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Quirky Row Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2024-01-15 18:07:01 +0000 UTCChapter 1: Jailbreak
(Sunday, August 22nd, 2123)
“Stilwater. An island off the southern coast of California, it was originally settled in the 1860’s by fishermen and whalers. It only rose to prominence years later, in the 1920’s, due to it becoming a major bootlegging hub, with the famous Stilwater Caverns used to hide and ship out hundreds of barrels of moonshine and other alcoholic beverages up and down the west coast throughout Prohibition.”
“When Prohibition ended, everyone believed that was Stilwater’s end. Yet World War Two was right around the corner, and the US navy needed a place to store its supplies. Once more, the caves came in handy, and the US Pacific Fleet used Stilwater as a hub for storing and transporting the fuel and munitions that would feed the conflict in the Pacific. And, as ships came to Stilwater, so too did sailors, and with them, businesses to cater to said seamen. Bars and brothels exploded across the island, and it went from a Podunk backwater to a boomtown.”
“And even after the war, Stilwater managed to stay afloat, using its position near the California coast for both tourism and a major shipping hub. By the turn of the 21st century, Stilwater was a city on par with any in the west coast of the US.”
“However, not all was rainbows and sunshine. A major drug problem was taking root in the streets, criminal gangs were growing in size and power, and the rise of Quirks only exacerbated the dangers and damage it was suffering. Stilwater became a front for the infamous Meta Liberation Army, one of the first international pro-Quirk groups that espoused violence against their Quirkless ‘oppressors.’”
“Even now, Stilwater remains one of the cities with the highest crime rate in the United States, and the lowest arrest rate. And, Stilwater recently took the number one spot as ‘City most likely to loose in a single trip your wallet, pants, and butt-virginity’ in an online poll, beating out both Las Vegas and Washington D.C. by a wide margin.”
“Now, five years after the fall of the Third Street Saints, despite the best efforts of the Ultor Corporation and Stilwater’s ‘brave’ law enforcement, a new epidemic of crime is sweeping the streets of the city. While there are many small gangs littering the place, the so-called Big Three of the Brotherhood, Sons of Samedi, and the Ronin control the majority of Stilwater’s criminal scene.”
“Will Stilwater ever know peace? Will the Ultor Corporation live up to their promise of ‘a brighter future, and a better life’ for the populace? As of this moment? This reporter says, ‘Not likely, Jackass.’ This has been Jane Valderamma, best damn reporter of Channel Six. Back to you, Jack.”
“Hah-ha! Thanks, Jane, for that poignant piece on our beloved city. Now, on to sports, where we interview Stilwater U’s football coach on why the team performed so poorly during last year’s college league matches. Between you and me? I blame the lack of steroids.”
On a bed in a sterile white room, a person tossed and turned on a stiff, uncomfortable mattress as the noise from a wall-mounted TV blared out, disturbing his peaceful rest. Nearby, a monitor he was hooked up to began to beep rapidly and incessantly.
“Ugh,” the person, a skinny Caucasian man in his early thirties with shaggy dirt brown hair and the name Philip Playa according to his medical charts, groaned, eyes scrunching up tight. “Will someone turn that shit off, I have a headache…”
“Holy shit! He’s awake!” someone nearby shouted, and Phil tried to open his eyes to scold the loudmouth. But when he tried, his vision swam and was blurry. He couldn’t see anything but smudged shapes and colors.
A moment of panic struck him, and when Phil tried to recall what had happened and where he was, all he got was a stabbing pain in his brain that made his headache even worse.
“Shit, he’s activating his Quirk!” another person cried out.
“Sir! Calm down! You’re safe!”
“Where am I?” Playa demanded, panic lacing his voice. “What’s going on?”
He tried to move, but found his arms and legs wouldn’t budge. “WHY?! Why can’t I move?!”
Phil Playa struggled, but felt a needle press against his left arm. A sharp prinking sensation later, and he something cold flooded his body.
‘A sedative?’ he wondered. ‘Why would I need… a sedative?’
He was so confused he ended up ceasing his struggle. And, as he calmed down – helped along by the drugs in his system – his eye sight and memories slowly returned to him.
“Sir? Are you fine now, sir?” someone asked, and a young man in a blue medical scrub came up to him, shining a light in his eyes.
“I-I think so,” he murmured. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a medical facility,” the man said. “Do you remember anything? What is the last thing you remember?”
“I was fighting… fighting that bastard Hughes,” Playa said weakly as his mind replayed the scene for him. “He was going to frame us for the murder of Monroe and Winslow… I mean, yeah, sure, I killed both of them, but it was under his orders.”
