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Quirky Row Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2024-02-15 18:00:06 +0000 UTCChapter 2: Court Appointed Defender
(Monday, August 23rd, 2123)
The dark sky was slowly turning bright as dawn crept up over the horizon. In the distance, the skyscrapers that stood where the Row once had sparkled in the early morning light. It was an incredible sight. And it filled Playa with a sense of looming dread.
“What the hell happened to the Row?” Playa demanded.
“Ultor happened,” Carlos said bitterly.
“The clothing company?” Playa uttered in bewilderment.
“They make more than clothing now,” Carlos replied. “After Alderman Hughes was killed in the bombing, Ultor picked up the pieces. Now they’re everywhere, making pretty much everything. TV and radio ads, billboards, and of course, stores… you can’t go anywhere in Stilwater anymore without hearing or seeing ‘em.”
He then pointed towards the center of what had once been Saint’s Row. “And if you ever forget who they are, just take a look at that fucking eyesore.”
It was a tall tower, piercing the heavens with its might. It was an edifice of glass and steel, tapered at the top so it resembled a spear. It was one of the biggest buildings around, too, and space had been cleared around it so no other building could get in its way, making it stand out amongst the other high-rise buildings in the area.
As they approached the Marina, Playa was able to make out a bunch of stores and buildings he remembered from the past, but had been altered. Storefronts were new, different business took up plots of land, and most of all, it was cleaner than the old Saint’s Row had been.
“Where can I find the other Saints?” Playa asked as he hopped off the boat onto the pier.
“What other Saints?” Carlos scoffed.
“Whatchu talking about?” Playa demanded.
“Without anyone to lead ‘em, the Saints fell apart as other gangs rose up to take a bite out of the pie you’d left behind… and once the Brotherhood, Sons of Samedi, and the Ronin showed up, the few Saints who were left either dropped their flags, or got killed,” Carlos said, a note of bitterness in his voice.
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Playa said, reeling in shock from what he’d just heard. ‘How did this happen in a month of being out of commission?!’
“Look, I know you didn’t ask for it, but my advice would be to lay low, maybe grab a beer and soak up as much info as you can. Things have changed since you’ve been gone. Plus, the police will be looking for you. Word of our breakout is gonna reach the city soon.”
Playa clicked his tongue, but couldn’t disagree with Carlos’ words. “Alright, fine. I’ll keep my head down.”
He then glanced at his prison jumpsuit. “Know any place to ditch these threads and get some new ones?”
“Yeah, I know this second-hand store,” Carlos said, leading him to it. It was still early morning, so they managed to avoid being seen, and ditched their prison get-ups in a big dumpster outside the thrift store in question.
Carlos then flashed a wad of cash he’d had tucked away somewhere Playa didn’t want to inquire about, and together they rushed into the store as soon as it opened.
Playa found a whole bunch of purple and white clothes on clearance, which made him worried. These had been the colors of the Third Street Saints, and while he supposed clothes like them might end up in a thrift shop or two now that the gang was bust, the fact they were 90% off told him wearing those colors openly was like wearing a neon ‘Kick Me!’ sign.
Still, the two couldn’t afford much else, and soon Playa was decked out in a pair of faded purple jeans, white and purple sneakers, a white tanktop, and a purple and white Leatherman Varsity style jacket. Add in a pair of mirrored shades, and his new look was complete.
“Thanks, Carlos, I’ll definitely pay you back,” Playa promised as they walked out.
“Don’t sweat it, man,” the young man said, passing him a twenty-dollar bill. “For the beer.”
He then nodded and walked briskly away into the city, leaving Playa alone.
The former gang leader stuck his hands in his pockets and began to wander around, trying to re-familiarize himself with the area. So much of it was the same, yet different as well, that he barely recognized some of the old holes and sites.
As he meandered, he somehow managed to find his way over to his old crew’s favorite strip club, the Tee’N’Ay.
“Good to know some things never change,” Playa said fondly as he looked up at the neon signs – red now, instead of purple – welcoming alcoholics and perverts to enjoy themselves within. It was also one of the classier joints in Stilwater, at least it had been when Playa had been around.
Since it was already noon, Playa decided to step inside for a bit and grab that beer Carlos had told him to get.
‘And maybe I’ll also get some of their famous Flashy Nachos,’ he thought to himself with a grin. Nothing like hot sauce and melted cheese atop a huge pile of handmade corn chips to fill his rumbling stomach.
Walking inside, he noted a few redecorations. Instead of the Purple Fleur d’Lys that was the Saint’s icon, a snarling wolf’s head dominated the décor. There was also a red carpet, and red leather on the couches and stools, instead of the purple they’d once been. The layout of the poles and bar were still the same, thankfully.
