SIA 8

Weeks passed and time blurred. The gang house was no longer a gang house. It was now a home and a semi-fortress. Partially by design and partially by chance.

The homeless, led by his mother and Boris, had cleaned up the place deftly. Better than the gangsters ever bothered to. Boris had spent long days with the stronger men fixing doors and repairing windows. The building was slowly coming to life, even if it couldn’t be seen from the outside.

Wrapped in frost and cold like the rest of the city. It was the coldest the city had been in a long time. There were talks of something happening in the middle of the city. A fight that had somehow caused the winter to rocket up to previously untouched degrees.

Details were scarce. He was certain at least half of the people here would've died of frostbite if he had not secured a new house barely days before it happened.

He was not the only one aware of what getting the building had meant. The cold wind, snow, and ice that kept the city wrapped in hoarfrost were unable to enter the heart of the building, and they all lived and laughed for one reason: Sukuna. The others kept their distance, half-worshipping, half-afraid.

He had also grown.

He was taller now. Over six feet. Yet somehow he knew he was still growing. His shoulders broader, gait heavier, but not slow. Never slow. The energy beneath his skin remained, lighting in a bottle. He was the bottle. A thrum beneath the skin that never stopped, like something old was slowly adjusting to the feel of new skin. His body changed, but his eyes remained the same. Hungry, bored, searching.

He was restless. Now more than ever. He knew a tipping point was being reached, and he searched for that one thing that would tip everything.

He would stare at the walls, tap his fingers against stone and flesh alike. He stopped speaking unless he had to. Instead, he had begun to hum. That same tune his mother sang to him as a child, though it sounded stranger coming from him.

Sukuna was bored until one day, he wasn’t.

One day, it finally happened.

A knock on the now replaced and reinforced door. A rough banging thing. There was silence in the antechamber of the building. It was late in the night, with half the city suffering from some kind of man-made ice age. Most of their residents were accounted for. The ones that weren’t around knew to knock more politely if they needed to gain entrance. Boris, his room close by, was one of the first to step out, his hand in his jacket gripping something.

Then a foot kicked against the bottom wood with enough force to echo. But the reinforcement held steady. The homeless or perhaps the residents were more accurate; Sukuna didn't care much for semantics. He didn't care for the people that fed off his scraps. They all turned to Boris, seeing him distracted, they followed the older man's gaze, right up to where Sukuna stood.

He was at the top of the two winding staircases that led straight to the second floor, where his four eyes peered down at the door being slammed into with rough knocks and kicks to the frame.

Sukuna vaulted from the second floor and landed easily with a heavy thud. The rest of the residents gave him space, while some scrambled further into the building in fear at what they instinctively knew was impending violence. That was the only thing they knew would rouse him. The ones that stayed behind were bigger men, with hard eyes and weapons in hand. Men who would fight for what they had.

He stepped forward. Fur jacket on his shoulders. Wide baggy pants and bare feet that stopped six feet from the door when a gunshot finally rang out. The door flexed open as the knob was obliterated by a shotgun blast. Sukuna waved away the sawdust that had been kicked up, as well as the shards of wood that had bounced off him, and he observed the visitors.

A man walked in wearing a black coat, shotgun in his hand, with an ugly smirk on his face. Sukuna knew him at a glance. He was the kind of man who thought names meant safety.

The fedora he wore on his head didn’t hide his black, cruel eyes. Eyes that had seen death and learned nothing from it. Behind him came three others, guns openly held. They were dressed in the same immaculate suit and tie with a black overcoat as the first man, yet without the fedora. The man with the smirk stepped forward. His smirk shifted the moment he spotted Sukuna, but it was a brief thing. He recovered smoothly.

“I suppose you're the folks that went and did in Saint as well as his little band of misfits,” the man said, voice sharp with practice. There was silence. Sukuna stared back, arms folded. The man shifted his attention from Sukuna to the rest.

“Courtesy demands that you get permission first before stirring up something as ugly as you have. Pride demands we do something about this insult you’ve inadvertently laid.” He raised his voice as he spoke to the gathered crowd; Sukuna grinned at the sign of weakness.

He had been unable to meet Sukuna's eyes.

"We were not aware they were under the protection of the Maroni's," Boris finally spoke up, yet the man replied with that same cruel smirk.

“The wolf does not care that the dog was unaware the dead rabbit was his. Consequences remain. Fortunately for you, the boss is a kinder person than I." This time, he turned away from Boris and back to Sukuna, somehow sensing he was the leader.

He kept his eyes focused on Sukuna's nose when he spoke once again. "Therefore, you’ve been given two options, two magnanimous options that come down to either bending the knee as your predecessor did, or refusing this offer, and we will show you—”

He didn’t get the opportunity to finish his incessant chattering.