“I was just about to fight with his bodyguards when… I think I heard a loud noise? There was fire, and so much bright light and pain…” Playa trailed off. Then, a thought came to him, and he tried to sit up.
“The Saints!” he shouted, straining against the straps holding him down. “Shit!”
Everything clicked into place, and he swept his eyes around the room, noting he was in a medical facility as they’d said, but that the windows were very high, and covered in bars. Add in the armed guards standing near the foot of his bed, and he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut that he was trapped.
“Hmm, seems you’ve figured it out,” the man said, finishing taking his vitals. “As for what happened, the Alderman’s private yacht exploded, killing everyone onboard. Except you.”
“How?” Playa muttered.
“You were far enough away from the bomb that the explosion only burnt you and tossed you overboard. You must have some sorta Luck based Quirk to survive all of that.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Playa grunted.
“Yeah, I’d expect so. We had to do some extensive surgery to keep you alive,” the nurse said, before clapping his hands together happily. “Well! Good news is that you seem to be fine. I better go inform the warden you’re up. He’ll be happy to finally be able to get you out of here and into a much more secure facility.”
With that, the nurse walked out, leaving Playa alone with the guards who continued to silently watch him.
“Shit,” Playa muttered. He looked around, and spotted the TV, just barely visible in the corner. There were ads playing, one of which was for Ultor Corporation.
‘That orange and black sun logo is hard to mistake for anything else,’ he mused.
His jaw then dropped when the ad on the TV turned into a sweeping shot of the city, and revealed a glittering expanse of skyscrapers and upscale buildings.
“I don’t remember all of that being in Stilwater,” Playa murmured to himself. “How long was I out?”
He looked down at the leather straps keeping him stuck in bed. He was annoyed, but also a bit confused as he looked at his body and found himself… whole. He’d lost weight, but not much, and his muscles still had some definition to them. He wasn’t skin and bones as he’d been fearing.
“I guess I haven’t been unconscious that long if my body is still okay,” Playa mused. At that, one of the guards snorted. Playa shot him a searching look, but they didn’t respond, and left Playa to his thoughts.
He fell asleep at one point, only to be rudely awoken by a woman this time. She was dressed in a doctor’s outfit, and was examining him.
“Uh, hello?” he uttered, blinking a bit.
“Hello,” she said politely, putting a hand on his chest. It glowed for a moment and Playa felt a bit better, to his surprise. A number of aches and pains had vanished.
“Well, it looks like you healed up nicely,” the doctor said, flashing him a smile.
“What did you do?” Playa asked, but one of the guards put a hand in front of the doctor and led her away.
“Be careful, doctor. Your patient’s dangerous,” one guard said.
“You got anything you wanna say to the judge you better start thinking it now,” the other guard said to Playa, folding his arms across his chest.
“You’re wasting your time,” the first guard scoffed. “Let’s get ahold of Troy.”
As the two guards walked off, a burning sensation of hate surged through Playa’s body.
‘Troy…’ Playa thought angrily, thinking back to the traitor he’d all but called a brother. ‘To think he’d been an undercover cop the whole time!’
He’d only discovered the truth at the last minute, shortly before his confrontation with Alderman Richard Hughes. Playa silently made a vow to get his revenge on the traitor. ‘As soon as I get out of here, Troy is dead meat!’
His brooding was interrupted by a loudly whispered, “Psst! Hey, you!”
Intrigued, Playa looked over to the right, where another bed was. The curtain was pulled back, and a young Hispanic man in an orange prison jumpsuit and a purple beanie revealed himself.
“Is it really you?” he asked eagerly.
“Do I know you?” Playa asked hesitantly. There was something familiar about the boy’s face, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“My brother was in the Saints, and he told me all about you!” the young man said excitedly. “Listen, we gotta get you outta here!”
“Well, I’m sure if we ask nicely,” Playa said sarcastically.
“I know a way out!” the young man interjected.
“Yeah? Then why are you still here?” Playa asked, not unreasonably.
“I heard that you were in here, and I wanted to bust you out,” the Hispanic boy replied. “Besides, getting out of here is a two-man job, and no one else will give it a try.”
“And why should I trust you?” Playa demanded, pain from Troy’s betrayal causing anger to bleed into his tone.
“I got shanked just to get in here,” the boy said, lifting his shirt to reveal a red-stained bandage plastered over his ribs. “Doesn’t that prove I’m loyal?”
