“Looking back at it, picking out a few key events, it all sounds so easy, doesn’t it? So painless. In truth, it was a long and arduous affair. We toiled night and day and still we were nobodies. Our efforts to needle The Grey Wolf were almost laughable. Understandable I suppose, kill a man’s son and then expect him to get shaken by a few less coins in his purse? That’s a big ask. Pretty sure Lupus quickly decided we just got lucky with Marcus,” Polias massaged his numb leg, “Still, it was good for the recruits. it gave them a taste of success, just like Ultor said it would.”

---

“Is that them?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“I think that’s them.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, I’m not.”

“But you think so?”

“Maybe we should wait and see, yeah?”

“What, you mean you want to wait until they leave?”

“Yeah.”

“And then if it is them?”

The gangly teenager, Zane, considered this for a moment, “Good point. Maybe someone should go and check.”

Felix massaged his eyes in the back seat, thoroughly tired of listening to these two clowns bicker once again, “Gentlemen, I think we can assume that three tattooed oafs going into a lingerie store are not there to pick out a nice little frilly number. Don’t you agree?”

“They might be in there picking up something for their girlfriend,” Patrick speculated.

Patrick spoke like he looked. He was a decidedly plain man, with soft features and short chestnut hair. Everything about Patrick Taylor screamed ordinary, inconspicuous, and, above all, mediocre.

“The same girlfriend, Levis?” Felix mocked, addressing Patrick by his assigned moniker.

Patrick’s ears turned red by way of answer.

“And, since we can probably rule out the possibility that they are a cross-dressing burlesque troupe, I suggest we get a move on.”

“Right,” Zane ‘Spes’ Sother breathed, clearly psyching himself up.

The three exited the car with varying degrees of determination.

“After you, Falcis,” Patrick stepped aside for Felix.

The name was growing on Felix, though he found it mildly tasteless. Whilst most of his brethren had been allotted names which reflected some kind of quality they wished to exemplify, Felix’s name referred to his favored weapon, a sickle shaped blade, and his ruthless application of the tool. It was a tad barbaric for his tastes, but it was a good deal better than the name his companions had originally selected, ‘Lacero’.

As they entered the soft glow of the building’s interior, passing through a thin, red satin curtain, they spied two of the goons propped indolently against the till. The third ‘customer’ was nowhere to be seen. The cashier was also absent.

Felix regarded his surroundings, a bitter on his face. A pretty, raven haired girl was nervously taking stock in the far right corner, one eye darting rapidly between Felix and the earlier arrivals. She was stacking various colorful and bizarre looking devices on a low shelf. The objects had an impossible number of appendages. Felix grimaced as he involuntarily thought of the practical application of such items.

“Filthy,” Falcis whispered vehemently.

The two tattooed-men turned to face the newcomers, straightening slightly. They gave a distinct impression of deliberate calm.

Falcis breathed in deeply, puffed out his chest, and tilted his head back fractionally. He looked down at the taller men past his beaklike nose. It was a look he wore effortlessly.

“You’re late, gentlemen,” Felix’s tone was indignant.

The mobsters eyed one another, clearly confused.

“The Grey Wolf grows weary of your tardiness,” Felix continued, “He expects deliveries to be made promptly, and he expects those who fail him to grovel for their pitiful lives, or else see that they are forfeit.”

Falcis couldn’t help but wonder how much of what he was saying could actually be understood by the apish zoo animals before him.

There were more baffled exchanges and then the older of the two spoke up.

“We ain’t never been late. We pay nice and promp’, every time. We ain’t due to see Camble till nex’ week.”

Camble.

“No, gentlemen, you were paying nice and ‘promp’, but now, you are late. Don’t you know there is a war going on out there? The Grey Wolf has lost his dear, beloved son, God rest his soul, and demands satisfaction. We do not want The Grey Wolf angry now, do we? Until such a time as his thirst for vengeance has been slaked, I for one do not wish to displease him. Do you?’ Felix spoke slowly, as if to children.

Both men gave this a moment’s thought and then shook their heads emphatically.

