The docks always smelled of salt, rust, and betrayal.
Rain fell in thin, silver threads, hissing off corrugated metal and pooling in the cracks of the dockyard. The Dockyard Dogs had held this stretch of Gotham's waterfront for years a rust-belt kingdom of smugglers, thieves, and stevedores turned gang muscle albeit a small kingdom. They were usually left to their own devices since they were truly a small to middle sized gang.
But, tonight, that small kingdom was burning.
Gunfire rattled between shipping containers. A forklift lay on its side, tires smoking. Men scrambled for cover as muzzle flashes stuttered in the dark.
"They're pushing us back!" a Dog yelled, blood streaking his cheek. "They've got heavier guns than us—who the hell are these guys?!"
"One of the smaller outfits Falcone bought over," someone answered bitterly from behind a crate. "Or maybe muscle bought by the Triads. They all smell the same when they want you dead."
At the center of the chaos, Jace 'Lockjaw' Dempsey, the Dockyard Dogs' leader, crouched low behind an overturned pallet jack. His heavy coat was soaked through, pistol gripped tight in one hand, burner phone in the other. He'd told himself he wouldn't use it — not for this, not yet. He had too much pride to contact a shady man in a mask for help.
But his men were dying.
He flipped open the phone, fingers slick with rain and grit. The screen lit his face in blue.
A message had come with the phone weeks ago:
"You just need to call whenever you need help, that's what friends are for."
He hesitated once more. Then he hit dial hating himself immediately."
***
A low click answered.
A voice, quiet and calm: "You took your time."
"Didn't plan to need you," Jace grunted, ducking as bullets tore through a container beside him. "We're getting chewed up. Whoever sent these pricks — they're cleaning house."
"Where?" the voice asked.
"Pier Twelve. East side."
"Stay alive. Help's coming."
The line went dead.
***
Far across the city, deep beneath a gutted railway station, Naima Rez was already moving before Quentin finished speaking.
"Dockyard Dogs are under attack," he said from the monitors, voice flat but eyes sharp behind the reflection of blue screens. "They're our first test. Go."
Naima's reply was a nod and a single word:
"Understood."
Her squad — six of the old South Tracks' best — geared up fast. Suppressed rifles, worn body armor, scarves drawn over their faces Marcy worked wonders. Within minutes they were gone, swallowed by the storm.
***
By the time they reached the waterfront, the Dogs were nearly finished.
A dozen armed men in dark suits — definitely new soldiers kitted from Falcone's recent buyouts— were advancing down the pier, methodical and merciless. The Dogs were pinned near the loading cranes, trapped.
Then, from the far end of the dock, the shadows lurched.
Naima's team hit them like a scalpel — not charging, not screaming — just silent precision. Two Falcone men dropped before they even knew where the shots came from. Another fell with a knife to the throat.
"Who the hell—" one of the attackers started, before Naima's rifle barked once and ended the question.
The tide turned fast.
Jace and his survivors used the opening to counterattack. Within five minutes, the pier was theirs again — littered with bodies, the rain washing blood into the harbor.
***
When the shooting stopped, Jace stood amid the wreckage, panting, shotgun still raised. Naima approached through the mist, calm, unreadable, lowering her weapon.
"You called," she said simply.
"Guess I did."
Her eyes swept over the damage. "This is happening more regularly than you might think. Falcone, the triads and the cartels are taking over smaller gangs, kitting them out in weaponry they could only dream of and then sending them to take over more land. You're lucky to be alive." Her tone held no mockery
"Yeah, well," Jace muttered, holstering his gun, "I ain't good at dying."
Naima offered him a folded slip of paper — sealed in wax, stamped with a single symbol: a half circle, broken through the center.
"From him," she said.
Jace took it, studied it for a moment. "So it's real, then. We are officially bought." He sighed looking back at his people
Naima didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the water — the black reflection of Gotham's skyline broken by ripples of rain, "Don't misunderstand, you aren't bought we are now friends."