“It shows that you’re dumb enough to let yourself get stabbed,” Playa snorted, some of the anger in him bleeding out at the boy’s earnestness.
“I’m trying to help you!” the boy protested.
“You know what happened the last time I trusted someone? I got blown up,” Playa shot back. He wasn’t entirely sure, but the former member and leader of the Third Street Saints had his suspicions about who had planted the bomb on the yacht. ‘And their name begins with ‘T’ and ends with ‘Roy.’’
“You need me,” the Hispanic teen stated, and at that, Playa couldn’t help but scoff.
“The hell I do! I got the Saints,” Playa declared proudly, though he couldn’t help the twinge of nervous at the thought of other, hidden knives held by former friends.
This time, it was the boy’s turn to laugh, and he uttered a carefree, “Sure you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Playa demanded.
“How long do you think you’ve been out?” the boy asked his fellow prisoner, causing Playa to frown.
“I dunno, man… two to three weeks?”
“Look, I know you think you’re a badass – and you are! You’re the legendary Fog of War himself! Leader of the Third Street Saints, Reaper of the Rollerz and Anti-Hero Extraordinaire!” the teen said, voice tinged with awe and excitement. “But do you even know where you’re at? Without me, you’ll be wandering around the prison for hours. Even if you manage to hide from the guards that long, and if you actually figure out how to make it outside these walls you’re just gonna find out that you’re sitting on a goddamn island. And I’m pretty sure you can’t out swim the coast guard.”
Playa stared at the teen for a long while, before slowly nodding.
“An island?” he asked.
“Yeah. Stilwater Penitentiary was built out on Rockbird Island. It’s a more secure facility than any of the ones at the city itself. One of Ultor’s revamps,” the Hispanic teen explained.
“I see. Well, you got a boat stashed away somewhere, then?” Playa asked.
“No, but I know where we’re gonna steal one,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief and excitement.
After a moment to think over his choices, Playa eventually nodded, determination glinting in his own eyes.
“Alright, let’s get out of here,” he said, nodding in agreement at the kid. “Get me outta these bindings, first.”
The teen nodded and quickly undid the straps keeping Playa stuck to the table, and he got up and stretched. Then, he snuck over to the male nurse from before, and quickly knocked him out with a sharp blow to the head.
“Oof, I feel surprising great for a guy whose been unconscious for a while,” he muttered, feeling surprised that he was still able to walk and even beat up a person after languishing for so long.
“You can thank me and that pretty doctor for that,” the boy said proudly.
“That so?” Playa asked.
“Yup! Her Quirk is ‘Stabilize.’ It means it will heal you up, but just to the point you won’t die, and it uses up the body’s nutrients to do so, meaning you should be weak as shit right now since you’ve had nothing but an IV diet for the last while,” the teen explained. “My Quirk on the other hand is called ‘Fat Transfer.’ I can absorb fat and body mass from people I touch, and then give it to others. I took a bunch from the other prisoners when I heard about you waking up, and transferred the mass to you when I got taken here. Then, when the good doctor used her Quirk on you a couple times earlier to make sure you wouldn't die on her, all the excess matter I gave you was used to restore your lost muscle mass and what-not. Hence why you don’t look like a skeleton.”
He then coughed. “Anyways, we can try to sneak out through the roof, or charge out the front. Your call.”
Playa rubbed his chin, then shrugged and kicked the door down loudly. “As much as I want to remind people who they’re messing with by keeping me locked up in here, I think we should go through the roof,” he said.
“Awesome! I can’t believe I’m breaking out of here with you! It’s like a dream come true!” the kid said excitedly.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s just move…” Playa trailed off. “Uh… you… Hey, kid, what’s your name?”
“Carlos! Carlos Mendoza!” the Hispanic teen said.
“Mendoza… Oh! Wasn’t your brother Juan? He had a Heteromorphic Quirk. Kinda looked like a wild boar with that snout and tusks of his, right?” Playa inquired as the two stormed through the prison.
“Yeah, yeah! That’s him!” Carlos said, happy to have his brother remembered by the boss himself.
“So, what’s he doing now?” Playa asked. “He still working under Johnny in the gang?”
“No,” Carlos said, his mood shifting to a somber one. “He’s dead. Killed by the Brotherhood.”
“Who the fuck are the Brotherhood?” Playa asked, a sense of righteous fury at the thought of one of his men – his family! – being killed by a rival gang.
“They’re one of the Big Three in Stilwater right now,” Carlos replied. “So, what are you gonna do when you get outta here?”
