Meanwhile, on the Westside

[Luci]

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.  

***

Chi-Owo rumbles through T5 New York on her stolen orc Harley, the green-skinned Chinese Twi-lek girl breathing calmly and trying to focus on the road. Her studded leather jacket proudly displays WESTSIDE on the top, and HUFFLEPUNKS on the bottom, with a moving picture of a snarling badger in the middle.

The lab-assistant-turned-gangster tries not to let her thoughts run away with her. She tries not to think about her friend that just died. She tries not to think about the Orcs she killed today. She tries not to think about the drugs she’s on or the drugs she craves. She does not wonder how long she has been out here, on the streets of Tier-5, fighting a gang war.

Chi-Owo focuses on her mission. She catches sight of Gentleman Jacks on the street, leaning against their cars, smoking their cigarettes with their guns in their holsters. She keeps her head down, keeps her eyes on the road. Chi-Owo likes the Jacks; at least, she likes Bobby Stabs and Jim the Gangster. She does not understand the intricacies of gang politics, and isn’t sure if the Jacks are in her gang or not. To be fair, Chi-Owo hasn’t been a gangster very long. Or had she?

They call it the Luci Effect. Spend too much time around her, let her get into your head, and time just kind of drifts away.

The harley roars as Chi-Owo pulls into a parking lot in Central Park. When the orange Twi’Lek cuts the motor on the bike, two dozen Knife-Ears appear from out of nowhere and surround her.

The elven street gang looks tense; their faces seem sunken in, their native-american style warpaint taught against their cheeks. Some of them lean on their longbows, others hoist high-powered sniper rifles or Heaters.

The Twi’lek slowly lifts her hands from the bike, putting them in the air.

A beautiful blonde elf girl pushes through the crowd impatiently. She has two lines of glowing warpaint beneath her eyes, marking her as Lieutenant Sunshine of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors. Behind her looms Lieutenant Bloodstain, the purple-skinned drow with a pair of standard-issue scimitars on her hips. The women have clearly risen in the ranks of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors through very different paths, but Luci sees the value of diplomacy as well the value of military.

“Hey Chi,” Sunshine says casually. The platinum blonde hefts a rocket launcher on her shoulder. Painted on the head of the rocket is a flower. “What’s the plan?”

***

Deep in the heart of the Westside is a train station called Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Several years ago, in the last Orc War, a coalition of Westsiders had beaten back a train full of orcs on that platform, a battle that many say marked the beginning of the end for the Orc Mafia in Tier-5.

Some of the most renowned warriors of the Orc Mafia had been defeated that day, either with their blood spilled on the concrete or forced to retreat back onto the train.

The magical graffiti covering the train station contains several monuments to the brave Westsiders who fought in the Battle of Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

The most prominent piece is a massive mural of a blonde-haired 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”.

Although the Westside Gryffindor Warriors formally disbanded after the death of their President Dennis Creevy during the Battle of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, many of their members have since joined the Westside Hufflepunks and other Hogwarts gangs throughout the city.

Other names of old, defunct Westside gangs litter the walls and windows of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, their historic legacy protected by the Westside Hufflepunks who apply permanency charms to the graffiti now and again.

There is still evidence of The Westside Cannibal Gnomes (who disbanded after accusations of cannibalism surfaced), The Westside Orcs (who disbanded after the Orc War), The Westside Locos (disbanded after an Empire raid on a drug house), and The Westside Scrapbooking Club (now known as the Pokemon Scrapbooking Club and declared a terrorist organization).

Tonight Platform Nine and Three Quarters lies empty, save for Yung Godric and 2 Wandz, a pair of bright-haired Westside Hufflepunks slumped against a wall, huffing paint from a spraycan.

The pair are on guard duty, and they are some of the best. Weasel has long been spreading the manpower on the streets thin, preferring to keep her spies and messengers all throughout the Westside. Yung Godric is a career veteran who fought at the Battle of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, already in his mid twenties and still alive somehow. 2 Wandz is his protege, a streetfighter who gained infamy after defeating the leader of the T4 Ravenclawz in a duel and winning his wand.

