blood or someone else’s. He felt the warm end of a rifle pressed to the back of his head as he lay there, but there wasn’t anything he was going to do about it. He wasn’t getting back up anytime soon, not under his own power.

From where he lay on the floor, he could turn his head a bit and get a good look at Toni behind King, gun to the back of his head - and, sickeningly, making a deal that would never last instead of taking out the whole problem behind this cesspool. It made his stomach turn. Hadn’t he offered Toni the same damn thing? And more, not that he wanted to think about it.

“He’ll never let you live, Toni. Don’t trust him t-” Weston’s words were cut short as someone swung the butt-end of their rifle at his face. He felt blood and pain bloom across his face, and he could no longer keep track of what was and what was not bleeding. His head swam, the world tilting sickeningly, and he felt like the room was dimming as his eyes slid half-closed.

Gas chamber. He heard the words, King’s voice grating against his brain like steel wool on an open wound, but he could scarcely comprehend them. Did the prison even have a gas chamber? Or had they jerry-rigged one? Did it even work? It was not lost on him that he, of all people, was going to meet his end in a gas chamber. His Pa really would be rolling in his grave if he saw this. If he had any strength left, he might have laughed - and now he realized why Madison went down laughing too.

It took a few seconds to realize the reason the floor seemed further away was because he’d been picked up. At least two people had hauled him to his feet by his arms and got him some semblance of upright, not that he entirely remembered where his feet were or how to operate them. When he didn’t walk willingly, he was dragged.

Before Weston was dragged from the room, he took one last look at King, Toni, and Cabrera - and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor in King’s direction.

Somewhere between the pit and the gas chamber, Weston had lost track of where he was. He was fighting off pain and a massive headache and the intense need to just close his eyes. He knew if he did that now he’d be dead - and it wasn’t just the exhaustion and pain he was fighting against, but the very real fear of dying coupled with the heavy feeling that maybe his fight really was truly done and over with.

If he gave up now, he could pass out well before they flipped the switch and turned on that gas chamber. He’d be out cold and wouldn’t have to suffer whatever else was coming, wouldn’t have to watch people die around him, wouldn’t have to watch King continue to be a monster. It was tempting.

The cold hard floor of the gas chamber snapped him out of his dreams about sleep and escape. He’d been tossed in like a sack of shit, dropped in the center of the room and landing shoulder first onto his side. Voices filled the space around him, barking orders and cussing, pleading and arguing. There were others being shoved into the room with him - the heat and smell of bodies bathed in fear and sweat and blood surrounded him.

With more effort than it was worth, Weston dragged himself to the closest wall and sat up, groaning as he peeled open his eyes. Part of his face felt like it was swelling up and he was surprised he could still get both eyelids open. Faces blurred in front of him, their mixture of anger and terror matching his own inner turmoil.

“It was good working with all of you.” Weston spoke up, though his voice came out raspy and croaking. He raised his hand and lazily saluted the group in the room with him, a mockery of a real military salute. “When we turn, remember to take a bite out of as many necks as you can.”

Bullyboy Squad Tool NanLia BeyondDandy ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

Part 1 - Jamal
Part 2 - Jamal & Ignacio
Part 3 - Ignacio & King

PART 4
Back alley, over twenty years ago...


His fingertips stuck to the steering wheel's worn leather, clammy with cold sweat. Leave, bro. Jamal’s warning clear as a bullet through glass. He took a moment to think, thoughts pulsing in his skull, even though he already made up his mind.

He twisted the key, killing the engine and cutting the spill of the headlamps. Darkness devoured the alley, dissolved only by the blood-red wash of the Escalade’s tail lights. It framed the three silhouettes by the trunk. Two armed men. One kneeling between them. Cloth on his head.

The soft ticking of alloys amplified the silence. Ignacio swallowed hard, pushed the driver door open and his sneakers crunched against broken glass. The air was crisp. Stank of piss and rotting trash. He walked towards his friend, knees weak. Uncertainty trembled his breath as he stopped next to Jamal. He didn’t know what dark shit was about to go down, he only knew he wasn’t leaving his buddy behind.

