Meanwhile, on the Westside

[Luci]

[spoiler]

***

Mikey the Lightfoot walks slowly around a cramped compartment on the T5 Reading Westbound train, his yellow eyes slowly scanning the walls for graffiti.

Like most Lightfootz, Mikey is a half orc, mostly human looking but green skinned and with small tusks jutting from his mouth. The Lightfootz gang is comprised of apprentice magic users employed by Orc Mafia as couriers, spies, and graffiti vandals. They use graffiti to show the strength of the Orc Mafia, as well as to communicate with each other and spy on their enemies. They have been engaged in a shadow war with Luci and the Hufflepunks, each side using their magical graffiti to spy on each other. They have also been charged with protecting the Orc Mafia’s presence on the trains of Eastside Tier-5.

Tonight Mikey is trying to focus on his mission, trying to keep his graffiti wards up and running to hide his compartment from the prying magical eyes of the Westside, but he cannot help but be distracted by the company of the train compartment, and it’s collective smell.

The T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz are in the house.

Nearly twenty of the hulking leather-clad ork bikerz stand shoulder to shoulder, swords clinking against guns as they growl at each other. Mikey knows some of them by reputation. Tiny Argah, known for slaying the Sprinkles the Ewok in single combat, stands tall and silent in the back holding his double-headed battleaxe over his head to make room. On the opposite side is Warslut, the female orc famed for holding the 7th Street Bridge alone against a pack of knife ears. She lost a hand in the battle, but it has since been replaced with a machine gun. Though the gang is cramped, they create a wide circle around their Prezident.

Jarl Elfbane, Prezident of the T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz, is a black-furred ork instantly recognized by the necklace of gold-coated elf and human ears around his neck. Jarl is one of the most respected bikerz in the Orc Mafia, and a veteran of countless coruscant battles, but most famously the battle of Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

The rumble marked a turning point in the last war between the Orc Mafia and the Westside, when the Westside met an entire train full of Orcs at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. The Orcs were unable to break through the lines, and were forced to retreat onto the Eastbound train. The battle would go down in history as one of the bloodiest losses the Orc Mafia has ever suffered.

And now tonight, they are going into Platform Nine and Three Quarters again.

It is understandable then, that Jarl is a bit jumpy when Mikey’s dog starts barking.

“Shut up!” Mikey snaps to his dog quickly, and the barking stiffles to a low growl. Mikey sweats as he feels Jarl’s eyes on him, but he walks over to his dog Twitch.

Twitch is not an ordinary dog, but a graffiti dog. Twitch is Mikey’s familiar, a two dimensional red outline of a jack russel terrier that lives in the Graffiti Plane, transporting messages for Mikey and keeping an eye out for spies. Twitch has his hackles up, barking and snapping at a silver graffiti outline of a opossum. Mikey recognizes it as a Patronus, the preferred agent of graffiti spying for the Westside Hufflepunks. The opossum hisses as Twitch gets a hold of its ankle.

“Kill it,” comes the deep growl of Jarl Elfbane, sounding like nothing less than the lead singer of a death metal band. Mikey hurries to obey.

With a shaking hand the half-orc pulls out a fat red marker, and crosses over the opossum with three quick slashes, performing the somatic component of the spell, and the patronus is gone. Twitch stops barking.

Prezident Jarl leans back in his seat again, and Mikey lets out a tense breath.  

***
[/spoiler]

***

The T-5 Reading Westbound train is shaking violently.

In the frontmost compartment, seemingly unaware of any technical difficulties, are the T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz. The fearsome Orkish biker-gang gnaw their tusks and clutch their weapons, but otherwise show no signs of unease.

Mikey Lightfoot, the half-orc apprentice mage charged with securing the train on its entry into the Westside, is a very different story.