Yung Godric stumbles up, pulling out his yew wand sloppily and tapping the brick wall against which 2 Wandz still lies slumped.

“Opie hasn’t come back,” Yung Godric mutters, referring to his opossum Patronus. The Hufflepunks use their Patronus as spies and messengers, disguised as graffiti. Yung Godric has sent Opie out to watch the T5 Reading Westbound, as he has almost nightly for the last two years. And Opie is late.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Patronus are stupid, and noble. Opie has been known to pick fights with ghosts or malicious bits of graffiti, sometimes coming home with marks but never anything too serious.

2 Wandz is not worried, but lazily takes out one of his two wands and taps the wall behind him.

“Expecto,” he says before huffing a can of spray paint. “Patronum,” he finishes as he exhales, and a glowing silver graffiti jellyfish sprouts from his wand and onto the wall behind him. The jellyfish hovers stupidly for a moment, it’s tentacles waving.

“Mr Noodles,” commands 2 Wandz. “Go find Opie and bring him back.”

Mr Noodles drifts away, the silvery jellyfish moving around a corner and out of sight.

2 Wandz eases back against the wall, and lets his chin rest on his chest. Yung Godric simply stands with his arms folded, staring, as he often does, at the mural of Dennis Creevy.

The sound of a door opening behind them startles the pair. Yung Godric turns around quickly, but relaxes when he recognizes his fellow Westside Hufflepunk, a pierced punk rocker known as Scab.

“Hey,” Yung Godric hastily, to not betray his nerves. “Sup young blood? I thought you were out of the game, what you doing up here?”

Scab shrugs, his facial piercings jingling. “Just tyrna score man, can you help me out?”
2 Wandz barks laughter from the floor. He reaches into his pocket and tosses a small baggie full of glowing purple powder across the floor.

Scab rummages through his pockets before pulling out a wad of crumpled cash to hand 2 Wandz.

“Thanks,” he mutters as he shoves the drugs in his pockets, his eyes on the floor. “So what’s up man? Anything going on tonight?”

Yung Godric shakes his head. “Nah, guard duty. And Opie isn’t back yet, I’m starting to get worried.”

“Opie’s late all the time,” Scab says quickly.

Yung Godric nods in agreement, his eyes back on the mural of Dennis Creevy. “Yeah, but not usually this late. I’m getting worried.”

Scab nods, and follows his gaze. THe two sand side by side for a moment, Dennis blinking and glaring down at them.

“You were really there?” Scab asks, as he lights two cigarettes with the tip of his wand and hands one to Yung Godric. “How many Westsiders were there?”

Yung Godric accepts the cigarette and smokes for a while before he answers.

“A lot,” he says as he exhales a cloud of smoke. “Platform Nine and Three Quarters, it’s been warped by us over the years, it’s magical. It expands to fit the user's needs. That night, we had Westsiders from every corner of Tier -5. When the Orcs came, there was an entire trainload of them, filling every compartment, packed impossibly tight. Every time one went down two more came out. We got lucky,” he admits, taking another deep drag of his cigarette. “We were able to hold the line. We kept our calm, we worked in coordination, we relied on our training. We held space. For over an hour, we held space. If they had broken through the line, just one of them just once, they would have broken through. They could have destroyed the Westside in one night.”

Yung Godric flicks his cigarette butt onto the train tracks.

“Come to a show tonight, the Bludgers are playing,” suggests Scab.. He tries to catches 2 Wandz’ glance. “Danny will be there. She said she wants to see you.”

2 Wandz does not react.

“Opie still isn’t back,” declares Yung Godric. “I’m gonna send out a message to Weasel, see if we can’t find out what the fuck-”
The Hufflepunk’ last words are cut short as Scab fires two shots from a Glock 9 into the back of Yung Godric’s head.

A bolt of red light whizzes by Scab’s head as 2 Wandz fires off a stunning hex.