"Help clean this up," she told him. "We'll talk again soon."
***
By dawn, the fires were out. The pier was quiet, save for the hum of dock machinery and the whisper of the tide.
Jace watched as Naima and her squad vanished back into the night. He turned the wax-sealed letter over in his hands — something between a warning and an invitation.
And for the first time in years he knew no matter what they said.
the Dockyard Dogs had a new leash-holder.
***
The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Naima Rez made it back to her command post. Floodlights glowed dimly through the mist, cutting across crates, stacked sandbags, and the faint shimmer of the river beyond.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of barbecue, someone was cooking off to the side while drinking some beers. Her stomach rumbled but she needed to report. Her cohort moved with quiet purpose — patching wounds, reloading, swapping out spent magazines for fresh ones.
Naima peeled off her soaked jacket, hung it on a nail, and walked into the inner office. She wiped rain from her hands, keyed the encrypted frequency, and leaned over the mic.
It rang once. Twice.
Then came Nolan's voice — calm, composed, filtered through static.
"Report."
"Pier Twelve's secure," Naima said, her tone crisp. "Falcone's men hit harder than expected. Grenade launchers, armored vans. But they broke once we flanked their lead truck. The Dogs fought well — sloppy formation, but plenty of grit. We pushed them off the pier before sunrise."
"Casualties?"
"Five dead on their side, two on ours. Could've been worse."
There was a faint scrape on the line — Nolan jotting notes, probably on one of his endless ledgers,
"Falcone's probing the edges again," he said finally. "Testing for weak points. He's got his new goons working overtime it seems, couple of days ago Dre spotted them near the tunnels."
"Did you get what outfit they were under before Falcone took over?"
"No." She shook her head in irritation, "Not sure it matters though, he seems to be consuming more and more."
"They are pawns Naima remember that, their only use is to pad his forces for the war. Those who survive will 'manage' the new territory after while paying outrageous fees."
Naima exhaled slowly, glancing out the small, fogged window where the waves lapped at the dock pylons,
"Yeah you're right. Still he's getting too comfortable sending men this far south. We're lucky we were close enough to respond."
There was a pause. The hum of rain filled the space between them.
"Anything else?" Nolan asked.
Naima hesitated before answering. "Jace."
"The leader, what about him?"
"Yeah," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "He's… vocal tonight. Says we're doing too much for too little. Thinks you'll use the Dogs like disposable muscle — bleed them dry to protect the Underpass."
Silence. Then Nolan's voice came quieter, but firmer.
"Jace is right to be cautious. But tell him this — the goal isn't to use them. A debt freely chosen lasts longer than one forced by fear."
Naima cracked a faint smile. "You've got a saying for everything, huh?"
"Only the ones that keep us alive."
Her smile faded as she looked back toward the main floor — the tired, soot-streaked faces of her people, the Dockyard Dogs will be a good addition.
"Still," she said softly, "they'll need proof. Words don't go far here."
"Then give them proof," Nolan said. "Patch their wounded. Share supplies. Let them see that standing beside us means survival, not servitude. You'll be their main contact, Dre will be working with the deacons most likely and I want Marcy on the jades. The others haven't showed a hint of reaching out yet but they will."
"Copy that," she murmured. Then after a pause: "You should've seen them tonight. They were scared, but they held the line. You might've just earned our first real ally."
"Good," he said. "Because soon, we'll need more than allies."
The line clicked — quiet.
Naima stared at the receiver for a long moment before setting it down.
Outside, the river fog swallowed the horizon, and somewhere in the distance, a horn echoed — low and hollow, like a warning.
—
A/N: I want to say sorry for focusing on the docks so much they will be a important part unfortunately I'm a perfectionist and wanted to set up a good foundation lmao . As I said in my authors note last chapter, I have an outline I'm always adjusting to accommodate what I can actually achieve. These next couple chapters hopefully are pretty interesting and will show you where I'm going with this!