“Oh fuck,” he explains calmly, gripping a metal bowl as the train seems to try to buck off it’s tracks. Mikey is hastily scrawling runes on the window of the train in red marker. After a few quick slashes, the rune flares bright red, and a chain of orcish runes briefly flood the train compartment in a red glow. Mikey laughs aloud. The train steadies itself.

“Just a broken link,” he says with a gasp, lying on the floor.

Jarl Elfbane, Prezident of the T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz, glares down at him. The hulking black-furred orc has bit of drool running down his tusk.

Mikey Lightfoot loses his smile and scrambles to his feet, and begins patrolling the train compartment again for any more weak links.

The twenty or so massive Ork bikers make soft guttural noises as Mikey the half-orc passes them. Mikey recognizes the grunts as Orkish tauntings, but he pays them no mind; tonight they need him to protect their train compartment. The entire Orc Mafia needs him to protect this train compartment. A ward is only as strong as it’s weakest link, and Mikey knows he’s that link.

He gently pushes between Vahk Bonemelter and Warslut, ignoring the looks of disgust and outrage on the faces of the veteranz, and traces over a fading link in the ward-chain until it is bright again. He takes a moment to observe the link, glowing red over the window of the train.

They are deep within Westside territory now, Mikey thinks. They are minutes from Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He gazes out the window, never having been this far into the Westside before.

The first thing he notices is the graffiti on a red brick building. A giant pair of very familiar eyes.

They are feminine eyes, and within them is a swirling kaleidoscopic vortex. They seem confused, and angry, and without warning they stare directly at Mikey.

“Oh fuck,” he repeats as he loses consciousness.
***

Mikey Lightfoot wakes up in the front compartment of the T5 Reading Westbound. His companions are gone. Only one other person is the train car with him.

She is sitting across from him, her eyes narrowed and angry, just like the graffiti. Her hair swirls with neon light, and her clothes are a vibrant pulsing rainbow.

“I see you, Mikey,” says Luci softly. “It’s over. Go home.”

Mikey swallows. After a moment, he shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says hoarsely. “We’re coming, and there’s not a godamn thing you can do about it.”

The train car derails violently. Mikey screams as he is thrown around the compartment, bouncing off the steel and plastic. He can see Luci floating eerily in the air, completely static as the train compartment smashes to pieces around them. In desperation he grabs her, and Luci stares coldly back into his eyes.

“We’re coming,” he laughs, coughing up blood into her face. “And we’re gonna burn you like the witch that your are.”

Luci pushes him away with a scream, and the train smashes in around them.

***

Mikey Lightfoot wakes up in the front compartment of the T5 Reading Westbound. The T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz are standing in a circle around him. He realizes his head is in incredible pain, and his shirt is soaked with blood. After a few frantic seconds, he realizes it is coming from his nose.

Jarl Elfbane himself reaches down and extends a black furred hand. Mikey Lightfoot shakily reaches out for it, and is dragged to his feet.

“She-they know we’re coming,” Mikey coughs out. Jarl grins.

“We heard,” he says in bestial growl. The Ork Warryorz laugh, and Mikey doesn’t get the joke. “And,” Jarl says. “There’s not a goddamn thing she can do about it.”

The Ork Warryorz howl their war cries.

The Orkz are pounding on their shields. They are revving their chainsaws. They are even firing off the sidearms. Mikey grins.

The T5 Reading Westbound dips down very suddenly, and there is darkenss outside the windows.

They have entered the subway.

***

There is a tense few minutes that feels more like a rollercoaster than a train ride.

Glowing bright graffiti covers the walls and turns into a blur as the subway car is bathed in psychedelic light.

The train begins to slow, and then it stops.

***

As the doors chime open, the T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz explode out of the front train compartment, to find Platform Nine and Three Quarters completely empty but for themselves.

A pair of eyes stares down at them accusingly.

It is a massive mural of a blonde-haired human boy with the lower half of his face wrapped in the red and gold scarf of Gryffindor. Like most magical graffiti, it is moving, although all he does is blink and scowl. Above the mural are the letters “R.I.P. DENNIS CREEVY” in flaming red and gold, and below him a banner reading “WESTSIDE GRYFFINDOR WARRIORS”.