Scab whirls and unloads the rest of the clip at the other wizard, who produces a shield charm in front of himself. 2 Wandz gets to his wobbly feet as the bullets ricochet harmlessly from his shield.

Scab drops the gun and instead draws a wand and fires from his hip.

“Expelliarmus!” Scab cries, and a bolt of scarlet light rickets towards 2 Wandz.

2 Wandz curses as he is disarmed, his wand sailing across the room into Scab’s outstretched hand.

While his wand is still in the air, 2 Wandz pulls out his other wand, and fires a flurry of orange exploding hexes at Scab, forcing him to duck and roll for cover even as he snatches the wand from the air.

“Suffuco!” cries Scab desperately as he shoots a strange yellow string from the tip of his wand that wraps around itself around 2 Wandz’ neck.

Scab yanks on the thread, and it grows taught, forcing 2 Wandz to his knees. The choking wizard slashes the air with his wand, his invisible hex leaving a deep gash across Scab’s face and eliciting a scream. Scab uses 2 Wandz to stolen wand cast it’s final spell.

“Avada Kedavra!” he barks, and in a flash of green light, 2 Wandz is dead.

Scab falls to his knees for a moment. He takes a few ragged breaths, then limps over to switch his wand. He glares at the corpse of 2 Wandz, a corpse that bears the unmistakable signs of Dark Magic. He drags the corpse onto the train tracks, and his friend for good measure.

He does not look at the mural of Dennis Creevy looking down on him, but walks out of Platform Nine and Three Quarters with his head down.

***

[Luci]

San Yi had been in a sour mood ever since he had first heard that Might had died fighting an unknown Imperial Prime. He itched to avenge his... if not subordinate, his brawling buddy, which was almost as good. But that said, "Imperial Prime with blue eyes and black hair" wasn't actually all that descriptive.

He had visited the abandoned street where the two of them fought, and simply stood in awe at the destruction. Buildings destroyed, craters deeper than a foot dug into the ground. Scorched spaces and ripped-up walls. He found the imprint of Might's body forced into concrete, and saw evidence that Might had kept going for quite a while after that.

The superhero had been holding back, San Yi realized. None of the orcs who died in their raid had been ones who had been taken down by Might. Might never left corpses in his wake, except the innocent victims he was fighting to avenge. But this...

Might had been trying to kill this Imperial Prime, whoever he was. What had this bastard done, that was worth Might breaking his no-killing rule? Either that, or perhaps he was just so powerful that Might could go all-out without fearing that his opponent would die in the process. Whatever it was, it wasn't an opponent San Yi thought it would be smart to fight.

When he returned to his base, he threw himself into his work, trying to distract himself from the frustration. The rebuilding of the Mantis dojo was in progress, but the streets were in chaos more than ever. The Westside alliance, the maniacs, had declared open war against the Empire. Ding Wu, in particular, had been hit hard. His Flip habit was hard to indulge when the Hufflepunks had vanished from their usual plots. Beside that, Ding had been on good terms with the Westside, and was genuinely saddened by the death of Princess Hellstab. San Yi could sympathize, at the very least. It wasn't like he had anything against the Deathblades in particular, and it was a sad thing in general, the death of a child.

But the bounty was going too far in his opinion. 100 OM to every Imperial Prime? It would bleed the coffers of the Westside dry, and it made the cops mad. It made the Empire mad, and that was bad for everyone.

San Yi looked over an expansive map of the massive Tier Five. A pin, with the Flower painted on it, had been poked into each dojo in the city.
They had almost every gym, dojo, school, and training center in Tier Five under their control. The few the didn't still had their protection and symbol, at the very least, even if they didn't keep safehouses for members, and didn't hide drugs for them.

There was only one that didn't.

It was a martial arts school in the heart of the Westside's territory, the first point against it. The second point was that what it taught wasn't an art that had ever been taught on Earth- although there were rumors that this particular school also taught Tai-Chi briefly. The Floating Lotus Posse didn't discriminate, exactly, they allowed non-human members, and even fought to the death for their sake- their vengeance for Master Mantis was proof of it. But on the whole, the members were mostly human and mostly Asian. The regulars at this dojo- well, they weren't.

