And that wasn’t the end of today’s events!
A couple hours later, once it had already started getting dark (I realized with a shock that I’d spent about five hours in that training trance…
and twenty-seven minutes, and forty seconds — damn internal clock!), the roar of engines erupted from both ends of my street, followed by the screech of hard braking.
My neighborhood was pretty quiet, or so I’d always thought, and here we had noise like this coming from both ends of the street at once…
it was interesting, to say the least.
So I didn’t even mind limping up to the second floor, since the view from the first was blocked by the stone fence surrounding the property.
After that, along with one “mother hen” of mine, I got to watch about six people spill out from opposite ends of the street, out of matching black cars of different makes — one a vintage number nobody ordinary had driven in about twenty years, since owning one just isn’t status-appropriate anymore, and the other, by contrast, a brand-new, semi-sporty model.
Out of the one dressed up as vintage came men in dark suits, some even in hats, a few in warm overcoats matching their outfits, while out of the other spilled…
genuine, straight-up thugs, as far as I could tell.
A few odd exchanged looks and…
I honestly couldn’t tell how or why, but a full-blown shootout broke out on my peaceful little street!
Shadow Kings of New York, have you people completely lost it?
What, Harlem wasn’t good enough for you anymore?
What the hell brought you to this neighborhood?
No, I get it, technically every neighborhood belongs to somebody, but a gang skirmish practically under my window?
How is that even a thing?
It didn’t last long, though, and soon enough the surviving mob winners, having gunned down all the hoodlums, got rounded up by…
the National Guard, of all things, swarming the entire street!
What the hell?!?
Wasn’t it supposed to be the police showing up here…
late, as usual?!
Though the police did show up too, eventually.
After which the surviving criminals were rounded up; the ones who turned out alive but wounded got cuffed and loaded into the arriving ambulance.
The ones who no longer needed anything got zipped into black bags.
I didn’t keep tabs on their further fate, too busy wrestling my pizza back down from my stomach, which had tried to make a return appearance at the sight of the corpses.
I won this round — growing beyond myself, indeed.
A couple more events like this near me, or actually involving me (which I’d very much like to avoid), and I might just stop reacting altogether.
After conferring with the soldiers, the police headed toward the nearby houses to interview residents (maybe someone saw something, heard something, knew something about the two gangs’ motives), including my house.
To my credit, answering with almost no tremor in my voice, I managed to conduct a perfectly respectable conversation with the police officer, under the curious glances of National Guard soldiers occasionally peering over at these interviews, and to part ways politely, taking down his phone number in case I remembered anything else or something else happened, with instructions to contact him immediately if so.
Standard procedure, as far as I could tell — pretty much the same thing was playing out at the house across the street.
And yeah…
maybe I should just move neighborhoods, screw it?
I don’t need gang territory disputes happening right under my window!
Though I do feel a fresh surge of motivation to keep developing myself!
Quite the surge, too!
My life is basically keeping me in shape by sheer force of circumstance!
I hadn’t even finished processing everything when the phone rang.
“Yes, Uncle Russell.
I’m fine, how did you…
oh, contacts in the military.
Yeah, they really were here, strange as that is.
By the way, I’ve read through the documents and I’d like to meet up.
Say, early January.
Yes, all right, and merry belated Christmas to you too, take care,” I hung up the phone.
Right, “contacts”…
though, he had no way of knowing I’d already read the documents — if he had, he’d have phrased it differently.
Still, the speed of his response is impressive — barely an hour had passed since the whole thing started, the information hadn’t even leaked into the official news yet, and he already knew.
Maybe one of his “contacts” (read: business partners) was somewhere in the command structure of the Guard unit that showed up here?
Hm, entirely possible.
“Wouldn’t it be more logical to meet with your relative in the coming days, in order to ask him your questions?” 2B asked, her voice utterly devoid of interest.
The mere fact of the question hints at some curiosity and interest on her part, but her tone…
kills any thought in that direction stone dead.
“It just has to be this way…” — though there’s no point hiding anything from her, seeing as she was literally summoned by this very power, so I might as well explain it in full — “you see, every month I can obtain…
or pull, it’s complicated, since even I don’t fully understand this power myself.
Basically, I can summon various things to myself — objects, abilities, or people from other universes — but only a limited amount per month, and…
I have zero control over it.
This month I’ve already used up my limit on that power.
But I don’t know what to expect from my relatives, or whoever’s standing behind them, which is why I picked next month…” “So that your ability can recharge, and before the meeting you can pull something again in the hope of getting something useful, the way you got me this time,” Yorha finished the thought for me when I trailed off (while walking over to the couch — my overworked body was making itself known).
“Not just you.
The martial art I was practicing today isn’t from this world either,” I answered honestly, if without extraneous detail.
“Acknowledged.” That was the entirety of her reaction.
Sigh, sometimes I wish for a slightly more emotional conversation partner.
A bit later.
The Grey-Haired Man.
Oh, how one of New York’s crime lords hated bad news — and having to literally buy two of his own men back out of police custody, while burying four others, was most definitely that kind of news.
And you’d think it was such a simple job, one that could’ve been handled easily and without leaving a single trace; honestly, one man would’ve sufficed.
But the Grey-Haired Man always, in everything, preferred to play it safe.
Which at least let him get the full picture of what happened from his surviving subordinates.
“Same as always, barreling through without looking where he’s going — no wonder they call him Bruiser.
He wants a war?
He’ll get one,” the old man hissed with displeasure.
“So what are we going to do about the kid?” asked one of his subordinates — reasonably loyal, not especially bright (or he’d have hidden his ambitions toward the Grey-Haired Man’s position better), but pretty sturdy — literally so: Hardhead could break through a brick wall with his skull, and even setting his forehead aside, he was fairly strong and experienced both with weapons and in hand-to-hand combat.
“Then you’ll handle him.
Personally!
But in a couple of days, once the fuss around this dies down a little,” — the universe confirmed once again that no good deed goes unpunished, and that someone really shouldn’t have reminded his boss of the original objective.
As for the Grey-Haired Man himself, having given the order, he’d nearly forgotten about the kid instantly — far more important business and much bigger problems loomed ahead of him.
The war with Bruiser was going to demand resources, some of which he’d need to source elsewhere.
Or maybe he should line up some allies?
There was this one mutant who had a grudge against Bruiser.
Well, there were probably more than one, in all likelihood, but this particular one had already made a name for himself in the criminal underworld.
And he’d look pretty good in the role of a pawn…
ahem, an ally.
Around the same time.
Bruiser.
“That damn old man just won’t quit!” Having received word of the failed job that the former crime king of New York — still a thorn in his side even now — had barged into, Fisk slammed his fist on the table.
The table did not survive the abuse, which did nothing to improve the mood of the “Shadow King of New York.” “Right, clean up the wounded one, no trail can lead back to me!
As for that company’s little heir…
pull Rhino off his current assignment and send him to swat that fly, warn him he might run into the Grey-Haired Man’s people there.
And in the meantime, I’ll remind that old man his time is over!” Bruiser barked out orders over the internal comms.
After which he started dialing another one of his subordinates — time to check how the project meant to remove another pest bothering him was coming along.
Or should I say — a little spider?