“We’ve got ourselves a problem,” Marcus cut the silence. “There’s a stain on my brand.”

They tugged the cloth off and the bloodied face set on Marcus with a glare like venom. Low-lit but enough to see every inch of marred skin—split, slick and swollen. St. Mary and scripture tattoos crawled up the man's neck, yelling stone-cold killer. His bloodshot eyes bared anger, and with it, fear.

“That’s our blood on his hands.” Marcus reached for his belt. Glimmer of steel like a shot of adrenaline straight through Ignacio’s core.

“He killed our brothers. Worse, he betrayed me.” The man grasped the pistol by the barrel and turned the grip towards his younger brother.

Ignacio’s wide eyes locked on Jamal. Hyper aware of the organ in his chest pounding on the edge of panic.

“Blood for blood.” The man said and waited but Jamal didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Marcus held the gun out, his men watching. Silence stretched. Unbearable.

“C’mon,” the older man sneered, cocking his head to catch the younger one's eyes. “You want to betray me too?”

Ignacio’s gaze flinched to the kneeling male, then back to Jamal and Marcus. His brain throbbed in his skull, stomach dropped.

“I’ll do it-” He knew he couldn’t take it back. God, he wanted to run. Instead, he stepped straight into the crosshairs of Marcus’s curious eyes. He reached for the pistol with a hand that wasn’t his own, cold as ice. Heat hammered against it as he wrapped his fingers around the gun. Metal like hot coals.

Ignacio turned to the bloodied male, raising his gaze and the muzzle. His spit went thick, alien in his clamped mouth. His lungs tight. His aim was steady but inside he was shaking, his mind a sizzling mess. He was too young to die. Too young to kill. Too scared for Jamal's fate if he didn’t. Felt like his blood had to squeeze through his veins even though his heart pumped like a piston.

Nailed into that moment, pinned down, only one man was with him. Everything else drained from Ignacio’s perception. Dread like a physical burden dragged on his muscles while everything else froze in place. Even his breath.

Was it like that for him too? The man on the ground.

Ignacio’s eyes begged. The man’s chin dipped a fraction. Something like understanding in his hard gaze. The boy's heartbeat stretched into infinity, sweat-soaked shirt clung wet to his back, graffiti faded on the brick wall at the corner, a dog barked in the distance. He pulled the trigger.

Everything swayed. Zoomed out. Sluggish. Before it slammed back into focus. The body on the ground. Take a life, save a life. He blinked. Confused. Why did he not feel the weight of it all?

He left.

The gunfire rang in his ears for days. At school. At the park. At the breakfast table. In the shower. Laying in the dark. Then it stopped and he rediscovered laughter in his heart. Late night studying. Racing cars. First kiss.

But sometimes he saw something silly. Water dripping from a tap. Shoe knocked on the floor. Church billboard of St Mary. He remembered then, that he never really left that back alley.

​

 

[silverwhere]

GET THE GUNS
Armory​

News of the sudden public execution of Number Two Weston Jones planned for that evening spread like wildfire and quickly became the hottest gossip of the day. Hatsu didn't care about the gossip; most of it was a tapestry of over-exaggerations. Hidden beneath was some form of truth that he'd sort through more thoroughly later; for now, he'd go through the basics. He was more focused on keeping his shit safe than finding out who was involved—no more pantry fires.

Weston wouldn't be a somebody or a nobody to the dissident group; he was Number Two. He had information that wasn't privy to the general public and could be weaponized against King and his community. Weston had to be high-ranking and essential to the group — his death would put a dent in their plans, whether permanent or temporary. Ultimately, it meant two things: the group would either lie low, waiting for a better opportunity or go for the offensive to save their confidant. Hatsu wagered on the latter; this community had too many wanna-be heroes and self-sacrificing assholes too eager to stir shit up; Weston was an excellent example. The question was not if they would act but how.

They'd need weapons for whatever they had planned (assuming they even had a plan), so taking control over the armory seemed the best move. If the dissidents wanted to tear apart the community, they should do it with their bare hands, not with his guns.