The Mighty Bat'leth Dojo. It was a hotspot for Klingons all over the Westside. They trained in the art of dueling with the savage-looking blades, and also served as training camps for the Mighty Westside Klingons.

Koloth the Mighty and his Mighty Westside Klingons were known throughout Tier Five as people to stay away from. They were mostly legitimate, not pushing drugs, no kidnapping, no sponsored prostitutes- but then again, Klingon prostitutes tended not to be popular with non-klingons. It wasn't that Klingons were unattractive, it more had to do with the fact that you had to pay triple for the "No Permanent Scars Guarantee".

What the Mighty Westside Klingons were was not your typical gang. They were closer to Yakuza, community planners and protectors; offering bodyguard service, bounty hunting, and mercenary work. They acted very much like the Lotus, working hard to guarantee the safety of the neighborhoods around their headquarters. They had an ethic that San Yi respected. It was such a shame they tied themselves to the Westside and their loose cannon leadership.

In truth, San Yi had given up on recruiting the Bat'leth Dojo long ago. It didn't fit the Lotus aesthetic, and seemed too much trouble for its worth. But after causing that mess with Skullcleaner's Southsyd Ork Warryorz he had been counting on All Might's support. The Orc Mafia would likely be putting the Floating Lotus Posse on their shit-list soon, and San Yi had been okay with that, with Might as his Ace-in-the-hole. But now that the Prime was gone and might not be coming back for a while, San Yi was feeling less confident. They needed more people. A lot more people, and not just rookies, dangerous, strong, disciplined fighters. People who would do well by the Lotus name.

People like the Mighty Klingons.

Luci had cowed them into joining, hadn't she? It was practically legend, on the streets nowadays. "Westside: Join or Die" could have been the gang's motto. And she had numbers, and weapons, and equipment, and she herself was a slippery bitch. He could understand how she had pressured them into joining. But the Floating Lotus Posse was more Koloth's style, weren't they? San Yi hoped, from one master of martial arts and as fellow men trying to uphold honor on these streets, that the Klingon might be open to their deal. And it wasn't as if the Mighty Klingons had a probelm with fighting orcs. Koloth had been at war with the orc mafia since before he joined the Westside.

San Yi pulled a Lotus pin, and stuck it into the map, right above the Bat'leth Dojo.

"Oh, Ding Wu?" San Yi called.

"Yeah boss?" the Chinese time manipulator asked, entering San Yi's office.

"How about you and I  go pay the Mighty Klingons a visit?"

"You think they might have any Flip?" Ding asked, very interested.

"They might." San Yi said in reply, "Are you ready for a fight?"

"Sure, boss." Ding Wu said with a smile, "How many men we bring with?"

"None. Just us... but be sure to give Akane a call, and tell her to send one of her watchmen our way, just in case we need reinforcements."

"Will do." Ding Wu made to leave the room, but he stopped just outside the doorway, "Uh boss?"

"Yes?"

"Bat'leth is martial arts, right?"

"We'll see." San Yi said cryptically.

"Um. Alright then."

A beam of light glints off the tip of a Bat’leth in a dojo in Tier-5.

The Bat'leth, or Sword of Honor, is the deadliest weapon in the Klingon arsenal. It is a curved bilateral sword held with both hands, with a hilt behind either end. This Bat’leth measures tip-to-tip 116 centimeters, weighs five point three kilograms, and has an exterior hand gripping diameter of five centimeters with blades of composite baakonite.

This is Kolgoth’s sword.

Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, hefts his Bat’leth in his right hand, and breathes in through his nose.

In front of him, thirty Mighty Westside Klingons heft their Bat’leths and breath in through their noses. For the first time in a year, the Klingons have stopped tai-chi training and have picked up their swords of honor again.

The air in the dojo is crisp and cool, the overhead lights bright and full.

