When Brad woke up, there was a tickling on his chest. He cracked open his eyes, and there, laying on top of him, nestled in between his fat fucking wolf tits, was Lars.
It was too early for this shit. "Lars, what the fuck are you doing?"
"It's comfy." She murmured into his tits.
No. No, no, no, no. What the fuck is happening? He thought. Lars must have still been… horny, the way Brad had been the past few days. Brad's heat had thankfully gone away yesterday morning, so now he was a normal, manageable amount of horny. Lars was apparently still unmanageably horny, considering she was rubbing her whiskers against Brad's chest, causing a tickling sensation that-
Brad began to scream internally.
I just fucking woke up!
"Geddof!" Brad yanked Lars by the collar and tossed her over the back of the couch. "What the fuck are you thinking?"
"...wasn't thinking." Lars said, her words muffled by the fact she was currently facedown on the carpet, wings sprawled out. "Looked comfy, was comfy. Get off my back."
Brad felt his eye twitch. "Horny little shit, you called me a slut, but you and Vice went at it for one-and-a-half hours yesterday! A full fucking feature length movie worth of sex and stinking up the fucking apartment with your sweaty, steamy, fuckfest."
Lars wriggled on the ground, a smug little smile on her face. "Mmmf. Don't remind me."
"At least pretend to act embarrassed!"
The blush on her little cat-face darkened, even as her grin grew wider.
Brad glowered. "You're fucking enjoying this, aren't you. Were you always like this? Did Vice knock something loose when he did… this to you?"
That wiped the horny little grin off her face. "Hey! Like you're one to talk! You did it first!"
"Because I was here first! Because I got fucking… turned into-" Brad caught his breath. "Just shut up!"
Lars's grin came back, and it came back mean. "Why are you still sleeping on the couch Brad? Didn't you consummate your relationship the other night?"
Brad sat up, nearly slipping on an empty beer bottle that had rolled across the floor. "None of your fucking business!" He yelled. "What the fuck are you getting on my case for? You want some big fucking snuggle session in your bed, is that it? How was it last night? Falling asleep in his arms? Cuddling up with him? All snug with him, with his naked chest against your back, so you can hear his heartbeat? Sharing your bodyheat like fucking mountain climbers or whatever?"
Brad's words hung in the air for just a second too long.
Brad interrupted the silence by throwing the empty beer bottle he almost tripped over into a wall, shattering it. That always felt good.
"Fuck this," he finally said. "I'm getting breakfast." He stumbled past Lars, now looking more conflicted, as he made his way towards the kitchen.
There was a quick flap of wings and then Lars was on his shoulder. Her weight barely registered.
Lars spoke in his ear, her voice small. "It was… nice."
Brad didn't look at her. Her wings tickled the back of his neck.
"I mean… It was weird. But it didn't feel bad."
"Good for you. I'm real fucking happy for you."
She leaned in even closer. "He doesn't take his mask off when he sleeps," she whispered.
"So?"
Lars leaned over so her big orange eyes were right in Brad's face. "What do you mean, so? Isn't that weird?"
Brad shrugged hard enough to knock Lars off her perch. "He doesn't take the mask off when he's fucking either. Not weirder than anything else about him."
Lars flapped her wings twice and landed back on the couch. Now that he'd gotten rid of that fuzzy little hypocrite, Brad could finally have something to eat.
Vice was in the kitchen, the maps of Brockton Bay laid out in front of him, along with a crumb-filled plate and empty glass. He was marking buildings on the map with a red pen, referencing a list of names and addresses from people he had already either intimidated or enticed into his protection racket.
It was obvious he'd already been up for a while. And that he had heard their argument earlier.
The look on his mask could have been anything, but Vice wasn't really worth giving the benefit of the doubt, so Brad imagined it was a look of insufferable satisfaction.
"Hey," he said. "Made you breakfast." He gestured over to another plate with a bagel sandwich on it, loaded with cheese, eggs, and strips of bacon.
"Why?" Brad asked, only realizing how stupid the question was after it had already left his mouth. It wasn't like Lars could cook worth a damn. She had subsisted mostly on takeout and microwave meals.
"Because I thought you'd be hungry?"
The plate in question was sitting on the counter next to a set of bags with a humongous amount of cash in them, with Dauntless's spear sitting nearby. Backpacks, duffles, plastic bags, you name it. The canvas bag still had some cash in it of course. As Vice had said last night, "I'm not going to not keep money in it, it's got a dollar sign on it, what would I use it for, laundry?"
Brad took the plate, and, making sure not to sit on his own tail, sat down.
They were both silent for a time. Vice continued marking locations on the map, occasionally pulling out his shiny new phone to record and compare locations in the GPS app.
Brad honestly didn't think Vice was able to sit still and stay silent for as long as he had. He just worked, fidgeting with his pen occasionally and tapping his foot, but otherwise completely focused. It was kind of funny, in a way. Like a clown doing taxes.