‘Okay, definitely proof that the Saints are on the skids,’ he thought to himself as he walked in. He spotted a familiar tubby, middle-aged man tending the bar.
“Yo! Barry! My man, how are you doing?” Playa said happily as he walked up to the bar.
“Uh, yeah, hey there… you,” Barry said slowly.
“What? Don’t recognize me, Barry? It’s me! Phil!” Playa said, hurt that the bartender didn’t remember him.
“Lotta Phil’s passed through here,” Barry said, before squinting at the newcomer. “Are you the Phil who owes me a hundred bucks on his tab, or are you the Phil who got thrown out for being handsy with Shauna?”
“Uh, neither,” Playa replied.
“Eh, whatever,” Barry shrugged. “What’ll it be?”
“A bottle of beer, whatever’s cheapest, and a large order of Flashy Nachos. Extra flashy,” Playa requested, and Barry nodded, fetching the order.
It wasn’t long before a huge pile of nachos smothered in molten cheese and drizzled with hot sauce was placed in front of him, and Playa dug into the meal with gusto.
“Oh, yeah!” Playa groaned happily. “First meal since prison and it tastes divine!”
He finished off the platter quickly, having been hungrier than he’d thought, though it made sense given he’d woken up and skipped breakfast and who-knows-how-many other meals.
Stomach full, he then leaned back and sipped at his beer. It wasn’t great, but it soothed the burn in his mouth.
“Hey, Barry, can you turn on the news?” Playa requested. “I wanna know what I’ve missed since I was tossed in the hoosegow.”
Barry nodded and did so, the worn old monitor crackling to life, revealing a pretty brunette from Channel Six standing in front of the Stilwater Courthouse. A big red ‘LIVE’ hung in the corner, and Playa settled in to listen while sipping from his beer.
“It’s said by some to be the trial of the century,” the news reporter on the bar’s TV said. “A notorious member of a gang once known as the Third Street Saints, Johnny Gat was arrested last year in an assassination attempt against the decorated police officer, Troy Bradshaw.”
Playa coughed and spluttered in surprise at what he heard, looking up with beer dripping from his nose at the screen in disbelief.
“In the resulting trial, Johnny Gat was convicted of one count of attempted murder, and a staggering three-hundred and eighty-seven counts of first-degree murder, promptly sending him to death row,” the news reporter droned on as she stood outside the courthouse, sounding oddly bored about the topic. “Over the past year, Gat’s legal team has filed appeal after appeal-”
“Hey, Barry! Turn that shit off!” a gruff, drunk voice called out, and a white man with a light brown crewcut hairstyle in a red, sleeveless jacket with heavy tattoos on his arms staggered over to the bar.
“I was watching that,” Playa said angrily, glaring at the goon as the bartender complied.
“I guess you’re not anymore, are ya bitch?” the goon sneered, slamming his own bottle of beer onto the table.
Playa nodded slowly, and kept his face a perfectly neutral mask. He then grabbed the drunk’s bottle out of his hands and smashed it against his face, sending him keeling over backwards.
“Can you turn the TV back on?” Playa asked Barry the Bartender politely, flashing him a smile, and the portly man nervously nodded and quickly turned it back to the news channel from before.
“In a few short moments, we’ll be allowed back in the courtroom and we’ll find out once and for all if Mr. Gat will go home a happy man, or a dead one. Back to you, Jack.” With that, the report was finished, for the moment at least.
“Oh, shit,” Playa muttered. He quickly got up out of his seat, but spied several more red jacket wearing thugs approaching him. Two in front, one behind, with the latter one checking up on the first goon he’d laid out.
He didn’t even hesitate, immediately flinging his own bottle at the two in front, knocking one of them down. He then spun around, kicking the thug who was behind him onto his ass. He then grabbed the barstool and chucked it at the last standing member, who went down with a startled cry.
It was messy, and Playa took a moment to raid their wallets, leaving some cash on the table for Barry’s troubles. He then booked it towards the club’s exit to try and find a ride to the courthouse.
Only, he was accosted right at the exit by two more red jacket goons.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said slowly, eying the baseball bat and crowbar both of them wielded. “Are you trying to dress up as gangland Carmen Sandiagos for Halloween, or are you some of Santa’s meth dealing elves?”
“Fuck you!” baseball bat goon snarled. “You shouldn’t have fucked with the Brotherhood!”
Playa’s eyes narrowed, and it was only now he noticed the wolf’s head emblem on their jackets. And, thinking back, the other four he’d just beaten up had had the same symbol.
“Neat,” Playa said slowly. “As much as I’d love to find out more about the shits who think they run my town, I’ve got jury duty I can’t be late for.”
And with that, he lunged towards the thugs, punching crowbar boy in the dick then viciously sweeping the feet out from under baseball bat goon. He then delivered vicious blows to their heads, cracking the floor beneath them.