Kolgoth pauses for a moment, his sword raised, surveying his pupils.They are a stern bunch, mostly Klingon, with only a few human warriors that have gained the respect of the bizzare and martial alien gang. Like Kolgoth, most of them are much older than their Westside comrades, and like Kolgoth many of them do not make their living through illegal means.

Kolgoth is a bail bondsman, employing several members of his gang as bounty hunters, while also being able to bail out Westsiders on a moment’s notice. He notices that Birack the Destroyer, who owns a construction company and employees many Klingons as well, is holding his elbow too high.

Kolgoth taps Birack’s elbow lightly to correct him, and Birack stares straight ahead sternly.

Kolgoth walks among the group, making small adjustments to their forms, and returns to the front of the class.

He brings the tip of the Bat’leth down in a sweeping motion in front of his chest, the exact same motion he has been teaching his gang every day in their tai-chi classes for the last year.

With martial perfection, the Mighty Westside Klingons bring the tips of their Bat’leths down in a sweeping motion in front of their chests.

Kolgoth nods.

***

The Westside Knife Ear Warriors are speeding down Hover Avenue.

Several of the elven gangsters are riding blood red sport motorcycles, zipping wildly through the streets and sidewalks, swerving back and forth in the street. They are called Night-Elves they have dark purple skin and glowing blue eyes. They are dressed all in black, and have swords strapped to their backs, and many have sidearms as well. Double scimitars seem to be popular.

They follow the imposing warrior Lieutenant Bloodstain, who rides at the front of the pack, her hair whipping in the breeze. Her sword is exotic, as long as a greatsword but with a curve like a scimitar. Her glowing blue eyes meet Chi-Owo’s.

Chi-Owo glares defiantly back. The orange-skinned half-chinese Twi’lek girl is still riding the Harley-Davidson she stole from an orc. That she killed. The teenage lab assistant from Tier-1 feels no fear as she stares down the legendary warrior.

There is a red light, but Chi and Bloodstain drive through it. They stop on the other side of the intersection as a tie-dye VW microbus pulls up to the light. The Night-Elves form a loose perimeter around the bus, scanning the rooftops and side streets for police and enemies.

The driver of the VW bus is Sunshine, First Lieutenant of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors. The perky blonde elf is grinning and waving stupidly at Bloodstain while she waits for the red light. She honks her horn and leans out the window to yell at Bloodstain.

“What do your elven eyes see?” Sunshine calls over the popping of the VW exhaust.

“A bimbo with overplucked eyebrows!” calls back Bloodstain.

Sunshine giggles. “Then my disguise is working! Can you see into the back?”

Bloodstain squints. “No,” she confirms.

Sunshine nods, and looks into the back of her magical VW bus. Behind a tie-dye curtain, nearly a dozen Knife Ear snipers crouch silently, armed and anxious. The elves are clutching powers or lasers or high-powered rifles, their faces are cold and calm, their ivory skin glowing in the artificial moonlight of Tier-5 streaming in through the windows of the VW.

The light turns green, and Sunshine’s magic bus pulls through the deserted intersection.

The convoy stops again when they reach a water tower. Two of the snipers depart from the van and climb up into the tower, but the convoy is gone before the hit the ladder.

They stop again at the Flockton Train Platform, and a few more elves pile out of the back of the microbus, these ones with shotguns and rifles. A few of the night elves go with them as they rush up the steps to the platform.

The microbus makes a few more stops and troop deployments at seemingly innocuous locations; an abandoned building, a liquor store, a freeway offramp. While they might seem random, they are chosen for their strategic advantage in the surreal urban combat zone of T5.

Luci’s orders are vague, but Sunshine and Bloodstain are veterans.

When Luci says ‘secure the Westside’, they know what to do.

***

[Luci]

***
President Shadowkill of the Westside Deathblades is a terror to behold.

His gang encircles him nervously, a rag-tag group of orphan children in naruto headbands wielding comical anime weapons. The fury in their leaders face tell them this training session will be painful, if not lethal. Since the death of his sister, their President has been prone to fits of uncontrollable rage, which he likes to mask as impromptu training sessions.