Perplexed by the sudden shift in conversation, Playa rubbed his chin, before shrugging.
“Let’s not get shot first, then I’ll worry about it.”
Unfortunately, on their way up to the roof, they ran into a pair of guards, who they had to quickly subdue before either one could raise the alarm. Thankfully they had glass jaws, going down with only a few punches to the face. Playa and Carlos grabbed a night stick each, and the tasers they’d had, and hurried to the staircase.
Up the stairs they went, before passing into a series of concrete passages and ventilation ducts. Once they got to the roof, Playa had to quickly sneak up on and choke out a guard, after which he quietly pocketed the gun he'd had.
There were several other guards patrolling the top of the prison, as well as search lights sweeping the area. Tall, chain-link fences topped with barbed wire prevented anyone from climbing off the roof, and the only way out was across the rooftop. And even if they hopped over, the prison was stuck on an island, meaning that unless the duo could swim back to the mainland, they were trapped.
“What do we do?” Carlos asked nervously, eyeing the guards and their guns.
“Is that the exit?” Playa asked, pointing to the staircase at the other side of the roof. It led down to the street level, and from there went towards a small, private pier.
“Yeah!” Carlos said, bobbing his head.
“Then we make a run for it,” Playa decided. “Don’t engage unless you have to. Just run and dodge.”
He then stood up and bolted for the opposite side of the roof, which had staircases leading down to the level they needed to go through.
Playa was spotted immediately, with Carlos hot on his heels, and shouts, whistles, and an alarm began to blare, echoing loudly through the facility.
“Maybe going out through the front wasn’t such a bad idea,” Carlos muttered as he ran alongside Playa.
“Oh, shit! Choppers!” Carlos exclaimed as a police helicopter roared through the air towards them.
“Don’t worry!” Playa shouted. His body was covered in sweat from his running, and he concentrated on his Quirk. A moment later, the sweat from his body began to roil and steam off of him, turning into a thick grey cloud that enveloped the rooftops. Under the cover of the smokescreen, he and Carlos ran for it, Playa trialing even more smoke as he ran and generated more sweat.
Finally, the pair reached the docks, a thick, fog-like haze having descended onto the island and prison, blinding the eyes in the sky and on the ground. It was like a mist had rolled in and completely blanketed the place, making it almost impossible to tell where anyone was.
Through the smoke the two escapees went, until they reached the streets. Playa immediately hijacked a nearby cop car using hotwiring skills he’d learned from Lin, and even though he felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of his former girlfriend, he still managed to keep it together and drive the patrol car out of the prison parking lot. He turned off his Quirk as they left, making it seem as if their ride was just another police vehicle going on the lookout for the escapees. And with the sirens blaring, no one dared get in their way.
They drove as fast as they could all the way to the docks, where Carlos tugged on Playa’s sleeve, and pointed to a small water patrol boat moored at the side.
“Bingo,” Playa smirked. “You know how to use one of these things?”
“No, but how hard can it be?” Carlos asked with a shrug.
“Fair enough,” Playa nodded. “Let’s hope they left the keys in the ignition, because I don’t know if I can hotwire a boat.”
Thankfully, the keys had indeed been left nearby, and the pair of jailbirds hopped into it and fled the island, leaving it behind almost completely undetected. A few people probably did notice them, but it was dark out, and the boat’s lights were kept off to prevent them from being seen. Add in the bit of misty smoke still surrounding the island from the breakout at the jail earlier, and tracking them would be hard, if not outright impossible.
“Phew! That was a close one!” Carlos sighed in relief, slumping a bit.
“So, I was wondering, what’s a kid like you doing in big-boy jail?” Playa asked curiously.
“I’m not a kid! I’m twenty!” he protested.
“Sure, sure. So, what’d you do to land in there?” Playa inquired.
“Apparently, hospitals don’t like it when you skim off the top of the prescription medications,” Carlos said with a shrug. “I was a janitor, they caught me in the supply closet after hours with my pockets full of opioids, and since I had a few stints in Juvie already, they threw the book at me hard and tossed me into Stilwater Penn.”
“Eesh. Why were you stealing meds?” Playa asked.
“Sick grandma,” he replied. “And she can’t afford the prices they charge these days! Plus, ever since the Brotherhood ran my parents out of their jobs on the docks, well, money’s been even tighter than usual.”
Playa nodded slowly. He was curious about what had happened while he was under. What was Stilwater doing with that fancy new skyline he could see in the distance? Who the heck were the Brotherhood and the other so-called Big Three? And most importantly, what’d happened to the Saints?
