We all followed behind Captain Till, I was sour to see that no one else got a shove or urging from that dick-bag Tristan. But soon we were outside, annoying white fluffy clouds blotting out the sun and turning this into a dreary gray day. This whole place reeked of rust and piss, and I was more than ready to leave.

The four lieutenants of the Fourth Division arranged themselves in a line to either side of the captain. Letting their squads divide into loose groupings before our officer. I stood stiffly, aware of the size difference between my squad and the others—Tristan ran a squad with roughly fifteen people. The second closest was a squad of eight.

Didn’t know if it was unusual or not, different divisions and squads served their different purposes. Till broke out into an easy smile. “We have quite a task today,” he shook his head, gesturing for us to break our loose formation and gather closer. A quick nod from our lieutenants, and we complied. Till rubbed his eyes. “Anyone got coffee? Energy drink maybe? No? Shoot.”

“I’ll send someone,” Tristan promised.

“Ah, wonderful, thanks. I have a feeling this will take a lot out of me.” Tristan coldly pointed at the thug next to me, not even bothering to voice the command. The thug went pale and ran off, boots slamming on the pavement.

“Took off so quick, you’re treating them fine, aren’t you Tristan?” Till gave us a fond smile. “Good warriors are hard to come by.” The captain rested his hands behind his head, meeting several of our eyes. “This will be dangerous. The Viceroy usually doesn’t get involved unless blood needs to be spilled. Likely, this is the start of a war. Preferably, we’d be staying out of this. But, I don’t make the rules or plans.”

“We’re eager to prove ourselves, and the Viceroy made it quite clear she is watching, Captain,” Tristan said.

“There’s more to life than brutal fights.” Till set a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, causing my lieutenant to scowl. Even if he didn’t vocalize the complaint. “All of the divisions will be hitting separate safe houses and those that pay protection to the Crimson Eagles in the Rust Docks. Our division will be taking a more direct role to piss them off—hitting their customs shop, and torching their bikes; they’ll converge on us, and then our guys will hit them from behind after finishing their jobs.”

The whole crowd went silent. Fucking up someone’s bike was just as bad as shagging their girlfriend. Pissing them off didn’t fully describe how angry they’d get. It’d work to pull them to us, sure. But once they got to us? All bets were off the table. Our captain spread out his hands, face apologetic.

“We’ll have to hold out for the rest of our gang to finish their jobs. Then they’ll come and turn the tide. I’ll lead the charge. Out of any division, our role is the most vital to this operation—meaning, we’ll receive the most recognition from the Viceroy. High risk, high reward.” That, I could get on board with.

“Why didn’t the role get placed onto the Seventh Division? They’re suitable sacrifices.” Tristan asked.

“I volunteered. We stand the best chance at this sort of operation, if it were the Seventh Division, this would be less of a holdout, and more of a slaughter. The less wounded on our side, the better once this thing escalates further. Besides, impressing the Viceroy gives us a better position. We’re the finest the Brass Kings have to offer—I believe in you all.”

A cheer went out across the crowd, the tense unease replaced with the same breezy confidence that Captain Till radiated. An infectious mindset, that was why praises for him often radiated through his ranks. I held my doubts but knew better than to voice them. Nobody would abide by questioning his decisions. And personally, high-risk high rewards suited my style fine.

“Tristan, I want you by my side for the majority of this mission. You’ve got a solid mind for strategy, and I’ll need it.” He clapped his hands once. “Well then! No use standing around. Bikes, everyone. Pull around front!”

The lieutenants barked out their commands, and people ran left and right. Jogging to their bikes, and hopping on. I asked around, seeing if anyone would let me ride double. Everyone in my squad turned me down. The others in the division too. Fuck. Really? Am I a goddamn pariah? Tristan watched with bored eyes, sitting on his luxury ride, sick decals of demons replacing any paint job that might’ve been there. “Failure to follow directions leads to punishment.”

“I don’t gotta bike.”

“Buy one.”

“Right, I’ll just go and do that right now, with all the money I obviously don’t have—are you out of your fucking mind!?”

Tristan shrugged. “Not my problem.” Revving his engine once before slowly taking off to pull around the front of the warehouse. Out of anyone’s bike, I wanted to kick his over the most. I booked it to the front. Would they just leave me here? Violent punishment aside, I was looking forward to thrashing some Crimson Eagles.

I reached the crew of people on their stupid fucking bikes. Each of them taunting me with their various metallic sheens and custom jobs. None of my division met my eyes.

“Where’s your bike?” Till asked from his slate-toned chopper, a decal of a king riding a horse on its side. Our captain gave Tristan a confused look, but my lieutenant pretended not to see.

“Don’t got one.”

“No one offered to double?”

This time my lieutenant stopped his pretending since the captain wasn’t looking in his direction. Catching my eye, he drew a finger across his throat, then threw me a smirk. A promise of repercussions if I snitched. “Naw, didn’t ask anyone.” I bit my tongue. Didn’t wanna dig a deeper hole, or drag anyone else into my problems.

“Well. That’s just fine. Hop on mine, for now, you’ll get one soon enough,” Captain Till gave a nod and smile, out of the corner of my eye I saw a hateful glare from Tristan.