The young President wields an oversized katana nearly twice his size, which crackles and spits flames as it whirls through the air. If closely examined, one would find that the katana is actually foam, but this does not make it any less dangerous than a steel blade. In fact, in the Omniverse, this sword is much more powerful that simple steel.

According to Omniphysics, the more OM invested in a weapon, the more powerful that weapon is. The vintage 1942 The Flash stickers on the edge of the weapon lets Shadowkill swing his sword with impossible speed.. On the tip of the blade, folded into a sharp point, is a 1st Edition Mox Ruby MTG card signed by Dan Frazier, allowing the sword to penetrate nearly any armor. Where the hilt meets the blade is a strange cross piece; it is a playing card stuck to it with chewing gum. The gum in question is from a pack of Rigleys from 1931 signed by the Great Bambino, and it’s really good at sticking to things.

The card in question is a 1999 Shadowless Charizard, and it lets Shadowkill use Firespin.

His gang leaps into the air as one to converge on their leader, but their flaming swords and frost axes and shocking shurikens cannot withstand the fury of Shadowkill.

“Firespin!” he calls with the voice of a child playing a trump card. The sword seethes with flames and Shadowkill launches himself spinning upwards into his gang.

As Shadowkill spins, ribbons of fire streak from the blade, creating a flaming tornado that explodes outwards and sends his followers crashing to the floor.

Their president lands and looks down upon his singed gang members with red eyes. They lay groaning, their weapons discarded, their hair singed.

“That’s it?” he asks mockingly. The Deathblades do not respond, but continue to moan.

Shadowkill frowns. “Alright you frickin wussies, get up. Stop whining, get up. We’re going for a walk. I need real training partners.”

***

Two Knife-Ear snipers are sharing a cigarette dipped in PCP. They are wedged into the shell of an old Escalade on top of a pile of broken down cars in a junkyard in Tier-5. There are no seats or windows or dashboard, just guns and ammo. They are gazing out over a freeway offramp blocked off with traffic cones and detour signs.

One of them, a blonde elven girl with a soft face, inhales a little too deeply. Her pupils widen behind her rifle scope. She exhales, and the shamrock tattoo on her tongue is visible for a moment in the moonlight. Her name is Clover.

Clover passes the cigarette to her handsome companion, a dark-haired human boy named Lasko.

Lasko brushes his hair out of his eyes and leans back in the shell of the Escalade, smoking. For a moment, the knife tattoo on his ear is visible. Although rare, the non-elven members of the Westside Knife-Ear Warriors have been a valuable asset to the gang. They have proven to be brave, loyal, and painfully arrogant.

Lasko grins at Clover, who still has her rifle shouldered and is gazing into the scope on occasion.

“Wow,” says Lasko after a moment, breaking an hour long silence.

Clover’s rifle slips just a bit, and she fumbles to catch it. Lasko chuckles softly as the elf girl’s face reddens.

“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling. Clover’s lips are pursed tightly, and she won’t look him in the eye. “It’s just, I never noticed before, your eyes change color in the moonlight, don’t they?”

After a tense moment, Clover blinks her turquoise eyes, and nods. She then readies her weapon again, clearly putting an end to the conversation. Lasko sits up and scoots closer to Clover. The elf shivers.

“Cold?” Lasko asks, although he knows the answer; elf chicks are always cold. He moves his hand to grab Clover’s waist, his phone pings. A staticy voice comes on.

“Lasko,” says his phone. “You got a white pickup going 90 ignoring the detour, heads up.”

The snipers hurry into position, or at least Lasko does; Clover is ready. Ten seconds later, they see the pickup burst through the cones and onto the off ramp.

“Warning shot,” says Lasko, a little boredly.

Clover drills a 50-mm hole through the hood of the pickup, and it doesn’t even swerve.

“Light it up,” says Lasko softly.

