The meeting was held deep beneath the city, in one of the safer chambers of the Underpass Society. The air smelled of dust, concrete, and the faint iron tang of blood tracked in from the fighting the night before. Every faction leader had gathered, their faces still hard from sleepless hours, though a rare sense of unity hung in the air.
Quentin stood at the head of the table, coat drawn tight around him, his voice commanding yet calm.
"First," he began, sweeping his gaze across them, "credit where it's due. Naima your defense of the railroads was nothing short of remarkable. You stood your ground against fire and lead, and you did not break. You kept the South Tracks alive."
Naima inclined her head, her expression composed but proud. "We lost some good people," she said. "But the bulk of our strength held. And now the rails remain ours."
Quentin nodded once before turning his eyes toward Dre. "And you. I'll admit I was doubtful about your rooftop teams. With the Bat prowling above, I feared we'd be inviting his wrath. But it was a brilliant stroke — when your people rained hell down from above, the Hammer boys didn't stand a chance. From here forward, I want more rooftop units spread out over all base-level operations. If the sky is ours as much as the streets, we gain another edge."
Dre allowed himself the faintest grin. "Glad to prove you wrong."
The table gave a few quiet laughs, tension breaking for just a moment.
But Quentin's tone darkened as he leaned forward, hands pressing flat to the table. "Now. To the larger matter. Word has come back from our watchers: after the failed railroad attack, the Triad and the Cartel smelled blood. They tried to move in on the Hammer Gang's territory, thinking them weakened." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "That gamble has already turned into an all-out brawl. The streets are soaked in gunfire and flames. The gangs have crossed the line, and the citywide war we all knew was coming…" He raised his eyes to them one by one. "…has officially begun."
Marcy, arms folded, gave a short, sharp nod. Stitch leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. None argued — they all knew what this meant.
Quentin went on, voice measured and steady. "Others will see this chaos and seize the chance to carve out pieces of their own. They'll pounce on the Triad, the Cartel, the Hammers and when they do, more will pounce on them. The cycle won't stop until one name is big enough, untouchable enough, to steady the market and choke out the competition."
He straightened, his shadow stretching long across the table. "I want that name to be ours. The Underpass Society. But it won't come through reckless strikes. It will come through careful, patient planning. Every move from here must count."
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then Naima's low voice cut through: "If the war's begun, we can't wait too long, Quentin. The city won't give us the luxury of time."
Quentin allowed himself the faintest, sharpest smile. "Then let's make sure Gotham learns quickly who it belongs to."
Quentin folded his hands on the scarred table and let the room settle. The low light carved hard lines across everyone's faces. He didn't waste the silence.
"All right," he said, voice flat and sure. "Let's talk strategy before we break. Short, clean, useful."
He jabbed a finger at Dre. "First — rooftops are working. Keep them going. I don't care how many kids you pull off a job to staff them. Sightlines out, escape ropes, cached ladders. If you're up there, you've got two jobs: see trouble before it sees you, and guide people down when it gets hot. No lone wolves. Signal and move together."
Dre grunted. "We'll push farther. East and west ring. Make the sky a trap."
Quentin nodded and turned. "Second Batman and his little side kick. They'll be more active now. Don't bait them. If you hear the bat-whistle or see the shadow, don't try to play hero. Back off. Let him chase bigger prey. We do not want him sniffing our supply lines."
Kieran, who'd been quiet at the edge of the map, added, "Keep your faces covered. Don't give him a name to take home."
Quentin's eyes slid to Naima. "Naima you already proved you can play one hell of a defense. Now you have to learn to look like you're not holding at all. Camouflage your wins. Make your patrols look like drunks and people walking home. When a strike comes, it feels like somebody else's problem until it isn't. And on your signal, you take them out."
Naima's reply was single, cold. "Copy, we have been doing that already but I'll increase patrols and variations."
"Good." Quentin flipped the map and stabbed a pin at a cluster of alleys. "Third the cops. Listen to me: the GCPD is corrupt and mean, but they have a mean trigger finger . We don't pick fights with uniforms unless it's absolutely necessary and the escape route is guaranteed. If a cop car rolls up, disperse into civilian flow. If they bring the dogs or the armored vans, you vanish into the seams we've made. We don't want headlines with our names in them. We want the other crews' names in the headlines."
Stitch lifted a hand. "And if a cop gets in the way of a strike?"
"Not our fight," Quentin said without hesitation. "If they try to grab one of ours, you make it ugly enough for them to think twice next time legal or not. But don't give them the excuse to drag the full force down on us. Stay smart."
Marcy tapped her pen on the table. "Intelligence I'll keep channels hot. Runners inward, spotters outward. If anyone big moves—Falcone trucks, Triad convoys, Cartel shipments—we'll know before they arrive. We create false routes for them to chase. Waste their hours and bullets."
"Exactly," Quentin said. "Misdirection is as much a weapon as an AK." He leaned in, voice low. "Fourth, timing and the hit on the Hammers. They aren't finished. They're wounded and dangerous, and their pride will make them stupid. We're not doing petty revenge. This is a necessity. They tried to take our ground, and if they fester, they'll be a rallying cry for others."
Naima's jaw tightened. "So you want us to strike them?"
"I want a precise cut," Quentin said. "Not a bloodbath but a message. Take one of their supply hubs at night, make sure their leaders see what was taken and what stayed taken. Hit the thing that keeps them moving—fuel, phone lines, that one back warehouse they use to hide guns. We do this surgical. No theatrics. No drag-on fights. We take one resource, vanish, and let the rumor do the rest."
Dre whistled low. "Hit em hard, and they stagger."
"Right." Quentin clicked his lighter absentmindedly, pinching the flame back. "We coordinate with Dre's rooftops for overwatch, Marcy for the diversion and secondary drops, Stitch for extraction routes and med pulling, Naima for the bait and controlled collapse. We set a window when the Cartel and Triads are occupied elsewhere—maybe right after one of their little skirmishes. Time it so it looks like opportunism, not treachery. Make them bleed quietly."
Kieran stepped forward, smoothing his suit. "We also pre-load false paperwork, shipments, and a rumor that the Hammers have a traitor inside. Let them start hunting ghosts. While they do that, we take the one thing that will hurt them the most without burning the whole neighborhood down."
Quentin offered a short half-smile. "And we protect civilians in the sweep. No children or families near the target. If anything puts noncombatants at risk, we abort. Public sympathy is something to be earned, not sacrificed."
Marcy swallowed and nodded. "I'll mark noncombatant zones and safe houses. We'll use the underpass routes to funnel people away if needed."
Quentin surveyed them all. The room felt like a coiled spring. "Okay. Summation: rooftops and sightlines, don't hunt the Bat, avoid direct runs with police, intelligence and misdirection up, surgical strike on a Hammer spine timed with distractions, civilian safety prioritized. Roles are assigned. We move at dawn plus two. Get your people in position tonight. No chatter. Burners on one-time windows only. Confirm by three in the morning."
Naima stood, shoulders squared. "We'll be ready."
Dre slung his coat tight. "Rooftops will be prepped."
Marcy shut her notebook like a verdict, "Drops set. Diversions seeded."
Stitch pulled up his hood and cracked his knuckles, "Extraction routes will be throughly vetted I'll plan some practice runs."
Quentin tipped his cigar toward them, voice soft but brittle with command. "Well, let's have a good jolly old war then."
—-
A/N: sorry for the late chapter I'm doing a lot of research into Gotham gangs right now. There are a lot.