Bit awkward, but I was in a bind anyway. So I took him up on the offer. Besides, though I didn’t know much about Till, other than everyone liked him, and he seemed fine enough. Soon the last squad member rolled in with his bike—tossing a can of Pure Heavenly Energy to Captain Till, who downed it in a gulp. I winced. I had some painful headaches due to the absurd caffeine loaded in those, but he just gave a satisfied smile.

We were off quick, a pack riding on the road. Warriors headed to battle. Weaving in and out of what little traffic was in the Rust Docks—getting looks of fear from pedestrians. Occasionally clanging broken pipes across the ground as we sped on, flinging up sparks and roaring in anger.

The charged atmosphere and power of the gang enthralled us all. We were headed to a battlefield. Like the legends of old cultivators and warriors. It almost had the same edge as gambling, my Soul Seed radiated joy, digging into the feeling.

The Rust Docks rushed by, passing through broken buildings into a part of the district which housed the remainder of this place. More people to see, often hard faces. Not all of Rust Docks held a sparse population, small portions still thrived with life. Like fungus growing on rotted wood.

The Crimson Eagles deserved punishment. An assault on a captain demanded a show of force or the Brass Kings would be the laughing stocks of the streets.

We crossed into the Crimson Eagle turf—one of their runners giving shouted in alarm and ducked off to make a phone call. Till saw it, his grin wide as forty bikes pulled up outside a large garage with a few sets of rolling doors. A few Crimson Eagles loitered outside, swearing loudly before running into the shop to barricade.

“Fourth Division! Who rules these streets!?” Till yelled out, climbing off his bike.

“The Brass Kings!” we shouted out, bikes revving and flooding the street with burning rubber and smoke.

“Whose blood we spilling today?”

“Crimson Eagles!”

“Well then! Show them their place!” Till lifted a fist to the sky, and the engines cut off. An accompaniment of cheers—then shouting from the lieutenants.

Tristan loudly called, “My squad, on the captain!” I got off the bike, hardly feeling the pain, even though I should’ve. I licked my cracked lips, wanting to rip those flimsy garage doors wide and trash their shit.

I wasn’t the only one eager to get started—one of the squads hauled a trash can, tossing it through a window into the motor shop. Didn’t even bother with the barricaded door. Brass Kings flooded after, a tide of black and brass piercing through the meager defense of the Crimson Eagles.

Think our squad was a bit pissed about being held back. Tristan surveyed the scene, watching the other three squads take control of the situation. In moments, the garage doors shuddered open, one after another, and revealed about twenty bikes filling the interior. I whistled. Each of them a gem, though some had ugly eagle decals, I bet they’d come off easy enough. Seemed a fucking waste we’d be torching the lot of them.

The six Crimson Eagles that’d been here before us were now beat to a pulp. One unlucky bastard was on the ground leaking blood from his skull.

“Bring them out to the streets!” Till commanded, and then we finally got orders. I ran up and assisted another guy to haul a bike to the road, centering them. By now we’d gathered a bit of a crowd. Adults and natives to the Rust Docks. Though, I wasn’t particularly worried about someone ratting us out to the Sects. They were nominally the enforcement of the city, but very rarely handled crimes in unimportant districts to them. Out here, only the Segreto’s approval mattered.

Till paced in front of a line of our enemies’ rides. He threw his head back and laughed. Something began to slink up from his shadow—making me jump. Large hands erupted from the darkness, as a creature dragged itself free from the ground. A muzzle followed by shaggy black hair as it came free—at least six feet tall, and with two vicious claws on either side. Shit. His Manifested Soul? Till gestured at the bikes. The creature threw itself forward with a roar, vicious fangs chomping on a nearby gas tank.

Its claws were even more deadly—rending metal with a swipe as it dove from chopper to chopper. Tearing apart the bikes in a whirl of vicious and raw power. Shrieks as metal was rent, and gasps from the onlooking crowd.

We all knew Souls could be powerful, hell everyone in this world did. But it was something else to watch one in action. Gasoline drenched the road as it tore through the twenty bikes, targeting the gas tanks above all else. As it finished the last—the Manifested Soul melted into the shadow of the nearby building.

Till smirked, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. One of the lieutenants walked up—holding a stripped Crimson Eagle jacket out towards the captain. Till nodded, and leaned the lighter forward, catching the jacket on fire.

With a wave of his hand, the lieutenant tossed the lit jacket on one of the bikes. Spreading in a blaze in a beautiful bloom of chaos. Till looked at his phone, even as the fires began to rise and sooty black smoke caused the idiots standing to hack up their lungs. “I’m proud of you all! This is where we show just how strong we are! Prepare for a fight!”

Once again we ordered in line behind the captain, his attention swapping between either side of the street. Tension rising like the calm before the coming storm. My blood heated up. No doubt about it. I tasted it in the air. This whole thing was a gamble—the Viceroys, Tills—didn’t matter. Dice were rolling on the table. I felt it. I clenched my fist, not able to feel a single bit of my pained body. Adrenaline was a miracle drug.

Shouts erupted, the thrum of bike engines as our spectators scrambled. Packs of Crimson Eagles barreling in from either direction, their faces painted in rage. And they kept pouring. Almost double our numbers. Till frowned, grabbing a torn-off handlebar. “If we fall back, fall back to the garage!” he rose the piece of junk metal in the air. We’d begun.