Their muzzles flash, the floor of the Escalade fills with shell casings, and the pickup is smoldering on the off-ramp.

***

The clangs of Bat’leth steel echo around the dojo of the Mighty Westside Klingons.

The Klingons have split into pairs, their strangely curved swords dancing and causing sparks with every connection.

Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, walks among them, fearless of the blades whirling around his every side, making small corrections as he goes.

“Do not meet his gaze as you feint, Jaghoov,” Kolgoth says as he inspects a duel. “He will know you are trying to read his reaction.”

Much of Kolgoth’s advice about Bat’leth sounds like this. So much of the martial art is psychological, so much is based on projection and reading subtle mental cues from your opponent.

Jaghoov the Relentless, an aging Klingon with a broken collarbone, nods to show he heard. Kolgoth nods back, and moves on through the crowd of sparring aliens.

The President is the first to notice the cold draft, despite being on the far side of the room.

He is through the crowd and on the other side of the dojo before the door to the entrance is shut. The clangs of Bet’leth combat dim, and the echoes fade to nothing.

At the entrance to the dojo stands a tall, muscular human flanked by what are undoubtedly cronies. His face is hard with asiatic features, but his smile is coy and friendly. He removes the belt to his gui as he sidles in, displaying a chess criss-crossed with scars and gang tattoos. The Klingons shift uneasily as they recognize the tattoos.

The tattoos clearly mark San-Yi, Leader of the Floating Lotus Posse.

The cronies chuckle at the reaction. They are a group of scarred men with with asiatic weapons at their belts or tucked behind their backs, sneering around the dojo and making snide comments to each other.

San-Yi walks to the edge of the mat, where Kolgoth the Mighty is waiting for him with the crossed arms.

San-Yi stands eye to eye with Kolgoth for a moment, and then the massive human bows to Kolgoth, and steps on the mat.

“Nice place you got here, Kolgoth,” says San-Yi, craning his neck around. “Be a shame if someone killed the fuck out of you.”

“I heard about Skullcleaner,” the Klingon responds in his low rumble. “We all did.”

Around the room, solemn faced Klingons nod, their eyes on San-Yi. San-Yi frowns, not getting the reaction he expected.

“I said-” San Yi starts to say.

“I heard you,” Kolgoth interrupts. “And I said, we have heard of your victory over Skullcleaner's Southsyd Ork Warryorz. For that, you have our respect, as well as our thanks for defeating our common enemy. That does not change the fact that the Mighty Westside Klingons will not join the Floating Lotus Posse. You will not use our Dojo to smuggle your drugs or your weapons or your money, because the profits from those activities may go to fund our enemies. When we took the name Westside it means we stand against anything orc, and unless you are willing to take that oath as well, we have nothing further to discuss.”

San-Yi has his hand on his chin as in nodding mockingly. The anger is rising in his face. “Uh-huh, yeah, I see your point there. Interesting. Have you taken into account the fact that we’ll kill you? Did that, did that register at all? When you were spewing that bullshit? Hmm?”

Kolgoth sighs. “You have asked many times why we will not take the mantle of FLP, and join forces against our common enemies. And my response remains the same; if they were truly our common enemies, you would take the mantle of Westside. You would take an oath to perform no business with them, an oath to fight them, forever.”

San-Yi rolls his eyes loudly. “I just-we JUST tossed Skullcleaner’s salad, you think the Orks are gonna do business with us after that? Do you think we would even do business with them?”

Kolgoth’s silence speaks volumes.

“Look,” says San-Yi firmly. Kolgoth crosses his arms. “Lotus Posse isn’t Westie, never has been, never will be. Any dojo in this city is MY territory, period. I didn’t give a fuck when you were doing Tai-Chi, but when I hear the Mighty Westside Kucks are picking up swords-”

“Floating Lotus Pussies!” calls a Klingon voice, which San-Yi ignores.

“-then I say to myself,” San-Yi says to the room. “They gotta pay up. So, we can do this the easy way, or the fun way.”