“Precisely. And, if The Grey Wolf says that payments need to be made weekly from now on, in order to fund the noble search for his son’s brutal murderers, then the Grey Wolf will not be left disappointed. Do I make myself clear?”

The second man spoke up this time, his voice hoarse from decades of smoking, “Kuzo has what we got today; he’s just dealing with the tart at the moment. She’s always a bit tricky. Likes to try and hold back on us.”

Felix looked impatient and made a show of checking his watch, “Where have you covered so far? Finished your rounds of East Cabernay yet? What about the Crook? North Eiken?’ he hoped his informants had been worth the investment. Even with three different tip-offs, Falcis knew that he would be operating largely on guesswork.

“We covered East Cabernay earlier this week, and the Crooks last. North Eiken is Sable Guard territory nowadays, you not heard? Guess it don’t matter all that to the Wolf. Money’s his either way. We got Locklen done too, and the Cathay District. Reckon that will be enough to keep him off our backs for a week?” the first speaker asked.

“It’s too much ground,” grumbled the second, “We can’t do a month’s worth of collections in a week!”

“Then maybe The Grey Wolf’s faith in you was misplaced. Maybe he would be better off entrusting the task to the Reapers, the Red Dragons, or even Cornello’s men?”

“Ah, fuck off; those gothic pricks can’t even hold their own dicks without help. I hear they’re losing hold of their precious Channels. That whole area is gonna get swallowed by Malloy’s lot.”

Bingo.

“You can’t tell me Lupus reckons them over us?” the first agreed.

The Channels was the name of a large trading region in the east of the city. Decades ago, when tensions between the major metropolises were not so high, Tartarus’ governors had thought to construct major waterways throughout the city. The idea was to bolster trade and to try and pump some money back into The Pits. The powers that be soon grew bored of cordial inter-city relations, though, and were back at each other’s throats in no time. The commerce war took on a different face then. Citywide wealth became unimportant, and instead it became a pissing contest between the senators and politicians of each side. From what Felix had heard, Tartarus won the ‘whose senators have the flashiest penthouse competition’, but if they didn’t, he was sure he would have been told the same.

The canals of The Channels never even got filled. Instead, they became a haven for the city’s refugees, entrepreneurs, opportunists and homeless. People flocked to them in their droves, and with people, ironically, came trade.

The ‘Channels Colonists’ succeeded in setting up a thriving market district, with thousands of stalls lining the trenches of the disused waterways. Being effectively at the bottom of a gutter, the shops and eateries of The Channels were mostly mobile, prefab affairs. They had to be quick and easy to reconstruct whenever the rains hit. After each flood, a panic would follow as cutthroat businessmen tried frantically to advance themselves by relocating to one of the more desirable spots. It was a mad grab to get a hotspot in the Grand Rift, the main thoroughfare, and each year thousands left disappointed, forced to settle in one of the dank estuaries until the next big storm. Many of them didn’t make it that long. The only winner of the circus was whichever gang controlled the territory. They leased patches of dirt and concrete at extortionate prices, and lined their pockets with preposterously large bribes.

Malloy was a big player, a syndicate kingpin like The Grey Wolf, not just any old gangster. If Malloy took control of the Channels then The Grey Wolf would certainly feel the pain. This might be the break the Vigilantes had been waiting for.

“Hang about,” The older one cut in, “Since when is Cornello back in The Grey Wolf’s good books? Would have thought he’d have strung him up for taking South Eiken and The Hovels over to Sakoji.”

“I meant whoever holds The Hub, Inglo and Osterly. Is that not Cornello?’ Falcis brushed the slip aside. He was pushing his luck now, and knew he would have to rein it in soon. The brutes were stupid, but probably not that stupid.

“The Hub is Snow Wolf territory, everyone knows that. Inglo is split between a dozen groups, mostly little nippers finking to make it big. Osterly ain’t ours either. You been living in a hole or what? ‘ere, where is Camble anyway?” there was agitation in the man’s voice.

“You’ve been very helpful, gentlemen,” Falcis spoke hurriedly, “The Grey Wolf will be most pleased with your cooperation. There is just one quick matter. What have you learned of his son’s killers? You have of course been searching diligently. I presume?”