It was enough to make Brad wonder, once again, how much of Vice's schtick was, and wasn't, an act. The wolf-lady took a bite of her his breakfast sandwich. It wasn't bad. He shoved the rest of it in his mouth and ate it in a single bite.
Vice took his hands and rubbed his temples, a shudder running through his body. He then shot to his feet, folding up the map and packing away in one of the kitchen drawers, one full of cooking implements, still in their packaging. "Ok!" he said, "Now that I'm done taking notes, and you're done staring at me in silent admiration-"
Brad considered shoving his hand down his own throat in order to make him puke the breakfast sandwich into vice's face. Was that considered 'harm' as far as his orders were concerned? And more importantly, would Vice be 'into' that? Not worth the risk.
"-I've got some promising targets for our next plans of expansion."
He looked around the kitchen, as if searching for something. "You know what his place needs? A whiteboard. Or a chalkboard. Or a corkboard with blurry pictures of public figures, connected by red string. Something else to buy and-or steal."
He took a couple stacks of bills out of the Bank Job Bags. "I cannot do everything by myself- like the other gangs in the city, if I am going to control and reap the benefits of my territory, I need goons, thugs, toughs. I need safehouses, vans, and most importantly of all, a lair."
Lars had wandered into the kitchen and was now climbing into her own fridge, trying to grab something in the back. Brad glared at her, and she just smirked back at him.
"Yeah, sure, goons. Whatever. Good luck with that, considering your current reputation. Don't you have a lair already, though?" Brad said, gesturing to the apartment.
"This is a living space, Brad, it's not a place of evil intent, it's not built for the administration of schemes, and it's certainly not very defensible." He started rooting through a silverware drawer. "You have to have a good work-life balance! You need a place for diabolical schemes, but also a place to clock out at the end of the day. To relax, and pursue your hobbies!"
Vice's comment about the apartment being 'defensible' rang in Brad's head. Why hadn't any of the Empire come by to Lars' apartment? Melody knew where she lived. Hell, Max basically bought the place for her. And James… Krieg knew where everybody fucking lived, he was pretty sure.
"Brad's hobbies are fighting, watching other people fight, and reading about other people fighting." Lars said, flying over to the table. She sat down at the table with the other half of her Fugly Bob's leftovers from the night before. She couldn't put away nearly as much food as she used to, and ended up not even making it halfway through her hoagie.
Vice looked at Lars, and then looked back at Brad.
Brad shrugged. "I mean, I also exercise."
Vice just nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Like he had any right to judge people on their hobbies.
Vice had taken a knife out of the drawer and was fiddling with it, catching it as he flipped it end over end. He ran his finger across the edge, and his green eye blinked twice. Brad looked on, puzzled, as the edge of the knife seemed to glow and blur slightly.
"How the fuck are you- oh, that's dauntless's power, isn't it?"
Vice flipped the knife around again. "Got it in one!" He ran his fingers over the edge of the knife again, and Brad saw a drop of blood pool on tip. Vice held it up to the light. "The edge is vibrating slightly, and there's a strange chainsaw-like effect to it. Hold on…"
Vice took out a loaf of bread from the drawer, which he had actually bought from the grocery store last night. In his own words, 'Stealing from a grocery store once is funny, doing it twice is sad.' Brad thought it was kind of sad the first time. In a funny way.
Vice took the knife and sat it on top of the loaf, edge down, and let go of it. Both Lars and Brad watched as the knife slowly sank through the bread until it hit the cutting board below, leaving a perfect slice of bread.
"Hmm," he said. He pulled up his chair and sat down on the table, patting Lars on the head as he went by. Lars took it without complaint.
He better not fucking try that on me or I'm throwing myself out a window.
"More experiments need to be done," Vice continued, "The power only seems to work on things that can be 'wielded' or 'worn', and it seems to get confused when being used on anything else."
"Gets confused?" Lars asked, a piece of salami hanging out of her mouth.
Vice waved her off. "You know what I mean." He packed up his maps and shit and tucked them into his jacket pocket.
The jacket itself had seen better days. There were scorch marks on it, the edge was frayed, and it was missing basically all its buttons, along with both its sleeves, exposing his bare arms. He really needed to get it replaced. He didn't look rugged, he looked homeless.
Vice glided over to the door. "I think it's time to get to work," he said. "City won't take over itself."
Brad watched as Lars's ears perked up, before she stretched her wings and landed herself on Vice's shoulders.
Vice took his hand and reached over to rub along her back, and she purred. Brad glared at the two of them. He was disgusted, on some level, but also could not look away. Lars began to lean into it, nuzzling her face into Vice's neck.
Brad shot to his feet, slamming his chair into the back wall so hard it left a dent. "Are we going or not?!" He shouted. Lars jumped from her perch with a yelp and landed butt first on the table, shooting Brad an angry look.
"I'll start the car! ♪" Vice sung, giving Lars one more pat on the head before gliding off through the door, slamming it behind him.