Sukuna crossed the space between them in a heartbeat. The man didn’t have time to aim his gun at the human-shaped wrecking ball. Sukuna didn’t bother to speak or ask for names. He simply reached forward, grabbed the man’s throat, and crushed it like soft fruit. Bend the knee? The arrogance and power to proclaim such in front of him. He deprived the man of it permanently.

Blood splattered across the ground in a wide arc as he tore out what remained of the throat. The three men behind him moved to act, but they shouldn’t have bothered. The first managed to take a single step back and get off one shot.

Sukuna raised his upper left arm, blocking the bullet before it could strike his head. The dull pain of it piercing skin and lodging in muscle was irrelevant. The next second, the man shot backward as he was folded in half, his spine snapping as Sukuna buried his fist into the man’s midsection hard and fast enough to pulp organs and kiss spine. The second got a bullet to the eye courtesy of Boris before he could do more than twitch.

The third man finally got the memo. This was not a fight he could win. He threw his gun at him and ran out immediately. Boris raised his revolver to shoot the fleeing man in the back, but Sukuna's hand snapped out, and he caught the barrel of the revolver. Then he squeezed. Hard.

The steel casing deformed under his growing strength, and it was enough to pass the message he wanted to pass along. Let him go. A smile found its way to his lips as he watched the third man disappear back into the snow.

“The Maroni family is not the kind to let things go. You’ve destroyed their pawns, and now they'll send messengers soon. Maybe to talk, maybe to kill. This isn't just the Narrows anymore. You’re walking into city politics now. Blood politics. When they do send someone, maybe don’t kill the messenger in the first few minutes, and we won't have a war on our hands, eh?

The field was being set up, and it was only a matter of time till he got what he wanted, yet not even he was sure of what exactly it was anymore. What he did know for certain was that he needed a spark to ignite something within him, and he didn't care if the community that had built itself around him combusted from the flames born of his desires.

Boris had been unaware of the kind of seed he had sowed in his minds with those words. But as the older man glanced at him now, somehow he knew the man was finally aware of what sort of person he was. Nothing else mattered to him. Not the Narrows, not this community, not Boris, not Shi- The last part of that thought forced him to grind to a halt as he frowned.

"I heard the sounds of a disturbance. Is everything fine?" Like she had felt herself be summoned, His mother walked out from deeper in the building. Her boot clad feet barely made a sound on the ground. Her beautiful gown was hidden beneath a stained apron, while her usually pale and gaunt cheeks had filled out enough that he imagined she looked more like how she did before she had been cast away by her father.

An act he was certain to pay back sooner rather than later.

Her left hand gripped the wooden handle of a cleaver tightly, one that was slightly stained with the blood of whatever she had just killed. It made it clear that she was just coming from the kitchen, a scarred and flighty young woman trailing behind her. If Boris was the brain of their little community, his mother was the ever-beating and caring heart, and he was the bloodstained arm.

"The maroni sent a message." Boris started, then he glanced at him before replying. "We sent a message back, now we prepare and hope." The grizzled man grunted out as he turned and began to walk away, while waving over some of the men standing around to help with the bodies.

She placed a palm on his chin, her eyes searching his face. “Do you think that was for the best?”

Sukuna’s eyes remained fixed on the blood pooling around his bare feet. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost bored. “It felt good. Isn’t that enough?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. The young woman behind her fidgeted nervously, eyes darting between them. Then, a slow, sharp smile spread across his mother’s face. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “It is.”

...

The air in the meeting room was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of whiskey. Dim light cast long shadows across the mahogany table, where some of Gotham’s most dangerous men sat, each face as grim as the next. At the head of the table, Carmine Falcone leaned forward, fingers steepled. Black hair slicked back, eyes cold.  

“So,” Falcone began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. “We’re losing ground. Losing shipments. Losing men. All because of one man in a cape.”  

“A freak,” Salvatore Maroni muttered, jaw tight. “A man dressed like a bat. Maybe he's even part bat. He’s got half my guys scared to walk the streets at night.”  

There was a chorus of grumbles and nods from the men at the table. These were made men and underbosses, yet somehow, a single freakshow that stuck to the shadows had managed to instill so much fear in them.  

“We've already lost so much in just a few years since the first sightings of the freak. Our men can't see him. Most of the time, they don't even get to shoot or touch him. He comes in like a Fantasma, puts our dons in emergency wards, and leaves just as quickly,” a brash, younger voice spoke up. Pino Maroni, Sal’s son.  

Carmine Falcone held back the urge to frown. The kid had no right to speak up here, not while he was still talking to Sal. His eyes flicked to where his red-haired daughter sat, watching with narrowed eyes. If even Sofia had noticed, then it couldn’t have been more obvious. The fact that Sal acted like he didn’t notice the break in decorum was very telling.  