Felix regained his composure, speaking with authority and a hint of accusation. To his pleasure, the reply came sheepishly.

“’Course we’ve been looking out, ‘gov, but this bloke’s been doing a good job of hiding.”

“Yeah, cowardly sort he is, ‘gov,” the second man insisted.

“We heard a few things, but they all came up dry. There was a few busts over in the Channels, but that turned out to be Ravens. There was a bank job in Orkney, but that was just a bunch of freebooters. They got nailed by the Lucky 7s anyway. Couple more bust ups in North Eiken and Cathay, but nothin’ solid.”

Felix was satisfied. A few of the disturbances had indeed been caused by Ultor and his followers, but it seemed the enemy was no closer to tracking them. All in all, it had been a very fruitful day of intelligence gathering.

Now to reward his hard work.

Felix turned to Spes and Levis, “Now remember, initiates, don’t feel compelled to fight fair. Chivalry is an undesirable trait in a dead man.”

Zane and Patrick swallowed simultaneously, nodded, and then pulled out their knives.

“Oh, and boys,” he stopped them, smiling wryly, “try and have fun with it.”

The two vigilantes sprinted the short distance to their marks. As one they stabbed and hacked at the oldest goon, who died before he even had a chance to process the turn of events. Then, together, they rounded on the second man, taking probing jabs and small skirmishes, before finally wounding him enough so they could close in and finish the job.

Meanwhile, Felix had strolled over to where the shop assistant now crouched, cowering in the corner. He eyed her briefly, disinterested, and then nosed around the products on display. Tentatively, he picked up one of the bizarre items he had spied earlier.

“Just what on earth is this?” he asked casually.

The girl’s lip trembled.

A pimple faced man and an ageing cougar, clad in a corset and stockings, came bursting through a door at the back of the shop. The man was brandishing an iron rod and had a satchel slung over the other shoulder. His peach-hued skin contrasted with his menacing look.

“Ah, Kuzo, I presume.”

Kuzo spun to meet Felix, noticing him for the first time. He levelled his weapon before spotting the revolver resting casually at Falcis’ side. He let his arm go limp.

“I would love to have a little chat.”

---

Falcis scrubbed his hands in the large basin, whistling cheerfully. When he was done, he retrieved a sad, coarse rag from the side rack and dried his hands meticulously. He replaced the cloth neatly, folding it twice. His ablutions complete, he hoisted the satchel over his shoulder and give it a loving pat before making for the exit.

Patrick caught a glimpse of the carnage in the room beyond as the door swung shut behind his beaming superior. For the past forty-five minutes they had been serenaded by a chorus of muffled cries and pitiful moans. Zane stood to attention, his complexion still pale following his vomiting bout earlier.

Felix studied their faces calmly, “Something amiss?” following Patrick’s gaze he noticed a few flecks of blood on his pale blue tie, “Oh bother,” was all he said as he thumbed the stain ineffectually. Shrugging, he gave up, “Shall we, gentlemen?”

Falcis led the way towards the rouge-curtained entrance.

He halted in his tracks when he caught a livid expletive from the owner.

“Fucking thugs.”

Felix turned on the woman, “Oh?”

“I said,” her teeth were bared between ruby-red lips, “fucking. Thugs.”

Falcis looked pointed back at the slaughter chamber where he had spent the best part of an hour plying his trade, “Did you not just witness-”

She spat, “And what? Either you kill me now or those cunts kill me tomorrow when they come to rob me blind again. They’ll skin me alive for treachery when they notice these idiots didn’t check in. The only satisfaction I’ll get is knowing that the next time you come to collect your fucking ‘dues’ you’ll be met by corpses and the barrel of a waiting gun. Well? Go on then. I’ve had e-fucking-nough of it.”

“Fortunately for you, the man I answer to sees no reason to extort your little, playhouse,” Felix wrinkled his nose as he looked around, “From now on, you will receive your protection for free. Perhaps some gratitude wouldn’t go amiss?”

“What exactly do I have to thank you for?” she waved at the corpses Patrick and Zane had politely dumped in the corner, “Want to help? Piss off and leave us alone. They’re not just going to let you waltz in here and stomp on their bit of profit. Best you can do is never come near my ‘playhouse’ again.”