Brad moved to follow, before he was interrupted.
"Brad." Lars said, an undercurrent of annoyance in her voice,
He whipped around. "Fucking what!? You want me to apologize? Just let me do what the fuck I want– fuck! Just stop with the fucking judgemental quips you horny, smug little fucking–! Gah!"
Lars just crossed her arms and looked him up and down. "You're naked."
Brad looked down though his bare tits, just now noticing that he wasn't wearing any pants, or underwear, or anything. Fucking stupid, he thought. He wondered why Vice hadn't commented about it, but then again he knew exactly what Brad's naked body looked like.
"Yeah, well, so are you!" He snapped. Lars just gave a very, very small laugh. He crammed himself back into his clothes, which he really needed to wash. Or get some more sets of. None of Lars's old clothes fit him, not even the underwear.
Lars flew past him and towards the tall windows of the apartment, narrow glass arches from the days when it used to be part of a factory.
"It's snowing," She remarked. She was dwarfed by the bright white light coming in, reflected off the flurries. "It feels like it never snows this much during the holidays. Not here, anyway."
Brad put on his leather jacket, all black and shiny. He zipped it all the way up, straining just a little to get it over his huge tits before pulling it up to the neck. He checked himself in the full length mirror that of course Lars had in the apartment.
There was a big tittied wolf lady in the mirror, and she didn't look half bad for waking up less than 15 minutes ago. Her braids were getting a little frayed, and she needed to figure out how to redo them. Her jacket accentuated her tits rather than suppressed them, as the tightness of the leather conformed to their shape. Same with her jeans, pulling tight against her butt while letting her tail out. Her spiked collar was missing. Battery still had it.
She'd need to take it back at some point. She was looking forward to the rematch.
Brad turned away from the mirror and shook his head for a second, before opening the door. "Don't get used to it," he said to Lars. "The Brockton Bay 'winter' will be back, and all this pretty snow is just going to turn to muddy slush and ice."
Lars flew up onto his shoulders again, arms wrapped around his neck and her wings draped over his arms. "Sure, but it's nice for now, yeah?"
Brad nodded.
Lars leaned over and spoke softly right into his ear. "So what do you think we're doing today?"
Brad shrugged, dragging his claws over his hair to set them behind him. "I don't know. Kind of don't care. I just know I'm not going to just sit and wait around." He went out, and slammed the door behind him.
Brockton Bay, December 29th, 8:00 AM
Lee opened his eyes, and he was in his room. He lived in a positively tiny apartment. His bedroom had the following items inside.
A Futon, which he currently laid on.
A space heater.
A low table, where he ate meals.
A pillow, for sitting.
A small dresser, containing his clothes, his work clothes, and his mask.
A locker underneath the floor, filled with grenades, guns, and swords.
And a drawing of purple flowers with yellow centers, which was hung up on the wall.
The entire floor of the apartment was tatami and gym mats, which had been laid over with plastic sheets, covered in a mixture of ash and dried blood.
The apartment was a corner room on the top floor of the building, facing into the city. Lee could look out and see all the way to the top of Captain's Hill, where the skeletal spires of radio towers stood, blinking red lights in the winter morning darkness.
Lee got up. He was alert as he ever was, even in just this moment after waking. He cleaned himself, dressed up. He took his phone off the table and slipped it into his pocket.
His apartment was above a large oriental grocery, run by one of Lung's most loyal underlings. An older Chinese man in his mid-60s who threw his lot in with the ABB the moment Lung stepped foot in Brockton Bay. He was exceptionally committed to the cause, and his business had flourished under Lung's continued protection. He provided foodstuffs from across the entire eastern hemisphere to Brockton Bay's immigrant population. People called him industrious, cunning, and charismatic.
"Ah, a good morning to the Honorable Mister Lee-Sama!"
What had Lung called him? Lee thought for a minute, trying to recall. Ah, that was right. A terminal kiss-ass. Lee could never remember his actual name. The old man stood behind the counter at the back, tending to displays of live frogs, eels, and lobsters. "May I interest you in some breakfast, before we open? We have these delicious breakfast bao's-!"
Lee's stomach grumbled. He took the Bao out of the old man's hands and ate it in two bites, cutting him off entirely.
Pork and egg. It satisfied him.
The old man stammered and clasped his hands together in supplication. "A-ah, I see you enjoyed it. Please, remember to tell your friends, that 'Bo's Bao's are the best Bao's for your Buck'!" The old man's smile covered his face in wrinkles, but never reached his eyes.
Lee's knit his brow. "I don't have friends," he said.
The old man stuttered and said something else, but Lee did not catch it, as he was already walking back upstairs.
Lee entered his room, pulled all his equipment out, and dressed. He loaded his guns, he sharpened his blades, and put on his mask and coat.
And then, Oni Lee sat down on the pillow, legs crossed, and waited.
His stomach growled. He checked his phone and saw that six hours had passed.