After finishing the morning's inventorying, organizing, and scheduling deliveries, he was free to go to the armory. There was still more work to be done in other places, but this became a top priority. The armory's supplies were lower due to the recent undead attack, but they weren't any lower than he expected. Trigger-happy people wasted bullets before they died, leaving a weapon that could go back into storage. They had a lower ammo supply, but the gun count remained stable.
He locked the cage door behind him and changed the pin for good measure. He'll probably get some hell for it, but it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?

Hatsu leaned against a nearby workbench as he wrapped up his inventory notes, occasionally pausing to proofread and rub his aching left hip. With how smoothly things were going so far, maybe he'd have time for a quick, well-deserved nap before the execution.



With the late light of the day leaning down to the southwest, Toni made his way to the armory. Two of his men a few steps behind him. It wouldn’t look natural if he took the whole damn crew. He had to be smart about this. The halls were dead quiet, the kind that makes your skin crawl when you know shit’s about to go sideways. But not yet. First they needed the guns. As they approached the armory door, Toni flicked a quick glance at his companions, making sure they were ready. They were. They knew exactly what to do.

He strutted inside like he owned the place, gaze landing on Black. As their eyes met he sharply motioned his head at him as a greeting.

“Look who’s back.” Lips curled in a smirk. He lazily swept the place, his men stopping behind him. “Still playin’ accountant with your little clipboard?” He shifted back to the younger man. “Lookin old school as fuck, amigo. Whatchu brought home for daddy, eh?” He approached him. One of his men walked up to the two armorers, knuckle-bumping with one of them and chatting in lower voice.



"Mmhm," Hatsu acknowledged, still focused on his clipboard, "Still on the hunt for an abacus so I can really play accountant."

Hatsu kept scribbling away, unbothered by the man's comments. Toni hadn't done anything to warrant his attention—at least, not yet. He kept writing, letting the moment pass, unbothered or oblivious to the noise.

Finally finished, Hatsu put his clipboard neatly on the table, face down, so Toni couldn't see the numbers. Not that it mattered; he doubted he could make sense of them. It was polite to assume he could. "Nothing you'd care about unless you have a passion for canned corn. If that's the case, then you're in luck."

He knew the man was not here to make small talk or to welcome him back home; that wasn't the type of person Toni was. He scanned the room, noting how Toni’s men and the armorers, their hushed voices mingling with the metallic clinks of weapons being cleaned. It wasn't hard to piece together what they wanted; they were in the armory, and he was the one who distributed the guns. They wanted guns, more firepower, more power, but the need wasn’t urgent, not at this moment. Hatsu's gaze returned to Toni.

If Toni wanted something, he would have to ask for it, preferably with a "please," perhaps even with a cherry on top. Then again, Toni wasn't that type of person; when did he have to ask when he could take? Regardless, it wouldn't change Hatsu's answer or the fact that the code had been changed—no one was getting through that door.

He tucked the clipboard under his arm, casually preparing to leave for that well-deserved nap. It was going to be a busy evening after all. "If you want something, speak now or forever hold your peace. I've got a busy day." It was not threatening, just matter of fact.

He really wanted that nap.



“Corn?” Toni scoffed. “Da fuk I look like to you, eh? Like a corn-fed white boy?” He glanced at his men then snapped his focus back to Black. The cool, calm manners always rubbed him the wrong way. Black’s talk too. Like dude was thinking he’s better than him. Like he wasn’t taking him seriously or something.

“Aye. No shit.” Toni chuckled. “I don’t want anything from you, Yakuza. Unless ya switched to an armorer when I wasn’t lookin’.” He drawled, gesturing at the two men with the guns.

“You gonna move ass or I have to help ya?” He warned them. “Get me some damn fire power.” One of the men stood up but hesitated, looking at Black. He knew very well he had no way of unlocking the gun cages now.



"What's wrong with corn?" Hatsu thought to himself. Perhaps Toni was deathly allergic or had a nasty run-in with a scarecrow. Unfortunately, not everyone can appreciate corn.

"Great," he said, pushing off the workbench and walking around Toni towards the exit. If he wasn't needed, he was going to take his leave.