“I’m going to borrow that,” he said, taking the crowbar and giving it a few experimental swings, before smacking it against baseball bat goon’s left knee. Bone met reinforced metal and the bones lost the match and broke, causing the fallen thug to scream in pain, and Playa smirked evilly. He then rummaged through their pockets, and found a set of car keys.
Said keys were connected to a red pick-up truck that had the Brotherhood’s wolf logo, but he didn’t particularly care for it, hopping in and driving off fast towards the courthouse.
The streets may have been clean and the stores new, but the neighborhoods were still the same, and after a few minutes he knew exactly where he was going, maneuvering around other cars at breakneck speeds and running countless red lights.
Reckless though it was, it got Playa to the courthouse where Johnny Gat’s trial was in mere minutes.
‘And I only had one cop on my tail,’ Playa thought with a smirk of amusement, recalling the way the cop – a weirdo with a cactus for a head – had screamed like a little girl when he’d run him off the road a couple blocks back.
He pulled up to the entrance of the courthouse, tires screeching in protest as he slammed on the brakes harder than he meant to, and hopped out of the red truck, crowbar tucked into his waistband.
It was very obvious it was a weapon, and people stared at him in bewilderment as Playa jogged up the steps and kicked open the doors.
Eyes shot over to him, but and a few people tensed up, but since he wasn’t swinging a weapon or shouting, most in the court room ignored him, though the security guards watched him closely. Though they ignored him as well when the metal detectors didn’t go off as he passed through.
Once through, though, Playa ducked out of sight and made sure to search for something to use as a weapon. He found a crowbar stashed in a janitor’s closest, which he took, tucking it into the waist of his pants and covering it with his shirt so it was out of sight.
Afterwards, he strode briskly through the halls, and Playa quickly found the courtroom where Johnny was being tried. The media presence being held off by actual police officers and a man in a brightly colored costume – a hero, no doubt, but not one he recognized – telling Playa he was in the right place.
‘But how to get in?’ Playa wondered, before sighing heavily. ‘Fuck it, going in old school style.’
“Excuse me, sir, but does this smell like chloroform to you?” Playa asked loudly, pushing through the crowd of vultures – sorry, media reporters – as he held his left wrist out for the hero to take a whiff of.
“Uh, no, smells like lavender, with a hint of lilac and mint,” the hero replied, scrunching his nose up. “It’s not bad, though…”
“Good, wasn’t sure if being in a coma had fucked with my Quirk at all, glad to see it’s still working properly,” Playa said with a smile, before lashing out with the crowbar in his right hand and clonking the hero over the head.
The blow caused him to collapse, and the police officers whipped out their guns as the media people screamed. Not a single cop managed to fire, however, as Playa swiftly ducked, smacking one across the face and then kneecapping the other with a blow from the crowbar. He then spin-kicked the last policeman in the chest, causing him to crash through the door, which just so happened to land on another police officer who’d been standing on the other side, crushing him.
Playa stepped inside, bending down quickly to grab the gun the cop he’d kicked had dropped. Another cop guarding the court room pointed his weapon at the ex-coma patient, but Playa just raised an eyebrow as he observed the man’s shaking hands.
“Drop it,” he instructed, pointing his stolen gun in his face. Discretion over valor won out in the end, and the cop dropped his gun, though it went off accidentally as it hit the ground, causing the handful of people in the court room to shriek and drop to their knees in fright.
“Anyone hit and need a lawyer?” the man representing Johnny asked, peeking out from under the desk, though Playa ignored it in favor of giving his old friend a look over.
Johnny Gat looked good, though he did seem to have aged a bit. Clearly the trial had done a number on the Asian-American gangster. He looked like he’d aged five years!
He was in a black pinstripe suit with a purple tie and undershirt along with a pair of shades on his face and handcuffs on his wrists. That reminded Playa he needed to free his friend, and so he frisked the unconscious cops, looking for the keys. He found them, and walked over to where Johnny was standing.
“Shit, about time your burnt ass woke up,” Johnny said, looking completely unperturbed by Playa’s dramatic entrance. The former leader of the Third Street Saints just rolled his eyes.
“How ya doing, Johnny? Life treating you well?” Playa asked with a smirk, tossing the keys he stole over to his best friend.
“Yeah, aside from almost getting sent to the chair I’m fucking great,” Johnny Gat said. “Hey, you look different, you do something with your hair?”
“I call it the ‘Hit by a bomb, then woke up after a coma’ look, comes with free skin grafts,” Playa laughed. “You ready to get outta here?”
“Damn straight,” Johnny said, a grin splitting his face as Playa handed him one of the guns.