He took off his mask. Went downstairs. The old man, who's name he does not remember, offers him a bowl of 'Mushroom Miso Ramen'. It is a sweet and savory dish, one Lee has never had before. It is good.
Lee finished and went back upstairs. He put on his mask. 8 hours passed.
On December 28th, 2010, nobody needed to die, or be hurt. And so Oni Lee did nothing, and went nowhere.
At the end of the day, he took off his mask, changed into some soft silk pajamas, and went to sleep.
Such is the Life of the Honorable Mister Lee-Sama.
Brockton Bay, December 30th, 10:11 AM
'Brockton Pure Fitness' was a gym, sitting in a two-story hole in the wall. Old brick, with smoky windows that didn't let nearly enough light in. The first floor was full of weights, rowing machines, and all sorts of equipment. There was a shoddy little boxing ring on the second floor, with punching bags hanging from the ceiling and rows of old gloves along the wall.
The entire place was a front for empire activities, while also serving as a training ground for members. Brad himself had given out lessons to Empire hopefuls in The Sweet Science.
And now, the entire place was quiet, empty, and cold.
They had been driving by, looking for 'lairs' and 'prospective subscribers' when Lars had pointed out that none of the lights were on in the building even though it was supposed to be open. There was no sign saying they were closed for the holidays. In fact, most of the signage had been taken down altogether. Only the large wooden sign over the entrance sill had the name of the place on it.
"Holy shit," Lars muttered from up on Brad's shoulder. "I was just here two weeks ago. What happened?"
"They cleared out," Brad said, brushing some snow out of his braids. "They're moving all the safehouses around. They're in a panic."
Lars flapped her wings twice, alighting from Brad's shoulder and perching on top of a pull-up bar. "Because of Vice?" She asked.
At the mention of his name, Brad heard Vice beating on a punching bag upstairs. He'd wanted to 'try them out', or something.
"Because of us." Brad said. He picked up one of the deadlift dumbbells with one hand, curling a 250-pound weight the way most would lift a 20-pound. "They think we're dead… or compromised."
Lars laid her body flat against the bar, wings draped on her side. "Compromised is a good word for it, huh?" She smushed her grinning face into her paws. "They probably think we'd rat out every one of their little hideouts to him?"
"Probably." Brad pulled the dumbbell into a lateral lift, sticking it out 90 degrees from his body, arm straight. That actually put some strain on his body. Leverage was a bitch. He'd been trying to exercise, just out of habit, but he could do hundreds of push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups without any strain whatsoever. It just took too long to actually wear him down. But with a proper set of weights…
"Would you?" Lars asked.
Brad dropped the weight with a loud thump as it bounced against the gym mats. "It doesn't matter, I apparently don't know anything anymore. Fucking, what's it been? Three days? Four? Everything's gone. The guns under the floorboards, the money stash. All of it."
"I mean sure, but that's not a 'no'." Lars was dangling from the bar now like a kid on a jungle-gym. "Would you tell him everybody's secret identities? Tell him all about Kaiser's double life?"
He already knows all that shit, he thought, but did not say. Instead he just silently made his way towards the stairs.
"Still haven't answered the question!" Lars shouted after him.
He couldn't figure out what Lars was up to, in all honesty. She seemed to just not really care about her situation that much, even after her heat had died down. If anything, she had become more affectionate, not just sexually, but constantly perching on Vice's shoulders or snuggling up with him on the couch. She slept beside him every night, and whenever Vice wasn't driving, she would sit her bare ass in his lap as he ran his fingers through her fur, purring incessantly-
Brad stomped into the second floor gym. The old ring sat in the center with a row of benches off to the side. Trophies and plaques were laid upon the wall, from back when the place used to be a real gym instead of just an arm of the empire. Black and white (mostly white) photos showed grinning figures with medals around their necks and between their teeth. The place was here since before even Allfather was kicking around, and had produced some real winners back in the day.
A pyramid of stacked punching bags had been dragged out from the back room, sliced open, and emptied. The Empire dealt in drugs in addition to all their other shit, and found many ways to smuggle them into the city, including inside of sports equipment. Mostly the expensive, designer stuff. No 'crack' for the city's elite urban nightlife, no sir, only the finest 'Colombian cocaine' was good enough for them.
Vice was currently in the process of working one of the actual bags, hung up on a chain. He would throw one or two punches, then pivot into a kick while rotating to another side. Punch, punch, swap sides while doing a low roundhouse, punch, punch, straight kick, spinning backfist, punch punch, and so and so forth. He seemed to be more dancing around the bag than actually hitting it.
Brad sat himself down on one of the benches to watch, feeling his tail brush against the back wall. The bench creaked and groaned under his new weight, and Vice turned at the sound. "They stripped this place clean. Nothing downstairs?" he asked.
"Nothing worth anything." Brad replied, picking out some food between his teeth with his claws. "I'm taking some of the dumbbells back with me though."