Most men would have thought the brunette attractive, despite being some ways past her prime, but Felix saw her as just another distasteful representative of a world gone wrong.

“To be quite frank, my dear, I don’t care about you in the lightest. Not you, not the little hussy who works for you, not anyone even remotely like you. You got yourself into this situation when you signed up for a life of debauchery. What consequences come with it, they should be yours to bear without fuss or complaint.

“There are those I work with who may think that your soul can still be fished from the abyss of corruption, but personally I count you with the gum on the streets and the graffiti on the walls; you are nothing but a dirty nuisance. Make no mistake, you are a pawn in our plans. Say what you will but change is coming, and we will be the ones to bring it. Best you pick the right side when it does,” at that, with a pseudo-polite nod, Falcis parted the curtain and exited into the cool twilight.

Zane and Patrick lingered for a moment, shuffling awkwardly on the spot, before following. Zane fixed looked at the backroom door a final time, and exited swiftly. Patrick gave the lady an apologetic look, faltering as he debated whether or not to voice his shame, then hurriedly followed.

---

“Would you cheer the fuck up man? God you’re depressing me. You’ve got a damn permanent face of thunder nowadays,” Anthony looked away from his brother in disgust, taking a sip from a Styrofoam cup.

They were sitting at the window of a busy coffee shop, side by side behind a tall counter. Ultor had given Paul and Anthony leave to spend the afternoon as they pleased, which had proven a surprisingly challenging task. After some walking around deliberating, they decided to rest their no-where near aching legs, and formulate an itinerary.

Libertas sighed and stared at his reflection in the glass.

“I don’t know, Anthony. I just don’t see much to smile about nowadays. I don’t see how you and Simon can do it, you know? Clock off as if it’s just another day at work.”

“Well, if I didn’t, I would be walking around looking like you. Then I’d be twice as bloody miserable. Come to think of it, Simon’s fucking sour nowadays as well. He’s got a look like he wants to bore holes through you. Probably does.”

“Must take after his brother.”

They both laughed.

“Ok, what say we finish these and get ourselves a couple of real drinks? We’ll slam down a few tequilas and head over to Carnaby’s for some darts and some of that varnish he sells as beer. We can top it all off with a lap dance and a piss in the fountain, just like old times. What do you say?”

“I say it’s two in the afternoon. Besides, Carnaby’s is still shut. They haven’t cleared up yet after Furs and Dico shot the place up last week,” he said the names of his colleagues with obvious loathing.

Furs had been aptly named; the weasel-esque, detestable little man was, as the name suggested, a former thief. His appointment was a confusing one. Hedid not fit the profile of the rest of Ultor’s crew. The man was quick to anger and had a foul mouth, and rancid body odour to boot. It was clear to everyone but the dim-witted man himself that Ultor had designs for the wretch, or else he would have long since crushed the whelp like the pest he was.

Dico, on the other hand, was a large man with a great bellowing voice. He had been a construction worker before he was made redundant. Facing yet another year of unemployment, the builder had signed up with Ultor as the lesser of two evils. The man was brash, with very simple needs, and a sense of humour to match. As far as Dico was concerned, if he could see a naked woman, have a drink, and watch some slapstick TV, then all was right with the world. For all his short comings, Dico had a warm enough heart and mostly good intentions, but he was impressionable, and prone to giving in to peer pressure.

Finding the rat faced Furs amusing, Dico had latched on to the fool and allowed himself to be party to one or two misdirected acts of ‘public service’. It seemed Furs had very different view of right and wrong to the rest of the world, and could seldom see two foot past his own pointed, sniveling nose. The two of them had been scolded several times for their brash behaviour, but so far none of the vigliantes had despised them enough to bring their actions to the attention of Ultor, Polias or Falcis.

Anthony was crestfallen, ‘Ah, man! I really liked that place.”

“Get used to it. Haven’t you heard? The whole world is going to shit, remember?’

“Yeah, and we’re the ones taking it there,” Anthony chucked back his coffee, smacking his lips as he swallowed the dregs, “Man, I miss not giving a shit.”