On his way out, Hatsu caught a glimpse of one of the armorers, their eyes pleading for him to step in. They couldn't give Toni what he wanted, a position no one wanted to be in. He briefly considered leaving them to handle the aftermath. After all, they had survived dealing with disgruntled people before, and they’d survive again. Regardless of the result, Toni would eventually find out who blocked his access. It was a matter of how many people he wanted to piss off: better to make friends than enemies. There was no reason to fuel animosity against him.

It was good to have a network of people, regardless of how much he trusted them. Everyday people had their worth, after all. Besides, if the dissenters somehow manage to tip the scales, it would be good to have a few people who could vouch for him. It would be messy if the balance of power shifted; he knew what he would do if he were in their shoes. It was better to play it safe.

He let the keypad buzz and blink red once before he stuck his head back in the room. "Oh, right, nearly forgot," he said with a leisurely wave as the armorer sighed in relief. "Access has been cut. You'll have to sit tight till I wrap up this season of accounting. You know, things have a way of disappearing—can’t have just anyone barging in and messing with the count."



Toni's blood started to simmer but he kept his cool. As Black passed one of the armorers, Toni caught that look. Something was off. His attention flicked to the buzz of the lock when the other armorer tried to open it. He figured maybe the man's finger slipped, but before he could complain, Black spoke again. Toni snapped his gaze back to him, brows furrowing. That lazy wave set something off inside him and he felt the fire light in his chest when Black explained the situation.

“You callin me a thief, puto?!”

His eyes flicked to his boys for a second—one shifted behind him, the other still near the armorers—then back to Black. Who clearly didn’t get how close he was to making shit real ugly. Toni’s voice dropped lower but bristled sharp.

"I don’t give a fuck about your little accountant game but if I don’t get what I came for, you gonna have a problem."



"I'm not calling you a thief," he clarified.

The tension in the air was thick and growing. Hatsu knew exactly what Toni was capable of. There was a reason why Toni was in the position he was in, and Hatsu could respect that. He wasn't looking for a fight—not one where a fist flew and blood was drawn. Honestly, he wasn't built for it. There was a reason why he was a glorified account, and he could live with that. It was a good way to keep him busy, and he had always liked numbers; a win-win. Regardless of the ever-growing tension, Hatsu had no intention of caving. He had made a decision that was going to stand because he thought that it was for the better, despite what Toni thought.

"Yeah, I can tell," Hatsu replied, a dry edge in his voice, "The answer’s no—for now, anyhow. I’ll be done around 7 or 8 tonight. If you can’t wait that long... well, there’s always bolt cutters."

His eyes flickered to the crew and armorers as he wondered if he could slip away quickly enough, letting the silence in the room settle for a second.



Toni’s glare was steaming, teeth clenched tight, watching Black leave the armory. Without a word, he flicked a glance at his boys—they knew what to do. Then he strode after that entitled bastard. His steps outside quickly catching up as he heard a muffled, cut-off cry echoing from the armory.

Nobody in the corridor—good fucking timing. Toni wasn’t planning to test his luck staying out in the open for long. He closed the distance and whipped out his gun. With a rough grip he snagged the man’s collar and jerked Hatsu back. He wrapped one arm around him and clamped a hand over Black’s mouth, jabbing the muzzle to his temple. His lips smeared low drawl all over Hatsu’s ear. “I ain’t gonna paint the wall with your brains just cause I need it.”

Toni yanked the younger male back, dragging towards the armory. “You make a sound, I break your knees. You don’t need knees to tell me the code.”



"Jesus fu—" he almost shouted, a hand muffled him and pulled him into an unloving embrace. The clipboard was abandoned in the stumble, and a pen nearly found a new home in someone's thigh. Thankfully, Hatsu had enough sense to stop when he felt the gun. "So much for that nap," he thought as he regained steady ground, and Toni whispered sweet threats into his ear—well, more like spit. Lovely.

As he was dragged back to the armory, he noticed how the air had taken on that familiar, metallic tang of iron, but this wasn’t the cold scent of gunmetal. It was the unmistakable, raw scent of blood. One of the armorers was killed cleanly and mercifully killed with a slice to the throat, and the other was a mess of stab wounds to his chest. Hatsu knew Toni and his crew could be violent, that wasn't what surprised him but desperation that tainted the edges. Were they so strict for time that they couldn't at least destroy the brain? Had they already forgotten what killed a good portion of their crew? Why were they so desperate?