Vice paused in his little routine. "You know you don't need to-"
"I know. I'm pursuing my hobbies, remember?"
"Oh!" He said, genuinely surprised. "My bad!" He turned his attention back to the punching bag.
Brad, in the moment, tried to understand Vice. His priorities, his strange reluctance to exert the absolute control he had on Brad's body. Brad didn't know anything about psychology or whatever, but he knew about fighting, and he knew you could tell a lot about a person by how they fought.
Before, when he analyzed Vice's fighting style, he had been looking for weaknesses, signs of training, intent to attack. Now he was looking for something else. Anything else. Some clue as to who he was behind the mask.
He took in Vice's form. He was somewhat, with tight, whipcord muscle across his whole body, a light heavyweight if one went off body mass alone. His legs were slightly more well-built than his arms, with powerful calves and thighs. Strong core muscles flexed as he hopped around the bag, sending out a few weak jabs. His physique was more focused on moving his own body around than lifting weights, and you could see it in the way he moved. His kicks were actually quite good, sending the bag flying backwards with a noise that sounded close to a shot going off, but his punches were middling at best. It was very obvious he was only copying the basic form of the attack from martial arts movies and video games without understanding any of the subtler aspects, like controlling your center of gravity.
Vice's body was fine tuned, and categorically stronger than even some of the top weightlifters, even if he didn't compare to Brad in the raw strength department. Brad had more mass to work with, obviously.
But Vice valued maneuverability and explosive power over endurance and defense. His kicks flew like whips, and he seemed to favor jabs over any kind of close body blow, even if his form was shit.
But that was against a bag.
Brad took off his jacket and threw it on the bench, before getting up and stepping into the ring. Vice stopped and looked up.
"Your form's shit." He said. "Come here."
Vice blinked in surprise, and then hopped over to the ring, vaulting over the ropes. "You know, I was just doing that for fun-"
"I don't care. You can have fun with good form. Look at me." He brought his body into the proper position, pulling up his arms higher than normal and tucking his elbows back so he could get into a guard without his tits getting in the way. "Stop punching with just your arm and shoulder. The whole body goes into it, even in just a jab. You gotta rotate into it." He demonstrated the proper form. He sent a cross towards him, pushing off with the back leg and shifting his weight towards the front as he let it fly.
The punch stopped dead in its tracks before it could impact Vice's mask. His hair rippled with the force of the aborted blow.
Perfectly controlled.
Vice looked stunned, and then a glimmer of excitement entered his eyes.
"So like this?" he asked, attempting to replicate the move.
Brad scoffed. "No, not like that. You picked up your back foot too much during the punch, you want to pivot and push off of it. Here."
Brad moved closer, running his hands over Vice's body, correcting his stance and he worked through the motions, pushing his arms into the right place, correcting small mistakes. It was familiar territory to him.
Vice finally got the form down, after only a dozen or so repetitions. They were both working up a small sweat, despite the chill in the building. Brad held out his hands, palms open, for Vice to strike. Vice landed the blows, fists striking against Brad's pawpads with a harsh smack.
At some point, Brad felt his tail start brushing against the back of his legs as they went back and forth. He focused on keeping it as still as possible.
After a few rounds of that, Vice stopped for a moment. "Hey. Do you want to spar?"
Brad stood, shock still. He felt nervous, suddenly. The familiar territory was gone, now, and was suddenly struck by the suspicion that he was now playing a game he didn't know the rules to.
"You mean… fight?" He asked, hesitating. "Like…" he brought one of his fists into his palm. "Hitting each other?" An incredibly stupid question to ask in any other circumstance, but in this case, it would mean Vice would be giving Brad permission to hurt him.
Vice nodded. "Sure. Not too hard, ok?"
Brad nodded back, teeth gritting behind his lips. He felt the metal underneath his skin sharpen into blades under the skin of his arms, ready to tear free at any moment.
This was his chance.
They both walked to the center, touched their fists against each other, and took up stances.
Out of instinct, Brad swung a wide hook over his shoulder, only for Vice to drop his stance and duck underneath, quick as a wink. Not even trying to block.
If Brad really wanted to hit him, he would need to wait for the exact right moment. They swung past each other for a few more exchanges, until Vice landed a blow to Brad's sternum, interrupting his rhythm, but not nearly enough to hurt him. After that, Brad was thrown off, with Vice closing in with close hopping motions, leading with jabs only to pull away for a cross, and then coming back in, darting between ranges without a care. Brad could feel his tail start to wag again as the fight heated up.
And then Brad landed his first hit. Vice ducked around to the side, and Brad spun against him pretending to check his movement with a kick, when in fact he lashed out out with a spinning backfist.
Vice was sent flying into the ropes of the ring, snapping one of them off the pole and getting sent tumbling over the edge of the ring, spinning out in midair like a crashed car.
Shit, Brad thought. That wasn't nearly enough to kill him. He missed his chance. He failed Vice's sick test, and-
Vice's hand raised over the edge of the ring, a single finger extended to say 'wait'. "Ok," he said, "Good hit. Round 2?"
