Maurice Broaddus - King's War

Anticipating that she was about to head butt him, Baylon slammed her into the ground, allowing his full weight to smash into her back when they landed. He shuffled out of the way, landing a fierce kick to her side. A rib cracked. He brought his fist down, a hammer blow to her mouth. Pain wracked her. White-hot tendrils of pain shot up her neck into her skull.

She regained her footing, then entangled his legs with hers. Omarosa clocked Baylon in the face. She crouched with a feline grace, her hands a blur of stiff finger strikes. Baylon deflected some of them, but with his sluggish movements, he appeared to think about each blow, choosing to defend himself only against every third one. She struck several nerve clusters along his arm. His left arm hung at his side, useless. Her leg snapped forward, landing first in his side, then at his head. That was it. Half-kneeling, Baylon was already defeated, even if his body hadn't fully accepted it. Omarosa retrieved her shotgun.

"Dred didn't deserve you," she said.

"That's what was so sad. I knew he didn't and I served him anyway."

The shotgun at the ready, she squeezed the trigger.

"The game doesn't have to be played this way. So many bodies. So many lives ruined. You're destroying our community."

"Acceptable losses. Collateral casualties. You are a weak king making grown-up decisions. Your choices can end lives. You are arrogant and unworthy. You lack the strengths, the will, to use power. You spent a lifetime repressing your emotions, thinking that was the best way to act. All you did was button it all away, let it eat at you from the inside, spilling out in ways you couldn't control. You should give yourself permission to hate. It's cathartic. Freeing. Energizing. It can give your life fuel and passion. You've got enough hate for both of us. I'm just sad. This whole place makes me just… sad."

Dred addressed his assembled crew. He wanted them to witness King's absolute humiliation and know that it came by Dred's hands alone. "The crown is not for dreamers or idealists. Artists nor politicians. But men of steel. Men don't want unity. They want leaders. People who know how to use power. You are a weak king. A weak king knows nothing of power and how to use it. If you want to be king, sometimes you have to be willing to take what's yours."

Dred swung a haymaker right to King's jaw, the blow rattling his head. The rush hit him like a junkie sending a load home. It got his head up. Dred threw another punch, hitting him on the other side of the face. The beating got to feeling good to him. With his right, he hooked King a few times to the kidneys then mirrored the attack with his left. King looked over to Nakia and silently took the beating.

"Do you think you're some hero, King?"

"No, I don't," he whispered.

"You lie. To me, if not to yourself."

"Not anymore. I know what it's like to be caught up in your pain, your hate, your vengeance. It blinds you. Gets in your head so deep you can't think straight. You lose track of who you are."

"Damn you, King." Dred punched him in the eye. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He never expected King to switch sides and run with him as his second. Nor did he think King would rollover and leave Indianapolis to him. He did, however, want King broken. To have him plead for his life, beg Dred to stop. To turn over his crown before his people and Dred's. Let them all see who the bigger man was. But each blow King took only haggled Dred's nerves.

"What do you think you're showing your people, your daughter right now?"

"That I won't always be here to fight their battles for them. That they have to be willing to fight them for themselves."

The shrill peal of laughter froze everyone to their spots. Dred craned about, trying to determine where the sound came from. Heavy footfalls encroached from the tree line ringing the site. In her full war paint, La Payasa was the first to step out of the dense foliage.

"Smile now, cry later," she cried out.

With a simple application of makeup, she was transformed from an introverted, depressed, lonely, suicidal young girl into La Payasa: an extroverted, quick-witted and funny, sought out, welcomed figure who was powerful, both listened to and respected. The blood rushed to her skin as she led her shirtless cholos into battle. The entire scene devolved into utter chaos. The addition of the cholos added to the pandemonia. Those few with guns couldn't shoot: between the night and the close press of bodies, there were no clear shots.

They weren't alone.

Pastor Winburn led a dozen of the Breton Court residents into the fray. Barbers, delivery men, teachers, they rallied behind Pastor Winburn and represent for their community. They weren't there to fight, but they were there to stand tall and let people know they weren't going to be packed out of their own neighborhood.

Wayne held a man in a headlock, trying to keep him from hurting anyone. All he could think about was how he had officially entered a gray area when it came to client interaction and dreaded the idea of having to do the paperwork at Outreach Inc. on this encounter.

Lott evaded the initial volley of punches. Noles' fist struck like a warhammer. Through a dew of sweat, Lott gripped his bat with two hands against the downward stroke. The force of the collision reverberated through the handle. Lott kicked him in his undefended mid-section, then spun the handle about, connecting with the man's jaw. He made sure he stayed down before he moved on. A breathless love threatened to sweep him up in its intensity and bent him into fury.

Tristan, La Payasa, and Percy dove into the rest of the crew. Punching at the air, swinging just to be swinging, hoping to clock someone. Spinning his arms, kind of keeping his guard up, ready to jab at any near target. A cloud of dust was caught in the moonlight, like ground fog, kicked up as they skirmished. Bringing a fist down, but having left his feet to deliver the blow, there was no power to it. Jerked out of the way of the wide arc of the bat's swing. Heavy thwack to his body as he was hit with a bat when he connected the next time.

Tristan followed through with a slashing movement, driving several of her attackers to La Payasa. Planting her heel to the back of his knee, she dropped him. She reeled backward, dodging the jabs of another boy, her slight figure dancing about, easily evading him before wandering back within range to lay him out with a couple of punches.

Lady G gagged on the taste of soot. Gasping for breath, she woke to the smell of smoke. Fire ate through walls. Flames blazed up around her. She grabbed handfuls of air, fought the urge to drift into it, to drop her hands and run into it. The layers of clothes with which she wrapped herself: a T-shirt featuring a panther wrapped by a cobra under a grimy, faded blue hoodie, under a jacket that had seen better days. No matter the temperature, she carefully selected her wardrobe in order to hide her shape. She hooded her eyes. Lady G made her way to Nakia. Pepper spray in one hand, the other clutched after the girl.

"You're safe, baby. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Are you a friend of my dad's?" Nakia asked.

"I am," Lady G said.

"You're pretty."

Police sirens wailed. Dred's crew scattered, running wild through the mini-woods. The copse of trees offered few hiding places as uniformed officers swooped in. A police helicopter circled above them. Cantrell and Lee, trailed by a film crew, led the officers into the melee.

As soon as the chaos erupted, King threw himself into Dred. The Caliburns flew free. King quickly scrambled for the nearest one. Dred slammed into a girder then hunted for the other gun. King whirred and began blasting at the shadow creatures. His bullets tore through them, a stream of light trailing in their trajectory. With a grotesque twist of their mouths, the wispy substance dissipated like fog in the morning sun against the cleaving magic of the Caliburn. The ebon vapor tendrils faded into nothingness. Dred's face contorted into a mask of hatred and madness, though his eyes remained those of a little boy lost. He spied the Caliburn and dove after it, finding cover behind a pallet of bricks.