In Westside We Trust

[Luci]

Crouched on a rope strung between two glittering skyscrapers, a hundred feet above 110th Street, is Batgirl Skywalker.

The eight-year-old orphan Twi’lek was once known as De'ialia, but upon the untimely murder of parents years ago she donned the mantle of Batgirl Skywalker. She made herself a purple cape and mask, and trained herself in lightsaber combat via Omnitube tutorials, and has been striking fear into the criminals of Tier-5 ever since. Well, some of the criminals anyways.

De'ialia “Batgirl Skywalker” is a member, and currently Acting President, of the Westside Deathblades, a gang of deadly orphans with a penchant for anime. President Shadowkill himself had recruited her after hearing of her heroic exploits. With Princess Hellstabs’ untimely death, and President Shadowkill arrested, the Presidency falls to Batgirl, at least until Shadowkill breaks out.

A frown crosses the bright red Twi’leks face. She is a lone wolf, uncomfortable with leadership in any capacity. She only joined the Deathblades for access to new targets, anyways.

Batgirl stays crouched on her taught rope, balancing as perfectly as she balances her inner conflicts. A hundred feet below her the Westside ghetto is alive, seething with human and alien detritus even in the darkest hours of the artificial morning. The poor and the hopeless shuffle into corners to die, the drug-addicts veering pushing forward as their desperation grows, and the ruthless predators slink in the shadows eager for their next victim.

It all makes De'ialia sick.

She longs for the days when she could stalk the predators without considering the bigger picture, without the complex gang politics and long-term strategies, when she could kill a pimp instead of letting him operate for weeks so they could find his boss.

The tiny Twi’lek lets herself fall backwards, hanging onto the rope with just one foot, swinging above 110th Street upside-down, brooding. As she swings back and forth, she notices a squirrel made of shimmering silver start to cross her rope.

De'ialia sits up quickly, crouching on her rope again as the squirrel scurries over to her. She recognizes the squirrel as a Patronus, the primary means of contact among the Westside.

“Hey Batgirl,” says the squirrel. It speaks in the deep voice of Lil Peevz, the wizard who has summoned it. Lil Peevz is a Westside Hufflepunk, but De'ialia requested him for her team specifically. They had worked together before, and De'ialia liked him because he was sober, a claim few Hufflepunks could make with a straight face.

“It looks like there’s some Tuskies in the alley’s behind the Pokemon Center,” the squirrel continues, licking it’s silvery paws quickly. “We got one of them identified as Gorrgush the Finesser. They’re probably scouting out new spots to sell heroin. The bad kind of heroin, not like you. Anyways, if you wanna go introduce yourself, Jacket says it’s a green light light for any orcs west of Hover Ave.”

For the first time all night, the little orphan Twi’lek smiles.

***

“The Naruto Kids, representing as well the Dragon Ball Kids and the Nintendo Kids , don’t want to play with the Westside Deathblades anymore.”

The solemn proclamation is made by Dark-Smoke-Punch, First Lueteniant of the Westside Deathblades, his adolescent voice echoing around the Council Chambers deep below the Deathblade Playground. The wiry seven-year-old boy is defiant, his black kimono tight, a pink-and-blue toy hammer hanging casually from his belt.

To his left stands Justice-Man, Second Lieutenant of the Westside Deathblades, representing the Superhero Kids, as well the Lord-Of-The-Rings Kids, and the Good Pirate Kids. His face is stern and solemn as ever. His yellow cape flows behind him despite the lack of air in the underground chamber.

The children stand in before a throne occupied by Batgirl Skywalker, defacto President of the Westside Deathblades, representing the combined forces of all the Anime Kids, the Superhero Kids, the Lord-Of-The-Rings Kids, the Good Pirate Kids, the Bad Pirate Kids, the Star Wars Kids, the Young Ashen Blades, the Cowboys, and the Hopscotch Glitter Gang.

The seven-year-old red Twi’lek girl known as Batgirl Skywalker glares down from her throne, her lip curling under her mask. Her fingers clench into fists and then unflex. The weight of leadership lies heavy on her shoulders; she had told President Shadowkill as much when he bestowed the mantle upon her.

The three youths are alone in the large chamber.

“We hereby make our own gang,” Dark-Smoke-Punch continues, unabashed. “The Deathswords, and claim all of the Jungle Gym below 3rd street as our territory. We declare every weekday to be Taco Tuesday, and demand a Taco Tax from the Westside Deathblades amounting to-”

“Shut the frick up!” Batgirl screams finally, her voice rising shrilly and causing her Lieutenants to flinch. “You aren’t leaving; nobody is leaving. And you can’t take our name, we had it first. And no one is paying a fricking Taco Tax, you dumbie.”

Dark-Smoke-Punch sneers at the fuming President.

“We’re not gonna play with you no more, De’ialia,” Dark-Smoke-Punch declares, using her given name like a slur. “Luci is dead. Princess Hellstab is dead. Shadowkill is in jail. The Westside is dead, and if you and the Deathblades ain’t gonna leave the Westside then we’re gonna leave the Deathblades.”

President Batgirl Skywalker breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth. Her fingers clench the armrests on her throne tightly. It does not calm her.

“Those aren’t my orders,” she says through gritted teeth. Shadowkill is wrong, she can’t handle this. He should be here for this, him or the Princess. “My orders are to keep us together, and stick with the Westside until Luci or Shadowkill gets back. And that’s what’s gonna frickin happen, because I’m not frickin failing my frickin mission. If you guys go off on your own, killing orcs, you’re gonna get real dead real fast. This ain’t a frickin game.”

“What about you, Justice-Man?” Dark-Smoke-Punch asks, ignoring his President. The eight-year-old superhero beside him is silent, solemn as always. “Will you bring your gangs with us? Will you bring the fight to the orcs, or hide down here with this potty mouth?”

President Batgirl rises from her throne at the insult, her hand on her lightsaber.

“I challenge you for control of the Anime Kids,” President Batgirl whispers as she moves forward step by careful step, her eyes seething with barely restrained hatred.

A look of disgust crosses the face of Dark-Smoke-Punch, and then he steps forward with a swagger, his hand resting casually on his inflatable hammer.

“Oh De’ialia,” Luteniant Smoke-Punch says. “You’re about to make a big mistake.”

The two gangsters rush forward.

“STOP,” booms the voice of Justice-Man. The superhero floats a few feet above his superiors, his yellow cape billowing with his yellow hair, his eyes shining with fire as white as his leotard. De’ialia and Smoke-Punch stop in the their tracks, staring at each other guiltily.

“This is not what Shadowkill would want,” Justice-Man says, more quietly this time.

“Shadowkill wouldn’t want us to die protecting drug dealers!” Smoke-Punch spits.

President Batgirl Skywalker is silent.

Justice-Man is silent.

The door to the President’s chamber creaks open.

Johnny R. pokes his head in.

“Uh, hey,” he says, his eyes downcast. “Jacket’s here.”

***