Brad let out his breath, fog spilling from his black nostrils. He leaned over the edge of the ring and dragged Vice back to his feet. "Sure."
They had a round 2. And a round 3. And 4. No powers, just bodies in motion. Vice never really won any of them, but he got better every time. In round 5, he even got Junkyard Dog on the ground. They worked up such a sweat, their bodies hot and panting, that they both began to take off their clothes, and, well…
She didn't end up killing him. Just like how she hadn't ended up running away. Another chance wasted.
It felt good, though.
Brockton Bay, December 30th, 4:50 PM
Maxwell Anders stood in his office, looking out over the city. A glass of wine sat empty in his hand.
So deep were they into winter, that even just before five, the sun was setting. His eyes scanned over the rooftops, looking for striped, winged figures.
His moles in the PRT had paid dividends. Footage of the fight at the bank, both from security and bodycam footage from the responding heroes had been made available to him. Threat reports for these 'new' villains, descriptions of behavior, capabilities.
The PRT had come to the conclusion that these new animal-women capes were merely the result of some kind of transfer of power, combined with shapeshifting capability. But Max knew better. The flying tiger had come to his office, knowing his name. For what purpose, he knew not. To intimidate him? A botched attempt at assassination? All he knew is that these creatures either were his former subordinates, or had their memories. This complicated matters severely.
Two of his strongest frontliners, subverted in this perverse fashion. It galled him. Mockeries rendered in flesh, their symbology reduced to bizarre sex appeal. What would the public think, if they knew the whole of it? If they could make the connections he did? Bulwarks of the master race, enslaved! Any faith in the cause created by their martyrdom would be compromised by the absurdity of the deed. What pitchforks and torches could be raised in response to such an outlandish insult? To Max, they might as well be dead, but the common, uncultured Joe Q. Bigot would receive strange, uncertain signals. Max was, himself, a seasoned orator, and even he found himself staring into the steely eyes of writer's block, when he thought of how to galvanize the mobs in response to this.
And he needed to stir their fervor, for once other players in the city understood the weakness the Empire now sported, they would need more boots on the ground than ever. He briefly considered groveling to his German benefactors, asking to send a cape that could help deal with this 'Vice' creature. But what could he say? He could only dance around the topic so much before having to admit that there was a slim chance that anyone they send could end up as some bestial concubine.
"Hah!" Max guffawed. "Just put it under the 'risks' section of the business proposal. They'll understand." His sarcasm only reached his own ears.
No, Max would need to do this alone. He had spent the last few nights formulating strategies, plans of attack. He couldn't risk any more falling under Vice's sick spell.
He pressed his hand against the cold glass, looking down upon the city. He had all the pieces he needed. He knew where the battle would take place. Every scrap of information he was fed, he used to create a contingency.
All the variables were accounted for. The next night, on new year's eve, they would launch their rescue operation.
And if Hookwolf and Stormtiger could not be saved, they would be gotten rid of.
He would have his subordinates back, or he would have his martyrs.
Brockton Bay, December 31st, 9:15 AM
Oni Lee's phone rang. 2 new messages.
LUNG: Empire drug shipment at fishmonger's. Intervene. If any are left alive, tell them They are unwelcome in the docks, and in our city.
LUNG: Location sent. Kill as many as necessary, and no more.
Oni Lee stood up, moved to the window, looked directly at the radio towers, and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was on the radio tower.
He hung from the bars by one hand, legs hooked onto the struts below him.
He looked at his phone, and compared it to the layout of the city. He looked for the tallest building he could find, closest to the location, and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was on a tall building, overlooking a set of warehouses on the docks, near the old wharfs.
Four old American muscle cars were parked around the back, with a group dressed in heavy coats and jeans passing bags and boxes between one another.
Oni Lee looked at them and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was next to a young white man, tattoos peeking out from his neck, and a gun in his waistband. He had his hand halfway into a suitcase, full of tightly packed plastic baggies full of white powder.
The rest of the Empire gangsters were very much participating in the same activities. All of them had frozen the moment Oni Lee had shown up.
They thought to deal drugs. In ABB territory. Disrespectful. Unforgivable. Oni Lee took a semiautomatic from his coat, aimed it at the young man, and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was on the roof of the building behind the young nazi, watching as the Lee he left behind blew a hole in his chest.
The rest of them finally unfroze. "Cape!" They screamed.
Oni Lee pulled a grenade from his coat and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was behind them once again. His hand gripped the pin of a grenade. His other hand aimed his gun.
He closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was just inside the broken down doors of the Fishmonger building.
He watched two Empire gangsters attempt to drive away, only for the Lee that had been left on the roof to dive headfirst into the hood of their car, the pins on his grenades already pulled. There was a fraction of a second where the screams of the passengers and the car alarm harmonized before they were both silenced by fire and shrapnel.