The Falcones and the Maronis were allied. It hadn’t always been so, but things had changed with Big Lou’s very fortunate death, which the Falcone family absolutely had nothing to do with, of course. Now they were allies, but everyone knew Falcone led and the Maronis followed. It seemed that the Maronis were slowly growing tired of that particular truth.  

This was a play, a clumsy one, but a play nonetheless. And Carmine Falcone found himself smiling internally. He didn’t mind. Too much peace made men lazy, and lazy men got sloppy. The boy was brash, too loud, too eager, but he’d laid the groundwork for the conversation Carmine had been planning to have anyway. A useful little pawn, and one who clearly wanted to be more.  

“That’s why you fight a freak with a freak,” Falcone said, reclining with a smug, deliberate ease. “You know the saying. If you can’t beat ’em, find someone even crazier who can.”  

The other men exchanged wary glances. Maroni’s thick, scarred fingers drummed on the table. “What’re you saying, Falcone?”  

Falcone’s eyes glittered. “I’m saying we set a trap for this... Bat. And we don’t use our boys to do it. We’ve already lost too many of them. I already hired a mercenary. Got a couple of freaks lined up too. We’ll bleed the Bat dry.”  

Maroni grunted, reaching for his glass. “And who’s this mercenary?”  

Before Falcone could answer, the heavy wooden doors burst open. A man staggered in, face pale, clothes ruffled and crumpled, with snow still clinging to them. His eyes were wild, unfocused.  

“Boss... Boss!” he rasped, stumbling forward. Falcone recognized the man. It was Vito. One of Maroni’s trusted enforcers, and he looked like he’d been through hell. Falcone leaned back in his seat, watching them interact like it was a stage play.  

Maroni’s face twisted in a scowl. “Vito? What the hell happened to you?”  

Vito tried to speak, but the words came out in a panicked rush. “There was... there was this... freak! Four eyes, four arms. He was the one who took over the old Crowe mansion. He killed all the men there. We went to talk to him like Pino ordered, and he killed Alberto, Luca, and Franco!”  

Falcone’s brow arched. “Four eyes? Four arms?”  

Maroni slammed his fist on the table, glass shattering. “What the hell are you talking about, Vito? Give me a name! Who did this?!”  

Vito’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, panting. “I don’t know his name, I don't know what he was. Just that he was smiling the whole time. Like... like he was enjoying it.” The man shivered in fear at the memory.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Maroni’s face twisted in rage, veins bulging against his thick neck. Falcone, however, remained calm, a sly smile spreading across his lips. An opportunity.  

“Well,” Falcone said, leaning forward again. “Seems like you’ve got a bit of a freak problem on your hands, Sal. A problem with a ready solution already on hand. What do you think about a little test run?”  

Maroni’s jaw unclenched as he turned to face him. “You want them to go after this... four-eyed freak?”  

Falcone nodded. “We want to take out the Bat, right? Let’s see if they can handle this guy first. If they can’t, then we know we’re wasting our time.”  

Maroni sat back, anger giving way to a cruel smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that.”  

Falcone looked at a patch of shadow in the corner of the room, and he asked a question. “You think they can handle him?”  

"Hmph."

All eyes turned toward the corner, and the unaware men in the room stood up in shock and surprise as a big man stepped out with the grace of a beast on the hunt. He was clad in armor, a mixture of modern, segmented reinforced plates with medieval patches of chainmail strategically placed to deflect melee weapons.  

His face was hidden beneath a mask divided in the middle. The left side was painted yellow; the right, black. His single eye narrowed as, out of his shadow, stepped a child dressed just like him. Her mask was different, a cloth mask that covered only the top half of her face, leaving her white hair and pink lips exposed.  

“Depends on the kind of freak he is,” Deathstroke replied. “But you’re not paying me to fight him. Instead, Ravager will lead your team of freaks.”  

For the first time that day, Falcone frowned, yet he forced the emotion away as quickly as it appeared. There was no reason to antagonize the mercenary. Deathstroke was right, he had been paid to fight a single person. While Falcone could easily tip the rest of the freaks to fight this new opponent, Deathstroke’s fee was too high, and the prideful mercenary had standards.

Standards he believed the bat could match up to.

“Fine. Ravager, was it? Do you think you can handle him?” He turned to the girl who stood beside Deathstroke. He could hear the murmurs and scoffs of disbelief from the other men around the room, but he ignored them. There was a reason why he was the leader and not them. Their pride and hubris won't allow them to see it. The girl was just as deadly as her father.

“I don’t care what kind of freak he is,” the girl said, her single eye gleaming with cold purpose. “Point me in his direction, and I’ll handle it.”  

Falcone smiled in response. It was all coming together.