“I vote the fun way,” calls the adolescent voice of President Shadowkill.

***

[Luci]

A gunfight is raging in an above-ground parking structure on the Westside.

A squadron of Westside Knife-Ear Warriors are hopping from car to car for cover, occasionally able to crack off a shot with a rifle in between sprays of blue plasma bursts from the Orkish gang.

Among the knife-ears is a young elven man with fiery red hair and a high-powered sniper rifle. His name is Radish.

Radish is crouched down behind the wheel of a Toyota Tundra on the second level. The Orks have only breach the perimeter, they are still stuck on the first level trying to fight their way up. If the Orks are able to get control of the parking structure, it would be a free avenue into the Westside.

Radish pivots out from behind the wheel of the Tundra and fires off a shot down to the first level, not wasting time using his scope. He has already ducked down behind the wheel of the Tundra again before the Orks body hits the floor.

He reloads and wonders what the fuck is going on.

***

Weasel, President of the Westside Hufflepunks, is definitely not panicking.

The young punk-rawk witch is storming around the Hufflepunk Hideout with her wand out, her red mohawk bouncing dangerously.

She stops in front of a graffiti painting of a window. Behind the window is a moving sky full of dark grey clouds. She taps the window with her wand and clears her throat.

“Flobberworm,” she says clearly into the window. “I need a report.”

She taps her foot impatiently, but the clouds do not clear.

Weasel is definitely not panicking.

***

Three powerfull gangsters are kneeling around a table in a dojo drinking Klingon tea.

San-Yi lifts his tea with both hands.

Kolgoth the Mighty uses just two fingers.

Shadowkill uses a silly-straw.

A deal has been made; now they are figuring out a price.

“And how much,” San-Yi muses. “Do the Deathblades pull in robbing kids of their lunch money?”

“Not much,” Shadowkill admits. His silence lingers.

San-Yi frowns. “What’s twenty percent of not much?”

Shadowkill leans back and eyes the Floating Lotus boss carefully.

“We don’t make money for the Westside,” says the adolescent gangster finally. “They pay us.”

“Hah!” barks San-Yi. “So what exactly do the Deathblades have to offer in exchange for Lotus training?”

Shadowkill shrugs. “We control the largest patch of territory of any gang in Tier-5.”

“What is the point,” San-Yi says, his head in his hand. “Of controlling territory that you aren’t making money off of?”

Shadowkill grins. “We control the territory, and ‘rent’ it to the Westside. They set up their businesses, and we get paid.”

San-Yi stares at him with an open mouth. “You’re fucking real-estate agents.”

“I know you are, but what am I?” asks Shadowkill pensively as he sips his tea through his silly straw.

“And the only way to rent out the territory-,” San-Yi says with growing horror.

“-is to join the Westside,” Kolgoth states bluntly, his baritone echoing around the tiny tea room.

San-Yi stares at his hands.

“The alternative is to have your back against the wall when the orks come knocking,” Shadowkill says casually. “But if you sign up, what we can offer is twenty percent off any territory in exchange for training the Deathblades.”

San-Yi stares at his hands.

***

In an unmarked van down the street from the dojo, two Imperial investigators are clutching headphones to their ears, listening intently. The two grizzled veterans, their pride as prickly as their stubble, somehow never found the courage to admit their love to each other. The entire Tier-5 gang investigation is actually a seething pool of repressed homosexuality channelled into indiscriminate violence. At least, if you ask the Westside.

“Alright,” comes the coarse voice of San-Yi through the headphones. “Where do I sign?”

The investigators drop their headphones, and scramble for the police radio.

The ensuing raid on the dojo nets fourteen arrests, including two Primes.

Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, is arrested on charges of money laundering, conspiracy to commit money laundering, and racketeering.

President Shadowkill of the Westside Deathblades is arrested on charges of delinquency, violating curfew, possession of a weapon with over 100 OM by a minor, racketeering, and resisting arrest.

San-Yi, President of the Westside Floating Lotus Posse, remains at large.

***

[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.

***