The second Lee had pulled the pin on his grenade as well, but was taking shots at anyone else trying to flee before it went off. He clipped the leg of one and forced another to duck for cover. Then he too exploded, shattering the windows of all the nearby cars and splattering blood over the whole scene.
Oni Lee closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was just behind the burly-looking one who had taken cover behind the car. The man in question was desperately trying to bring a sawn-off shotgun to bear, but there was blood in his eyes, and that blood was rapidly turning to ash.
Oni Lee kicked the shotgun into the man's chest, gripped one of his blades, and closed his eyes.
Oni Lee opened his eyes, and he was on top of the last remaining Empire member, his foot planted in his back as he interrupted the neo-nazi's attempt to crawl away.
He looked up just in time to see the Former Lee slice the hand off the burly one with a single draw of his blade. He screamed and slumped to the ground, his hand falling underneath the car.
Oni Lee saw the Former Lee clean his blade with a swift flick before resheathing it, and kicking the shotgun away before it could be grabbed by anyone else.
Oni Lee saw the Former Lee gaze up at the sky, from which tiny snowflakes were beginning to fall.
Oni Lee saw the Former Lee look down directly into his eyes, go still, and then disintegrate into ash.
Oni Lee felt strange.
The last struggling Empire gangster was squirming underneath the boots of the ABB assassin. Oni Lee turned him over. He looked young.
The young man screamed.
He sounded young. No fighting instinct, just struggling for survival. He thrashed without purpose, or technique. There would be no escape.
Oni Lee unsheathed his short blade, and pressed it underneath the neck of the squirming boy.
"I… p-please, I won't- I'm sorry! Please god, I'm sorry!" He screamed. "I told them we shouldn't, they didn't listen, I didn't mean to-!"
Oni Lee pressed the blade deeper into his neck just enough to draw blood.
The boy whimpered, and then finally shut up.
Four Empire members. 2 dead, one crippled, and one terrified. A good performance.
Now what was Oni Lee doing? He thought about it for a moment.
Ah, that was right.
Oni Lee knelt down onto the boy's chest to keep him from moving, and raised the blade, just a little. And he told him what needed to be told.
"You are unwelcome in the docks." He recited.
The boy whimpered, and nodded.
"You are unwelcome in this city."
"Please," the boy pleaded. "I understand. Please just let me go. I have a family. My mother will worry. Please, I'm all she has!"
Oni Lee wondered why exactly the Boy told him that, and why he thought he would care. What did the boy having a mother have to do with anything? If he cared about his mother, he would simply not incur Lung's wrath.
Was he slow, perhaps?
Oni Lee sheathed his blade. He prepared to get up, before something tickled the back of his mind. Wasn't there something else he needed to tell him? Someone had told him… to remember… to tell someone something. The villain's eyes squinted in concentration behind his mask.
Ah, that was right.
Oni Lee stood up, and said "Bo's Bao's are the best Bao's for your Buck."
"W-what?" The boy whimpered in confusion. Oni Lee's hand moved to his blade.
The boy closed his eyes and nodded, tears glinting off his cheeks. Oni Lee nodded back, and turned, content that his job was done.
And then he looked to the radio towers on Captain's Hill and closed his eyes.
Brockton Bay, December 31st, 7:30 PM
"I really don't think you understand the kind of deal I'm offering you," Vice said, leaning over the countertop. "If you sign on now, you'll be grandfathered into the reduced price. Midnight tonight, the prices will go up as we expand our racket outwards. You're missing out on early adopter bonuses."
Princess Kittyhawk watched, perched up on one of the shelves as the store owner gave Vice a look of naked confusion. He was an older asian-looking man, and he ran some kind of antique shop, lots of old vases, furniture, and appliances. Framed posters of old advertisements for curry or rice cookers or whatever on the walls, featuring happy Chinese families sitting around big pots, overjoyed at their spicy meat sludge and rice.
"Mister Vice, you must understand, I already pay protection money to Lung, he already takes so much of what I make. I cannot afford your…" The man gave a dry swallow. "...rates."
Vice swung his legs over to sit on the counter itself, knocking one of those lucky waving cats to the ground. "And I'm saying, Mister Ngo, that this price is the lowest it's going to get. If you really are in such dire financial straits, you cannot afford not to take this deal. You don't have to worry about Lung."
Kittyhawk watched as the man backed into the wall as Vice swung his legs like a kid on a swing set.
"It is not Lung I am worried about!" he cried. "It is the Oni! Lung, you can run away from. You can negotiate with him. The Oni is remorseless, immediate! Inescapable! He appears silently, instantly!"
God, this guy is dramatic, Kittyhawk thought.
"Well, then you should just call me when that happens! It's a protection racket. I'd protect you."
Mister Ngo scowled at Vice. "You are insane. You are an idiot! Lung cannot be defeated! And the Oni cannot be stopped!I would see his masked face in my window, and that would be the end of me. There is no defense against him!"