After a moment, the doors to the second train compartment open, and they are no longer alone.

The T5 Eastsyd Insane Ork Warryorz exit from the second train compartment, howling and waving their weapons. Thirty or so Orks, clad not in biker leather but rather in full military gear, mostly worn improperly.

Their leader, Garbrok One-Tusk, swaggers out in front with his massive chainsaw-machine gun, eyeing the train platform. He grins at Jarl, who does not grin back.

Another train compartment opens, then another and another and another, until the entire platform is seething with orkish forces.

The sound of chainsaw and machine guns echo around the train platform, crisscrossing with the howls of orcs, and ogres, and goblins. Plumes of fire erupt from flamethrowers, multicolored sparks sizzle in the air from orkish sorcerery.

“Seems like our job’s done,” Garbrok growls loudly. His gang grunts with laughter “Guess it wasn’t quite the war you were expecting, aye Jarl?”

A sound like a cannon echos through the train platform.

An oversized motorcycle, modified to carrying the weight of it’s rider, barrels out of the last train compartment, scattering orks as it moves to the front of the horde.

Upon the bike sits a half-orc, half-ogre. The hulking figure has pale grey skin and jet black fur, and wrapped around his arm is a vicious spiked chain. A bit of black drool drips from his tusk. The creature leans back, his black hair falling back from his face, and opens his mouth wide.

The hoard is silent as he delivers his war cry, a kind of hissing whisper that is still loud enough the hurt the ears.

His name is Gore, and he is Prezident of the T5 Ork Warryorz, meaning he is in command of all Orkish biker gangs in Teir -5. He has bullied his way to the top of this chaotic criminal empire through a mix of cannibalism against his competition and worse atrocities towards his enemies.

He is a war crime incarnate, and if his raid is successful tonight, he will own the Westside.

Gore revs his motorcycle, driving back and forth in front of the silent orks. His yellowy eyes find the clock on the wall above the bathrooms. He points his gnarly, clawed finger towards it.

The time is 11:02.

“Midnight,” Gore says in a hissing strangle, that slowly worms its way through the hoarde. Mikey shudders. “At midnight, the T5 Midnight Express Westsbound will enter this station, and the Westside will know the full glory of the Ork Warryorz.”

The hoard starts to rumble in excitement.

“Until Midnight,” he continues in his bizarrely loud whisper. “They will know but a taste. Secure the Platform, every entrance, every exit. If you die, may it be with blood on your sword.”

The hoard roars, and charge down into the winding concrete tunnels of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and into the Westside.

***

Mikey Lightfoot stays with the T5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Warryorz as they charge down a tunnel lit only with buzzing linoleum lights. He doesn’t know why. His mission is complete, he should be heading back to the Eastsyd.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters is a long twisting maze of tunnels and stairs, some of which seem to disappear or shift when you aren’t looking or at strange times of the day. There are a host of different exits and entrances, some of which are hidden passages into dark alleys or sewers. To cover all the entrances, they would need to spread out.

Garbrok One-Tusk spots Mikey running lithely beside the Gangsta Orkz, and lets out an orcish laugh that sounds like a pig squeal.

“Oi Jarl,” he sneers. “That half-boy with you?”

Mikey Lightfoot pales as Garbook leers down at him, but Jarl Elfbane steps between them.

“He’s a Gangsta now,” responds Jarl solemnly. There is a fork coming up in the tunnel. “And my half-boy Gangsta will still kill twice as many elves as any Insane Ork.”

Both tribes of orks roar with laughter. The fork approaches.

“Die well, brother,” says Garbok One-Tusk as he leads his gang down the forked path to the right.

“Slay better, brother,” calls Jarl Elfbane as he leads his troops down the left hand tunnel.

***