Paul leaned on his elbow, nestling his hand in the mess of brown hair he had grown out. Short for so long, his fringe now rested at his eyebrows. He twisted a drooping cone out of the straight but scruffy strands which protruded ridiculously from the side of his head, held in place by three-day-old gel.

As they watched the gloomy street in front of them, daylight meaning very little down in The Pits, a man burst from a convenience store opposite, to the cries of an aggravated clerk.

Libertas snorted, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s always been shit, and we just can’t ignore it anymore.”

Anthony stood up, tossing his empty cup at the bin and missing, “Or maybe he’s just pissed because mum and dad loved me best,” Anthony smiled, “Come on, let’s go get shit faced.”

---

“Well?” Hannover unintentionally grilled the constable in front of him.

The older man was un-phased. A lifetime of speaking up to people had taught him his place.

“Well, you appear to be right, Sergeant. There does seem to be a greater deal of activity down in The Pits.”

“How the hell would we even know?” Hannover vented, thumbing through reams of documents, “It looks like we’ve turned a blind eye for the past seven bloody decades,’ he slammed his file shut and leaned back in his chair, calloused fingers resting on his temples.

“Might I ask why the sudden interest, sir? The affairs of The Pits have never bothered you in the past.”

The young officer nodded regretfully, “And more fool me. Hardly seems like fine policing, does it? We’ve put or best foot forward and just hopped along merrily.”

Constable Taget clearly felt that his question had not been adequately answered, “What I mean is, sir - hardly seems getting yourself all upset about now. Fights and arguments are in the nature of those Pit sorts. First thing they taught me when I was a recruit was that we police the people. If ever we wanted to see order come to The Pits then we would have to wait for the dog wranglers to start pulling their weight. It’s a zoo down there, sir, no place for civilized sorts,” Taget had that ‘My mother always used to say…’ tone to his voice.

“So I keep hearing,” Hannover grunted, “Something big is coming though, Constable. I’m sure of it. And when it rears its ugly head, I’m damn sure we won’t be able to ignore it anymore.”

---

Falcis could barely contain his excitement as he related to Ultor all that he had learned. Polias was not particularly fond of the man or his methods, but he had to admit that he was adept at gathering information.

Levis and Spes had regained some of their colour now, and looked a little more comfortable in Falcis’ presence. Upon Felix’s insistence, the three had marched directly to Ultor and now explained their latest revelations to him and Polias, in the sanctuary and solitude of that dim office Ultor so often frequented.

Spes was eager to make it look like they had all had an equal share in Falcis’ success, and so spoke with unusual fervour, “Malloy is a vicious bastard, but he’s a businessman. If we have something to offer then he will take us seriously. From what I’ve heard, he’s pretty good to his word.”

“And what better to offer than the head of The Grey Wolf?” Polias mused, “Still, pretty good to his word or not, an alliance is very risky.”

“I’m not saying we trust him, I’m just thinking we might get the chance to stab him before he stabs us.”

“Just ignore immorality then, shall we?” Zane said, dodging a betrayed scowl from Patrick.

“Never mind that for now. There is a greater issue at hand. This isn’t just a personal crusade against The Grey Wolf, this is a war on injustice. As such, do we really aid our cause by just shifting the balance of power?” Ultor admonished, “What we take from The Grey Wolf we can’t simply give to Malloy. We will not trade one evil for another.

“We’re going to need to be clever. The Grey Wolf holds some pivotal territory, which will prove highly valuable and tempting to any of his competitors. We need to play them against one another. We’ll offer Malloy an agreement, an alliance in exchange for the Wolf’s turf. He won’t believe for a second that we will make good on this arrangement, but we’ll have him hooked so long as he thinks he can take from us more easily then he can form the Wolf.”

Ultor was distracted by a commotion in the chamber below. Following the gaze of his disgruntled party, he spied the cause of the consternation. A rectangle of light had appeared at the front end of the warehouse. Framed by the harsh phosphor lamps of the outside world, stood a boy. The others joined him at the window, each holding their breath as they did.

“Shit,” Patrick uttered, then raced down the stairwell behind Falcis, who had started well ahead of him.

As the room emptied, Ultor calmly opened the window, and waited.