Either way, he decided he would rather have his kneecaps intact, considering how useful they were for walking. Hands up in defeat and the pen falling to the floor, hopefully rolling away from any of the blood. He couldn't exactly put in or tell Toni the code as long as he clung onto him as if he would magically disappear when freed. What always confused him was the contradictory commands and pleas-- which was it? Quiet or talk?



Toni shoved Hatsu forward, stumbling the man towards the corpses. They lay sprawled between them and the gun cage, blood pooling dark like an oil slick across the concrete floor. One stared up at them with glassy eyes, throat split ear to ear. Clean kill, minimal mess. The other one though... Rookie got sloppy with that one, turned it into a butcher job. Did the trick tho, didn’t it.

His boys stood ready, knives colored red. One wiped his blade clean to his dead buddy’s shirt while the other flanked, blocking any escape route and keeping watch on the door. Not that Black looked like he was going to try anything heroic.

The fresh kills weren't moving yet but they might not stay still for long. Toni saw enough people turn to know they didn't have much time. "Open it." He jerked the gun towards the cage. "Now." The fluorescent lamp buzzed overhead, casting harsh light across his anger-stained face. Face of a seasoned killer. His finger tightened on the trigger, itching to paint the wall with the smartass’ brains. But the man was worth more breathing than dead. Toni would need him later.

"Tick tock," he growled. "My finger's getting tired of waiting."



The countdown until the dead reanimated varied—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. The more the clock ticked, the closer they were to discovering. With a vague threat and a shove, Hatsu was at the keypad.

"Mmhmm," Hatsu muttered as fingers inputted a familiar code.

The light blinked red once before turning a solid green with a happy buzz as the door clicked open and Hatsu pulled it the rest of the way. If you weren't quick enough, the weight would cause the door to shut and lock itself again. One of Toni's men—the bloodier of the two—pushed past him and into the cage to refile through the guns. Hatsu almost let the heavy door slam shut on the Rookie but held it open because he was a gentleman, and a gun was still trained on him.

So much for not letting the dissenters get ahold of his weapons.

As the Rookie sorted through the weapons, Hatsu couldn't help but notice how messy he was. Hands shaky, either from nerves or adrenaline, as he pooled together metal with no means of carrying it all, smearing blood on the cold metal. He was in a rush, but it wasn't just from the blind countdown of reanimated corpses. There was a franticness to it.

It was clear that Toni and his crew were with the dissenters. Hatsu had expected them to make a move to try and rescue the used-to-be Number Two. If that was everything and they had gotten all they needed, why was he still alive and not singing kumbaya with the angels?

Then something clicked. Toni was the notorious leader of MS-13; why should he fall in line when there was power up for the taking? This was about Toni's rise and taking charge once the dust settled.

It meant betraying both the King and the dissenters, which, in turn, meant enemies on both sides. He'd need more than just his crew to back him. He needed influence—why he needed people like Hatsu alive, why he was taking pains to keep things quiet, subtle. If Hatsu went along with it, willingly or not, he was a needed connection to resources and influence. Goddammit.

"How far are you taking this?" Not a question but a realization.



Toni's gaze swept over the arsenal like a kid in a candy store. Rifles, shotguns, handguns - enough firepower to start a small war. Or in this case, end one before it takes off.

He looked at the man sideways and clicked his tongue. "How far?" Circling around Black like a shark that smelled blood in the water, Toni penetrated him with his gaze. "Look at you.” He gestured with his gun, motioning the muzzle in the air like it wasn’t loaded. “Smart enough to ask the right questions." He stopped in front of him, jabbing Hatsu’s chest with the barrel. "But not smart enough to know when to shut up."

He locked eyes with the other, excitement glinting in his hazel browns. "Here's what you need to know, puto. I own all the guns now. Which means I own this place. I own you, puto.” He jabbed him again before looking back to the weaponry, trailing off.

“Now we gonna find out if you’re smart enough to take a good deal when it’s kicking you in the face.”