The two then rushed to the door Playa had kicked down and rushed out into the courthouse. They were immediately beset by several guards who opened fire on them, forcing the two to duck down.
“Just like old times!” Johnny Gat crowed as he ducked behind a corner and fired blindly at the cops on the other side.
Several cries of pain rang out as Johnny shot the officers.
“Try not to kill too many of them,” Playa warned his old friend.
“I know, I remember the Rules,” Johnny said testily as the plaster near him was chipped away by a barrage of bullets. “Got any smoke in ya?”
“A little bit,” Playa replied. “Haven’t had much time to test everything yet. Just woke up this morning from a bomb-induced coma. Then had to escape a prison.”
“Yeah, we all heard what happened. Fuckin’ Troy,” Johnny growled. “He really stabbed us in the back and then kept fucking us!”
A shotgun went off too close for comfort, and Johnny leaned out, peppering the gunman with a few rounds of his own. “There’s a dozen pigs in our way, Playa. And more coming.”
“Seems like we need to find another way out,” Playa muttered. He eyed one of the windows, but they were too high up to try and jump out of one.
The duo backtracked a bit, running down side corridors through the upper levels of the courthouse until they reached some stairs leading down. It was full of cops, but Playa raised his hands and sent a stream of yellowish white smoke into the stairwell.
Coughing, hacking, wretching and crying quickly echoed out, and as the cloud dissipated, the cops were all doubled over on their knees, blinded by snot and tears.
“Ah, the ol’ Cloud of Pepper Spray trick,” Johnny said as they ran past them. “Boy did I miss having you around!”
They emerged into the courthouse’s cafeteria, which was empty save a few cowering employees and a few shotgun-wielding cops.
Johnny took them out quickly, shooting their arms and legs and disabling them quickly.
“We’re almost home free!” Playa said excitedly, seeing nobody in the foyer to block their way.
As they entered it, the hero Playa had knocked out earlier jumped down from the balcony overhead, landing in the front of them.
“End of the line, villains!” he shouted. “I’m Stilwater’s Number Four Hero, Taggit!”
“Neat,” Playa drawled, unimpressed.
“What the hell, how did I only rate being guarded by the Number Four?” Johnny demanded angrily. “I killed over three hundred people, I should at least have the Number Two on my ass!”
“That’s it, you two are dead!” Taggit snarled, and he jumped forward, hands outstretched to try and grab them.
He was fast, and Johnny managed to leap aside, but Playa was still recovering from the coma, and wasn’t quick enough to avoid being caught, one of Taggit’s hands wrapping around the crowbar, the other Playa’s right wrist.
“Got you!” Taggit smirked.
“Good for you!” Playa shot back, trying to knee him in the crotch. Taggit jinked aside, letting him go.
Johnny was hanging back, afraid to shoot lest he hit Playa, leaving the two to duel it out.
“Surrender, villain!”
“Ugh, I forgot how corny you heroic types can be when on the job,” Playa groaned. He tried to swing at Taggit, but he found his blow suddenly redirected, the crowbar smacking into his right hand!
“What in the-?!” Playa uttered, but had to duck a punch thrown his way.
Yet despite weaving aside, the hero’s fist still managed to home in on his right hand, again, and the punch knocked the gun from Playa’s grasp. Then, as he was trying to find a new weapon, the crowbar flew out of his left hand, hitting his right.
“Oh, I see,” Playa muttered, massaging his wrist. “His Quirk lets him ‘tag’ things. He can home in on whatever he tags and redirect stuff he’s tagged towards each other. It’s kinda like magnetism, without the magnets.”
“And you’re quite strong from some unnamed goon!” Taggit shot back. “I don’t know who you are, villain, but you won’t be freeing that mass murderer anytime soon!”
“Seriously? You don’t recognize me?” Playa deadpanned. “I admit, I wore a mask most of the time, but still.”
“Taggit’s new! Buncha newbies were brought in after the Saints Debacle, as the media called it,” Johnny shouted out helpfully.
“Oh, right, yeah, we did beat up all the other heroes. Plus I killed that fuck-head Monorail when he tried to protect that corrupt piece of shit Richard,” Playa nodded slowly.
“You won’t-!” Taggit shouted, but Playa delivered a leg sweep to the hero, knocking him onto his back. He then delivered a powerful punch to the face. Then another. Then a third.
“Let me guess, ‘you won’t win?’ That’s so unoriginal,” Playa said, giving him a kick in the crotch. “God, what a disappointment.”
“Come on, I’ll show you we’ve been holed up,” Johnny said, stepping past the groaning form of the Number Four Hero.
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“The last members of the Third Street Saints,” Johnny replied grimly, and Playa frowned. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what was going to come next.
‘Seriously, what’s happened to Stilwater?’ Playa wondered helplessly.