Kittyhawk spoke up. "He's not that tough. You land a hit on the real one and he just runs away and disappears."
"But he always comes back!" Ngo screamed. "You do not understand! What is it like to live in fear of him, he who could be anywhere!"
"Listen, I get it, committing to a racket is scary!" Vice said. "I can tell you're not interested. Too committed to your first choice. Tell you what. I'll come back once I've taken out Oni Lee, and then we can renegotiate, huh?"
"You are insane."
"Correct!" Vice beamed. "Princess Kittyhawk, let's leave this man to his nightmares."
Vice strolled back out through the maze of antiques towards the door, and as he did, Kittyhawk felt a slight tug against her collar.
The abilities that Dauntless's power had given her collar were strange. The first thing that she could do now was silence the bell around her neck, like she was holding a limb still. Strange, but not unwelcome when she needed to sneak around, for instance.
She left it on most of the time, though. The thought of her not being able to move around the apartment without Vice knowing made her so flustered. She didn't understand it. Such a constant reminder of what she was to him. And the way he would turn towards her when she entered the room and go 'Hey, Princess!' made her blush and bite her lip.
The stranger of the abilities was her ability to 'tether' herself to something. She could look at something, and then a strange, intangible connection would be made between her and whatever she was looking at. After that, she could pull that thing towards her, or her towards it, while also knowing exactly where it was relative to her. If the thing moved too far away from her, it would tug on her collar and try to move her towards it. If it kept moving away, the tether would snap.
Impressive sounding, except that the power was still very, very weak. It tug only exerted a few pounds of force, and the range of the tether was maybe 20 feet or so.
But it kept growing. 2 days ago it had been barely strong enough to drag a TV remote across the floor, and now it could pull it straight into her paws!
Of course, when they were out and about, she kept the tether on Vice. He'd 'suggested' her doing that, but she knew what that meant. She knew she didn't have a real choice, that if Vice wanted he could just tell her to never go out of his sight and never leave his side and sit in his lap forever and there would be nothing she could do about it, so she didn't worry about it! If it happened, then so what?
She flew after Vice, getting in front of him and dropping into his waiting arms. She pushed herself as far into his jacket as she could go, feeling the warmth off his body. He ran his fingers up and down her back as they walked back to the car.
"Feeling affectionate tonight, are we?" Vice asked.
It wasn't her fault. It was really cold tonight! Snow was falling in earnest and piling on the hood of the car. She shook some off her wings as they piled into the driver's side. She continued to sit in his lap as Vice made some notes on his phone.
"So how'd it go?" Brad asked, laying in the backseat.
"We ran across our first vassal of the ABB. Oni Lee and Lung really put the fear of god into them. We're gonna need to wear them down."
"What, like wrecking their shit?"
Vice nodded. "That, but also taking out one or both of the ABB capes. Shouldn't be that hard."
Brad sat up in the back of the car brushing the hair out of her eyes.. "If you just go for Lung, the gangs are all gonna splinter into all the dozens of little gangs like they used to be back before the ABB, and that's just gonna create a huge shitshow. Riots and shit."
"True, true. I don't know where he lives, yet, either, so it's moot right now. I think we should head home. It's New Year's!" Vice reached down and pet Kittyhawk on her head. "We should go home, snuggle up, and watch the ball drop."
She pushed her head into his touch. "Mmmrmm. That sounds nice," she mewled.
"Fuuuuuuck." Brad moaned from the back. "New years. It just completely slipped my mind."
"What do you normally do on New Year's?"
"Eat Chinese food and get wasted."
"Sounds like an excellent plan."
Brad got up and leaned over into the front. "What exactly do you normally do on New Year's?"
Vice leaned back in the driver's seat, continuing to pet Kittyhawk. She saw him watch the snow fall on the windshield gazing out into the darkness.
"There was a great karaoke place where I used to live that I would go to," he said, almost wistfully.
Brad slumped back in her seat. "And where did you used to live?"
Vice seemed to startle slightly. "Not important!" he yelled. "The future holds more answers than the past! Let's go do karaoke!"
Princess Kittyhawk thought about singing some soprano song up on stage, naked, with drunk patrons cheering her on, ogling her, seeing everything as she yowled along to some girly pop song. Applauding her as she bared herself to them. Her legs pressed themselves together as she felt her cheeks burn.
"I–, I mean we could do that. That sound f–fun!" She said.
Brad seemed to panic. "No, no, no. Vice, please. No. I'm not singing."
"You don't have to sing, you can just drink! It's a bar! A Karaoke bar!"
"Fuck off. I will walk back."
Kittyhawk was about to tease Brad when suddenly she felt the air in the car change, as something just appeared in the passenger seat. She tensed, feeling the hair across her back stand to attention.
She turned and saw a man in a dark trench coat, wearing a red demon mask with green stripes.
"Personally…" Oni Lee said, pulling the pin on a grenade, "... I would prefer to go back to sleep."