The vehicle did not belong on civilized roads, especially not here in FLEX Five. Its boxy, armored body rode high on a reinforced suspension, big and predatory, as if it had been bred for rough terrain rather than city streets. Four massive tires chewed at the blue brick beneath them, deep treads grinding pale dust into the air as they thundered forward. The proportions were wrong on purpose, compact length, raised cabin, engineered for sudden pivots. Vet drove aggressively, he tore through an intersection, the floating crystal above it pulsing white for hold as they blasted beneath it. The thick, blunt front bumper slammed into the side of a civilian car waiting to make a left turn. Metal screamed as the impact caved the vehicle's doors inward, folding it around the armored nose like thin foil. The car was lifted, and hurled sideways across the intersection. It skidded over the white guide lines, spinning once, twice, before plowing into the line of stopped cross-traffic waiting beneath a floating white crystal.
Glass exploded and frames crumpled as one car was shoved into the next, then into another, a brutal domino of steel and shattered windshields rippling down the street while suspended stoplights swayed violently overhead. The scout-hauler didn't slow, Santy laughed from the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dash as the other pointed ahead. "Light's blue, that's permission." Vet grinned and slammed the throttle.The front of the machine surged ahead, headlights burning like eyes that had already chosen their target. Another crystal light pulsed yellow, but they did not slow down. The armored cabin rattled as the engine roared, exhaust vents along the sides coughing heat and smoke into the street. A second car tried to flee the intersection. Vet slammed into its rear end, the hit snapped the vehicle sideways, tires shrieking as it fishtailed violently across the blue stone. It skidded out of control and smashed into a parked car, folding steel inward with a scream. The force carried both vehicles careening off the roadway and into a row of stone-rooted trees along the roadway edge.
The trunks cracked, and branches exploded outward. When both cars finally stopped, the airbags hung deflated in each, steam leaked from the crushed hood of the moving car, and the parked car's alarms wailed into the air. The vehicle tore through the city as a moving slab of scarred steel. Its armored plating was dented and oxidized, old weld seams dark with age and abuse. The narrow reinforced windows flashed reflections of the city as it weaved through traffic, giving only brief, hostile glimpses of movement inside. Every rivet and patch spoke of collisions survived, of force met with greater force. Up top, the roof shuddered with each impact, mounted spotlights rattled in their brackets. Antennas quivered violently as the scout-hauler barreled forward. At the center of it all, the compact turret remained still and silent, an unspoken threat. "Left," Santy said calmly. Vet yanked the wheel, the tires screamed against blue brick as the scout hauler pivoted hard, nearly tipping before its suspension caught. They tore down the next stretch of road, white lines blurring beneath them, the city scrambling to get out of their way.
Behind them, traffic dissolved into wreckage, the road system had been designed for order,
Vet and Santy were built for anything but. Santy leaned back in his seat, thick braids were pulled back neatly from his face. Large reflective sunglasses hid his eyes, turning his stare into a cold mirror aimed at the road ahead. A cigar rested between his fingers, purple smoke curling lazily upward. "Been a while," he said, voice low, edged sharp. "Since someone was dumb enough to take down one of my tags." Vet didn't look over, he already knew what that meant. Santy's draped in a long, sleeveless coat that hangs open. Dense black tattoos wrapping across muscle and bone in layered symbols. Heavy gold chains shifted softly against his dark skin as he moved, catching stray light from passing signals. A massive ring glinted on his right hand as his fingers tapped restlessly against his leg. "That spot," Santy continued, smoke spilling from his mouth as he spoke, "was the first place I ever marked, first time I put the crew's name somewhere that mattered." He exhaled through his teeth. "Now it's gone"
The deep red coat sat heavy on his shoulders, fur collar framing his neck, his left hand was gloved and reinforced, resting heavy at his side. "This isn't just Graves' business," Santy said quietly. "This one's personal too." Every crew had a Tagger, the one who left their Sovereign's mark behind with paint. That mark could be placed on anything, a vehicle, a street, a stronghold, a stretch of land people no longer crossed. Walls were just the easiest surface. What mattered wasn't where the mark was left. It was whether the crew was strong enough to keep it there. To tag something was to say this is ours now. To keep it meant you were strong enough to defend that claim when someone came to test it. Kingdoms could be tagged, entire territories too. If the mark stayed, the claim was respected. If it was erased, it became a challenge, a declaration that someone wanted the territory and was willing to defend it, forcing the one who held it before to either stay gone or come back and fight for the mark again. Santy's mark was simple and unmistakable, a tombstone, stark and upright, with 50-50 etched beneath it. Half chance you walk away, half chance you don't, everyone in the city knew what it meant.
Vet finally spoke. "That's why I'm riding with you." Santy glanced over, Vet's hands were steady on the wheel, thick, uneven locks framed his face, dark at the roots and fading to ash at the tips, shifting slightly as the car tore through the street. Red light bled from his eyes, the glow cutting sharp against his dark skin and making the contrast impossible to ignore. His eyes didn't make him look angry, he looked contained. "You've never defended one, Nav'vuh" Vet said. "You've tagged, but this?" He tilted his head slightly. "This is the part that decides whether those marks mean anything." The black tactical vest across his chest was cinched tight, heavy with gear and hard panels. His arms were bare, thick with muscle, wrapped in subtle compression bands that flexed as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. "You're a Graves Tagger," Vet continued. "That means those tags aren't just paint, they're our crew marks." His jaw tightened. "You're supposed to take that personal." He finally looked over at Santy, red eyes flaring faintly. "When someone erases a crew tag, they aren't erasing paint. They're disrespecting you as a tagger, every name tied to the crew, and every fight that came before to claim what was tagged."
The engine roared louder as Vet pushed the throttle, the vehicle surging forward. "Anyone can paint," he said. "Defending it?" A grim smile cut across his face. "That's how a Tagger earns their place." Tonight wasn't about reclaiming paint, It was about teaching the city what it cost to erase a name. Vet eased the car forward, that's when Santy's eyes went to the wall. Where the Grave's Crew tag should have been, fresh paint cut across the surface, bold and deliberate. A stylized peace sign was painted there, two raised fingers forming the shape, the word worked cleanly into the curve of the symbol,DEUCES. Vet leaned forward in his seat "No," he said flatly. "There's no way." Santy glanced at him. "You know this crew?" Vet didn't take his eyes off the wall. "Yeah," he said. "I do."Then he floored it, the compound gate didn't open, It exploded. Metal screamed as the bumper hit, iron bars tearing free from their mounts. The gate ripped inward, hinges snapping, the whole thing whipping sideways in a violent spray of sparks and shattered masonry. The car tore through the opening without slowing, and the wrecked gate clanged to the ground behind them.
Vet kept driving "Deuces Jack, better known as D.J the jester." Ahead, the mansion sat deep inside the grounds, large enough to dominate everything around it. They climbed out, the steps ahead stretching long and endless, built to make visitors feel small. Vet jogged up without hesitation, Santy close behind him. At the top, Vet kicked the door in, his boot hit hard, high-top sneakers slamming into the lock, and the door flew inward with a crack. He stepped through immediately, black tactical trousers shifting with the motion, straps and fasteners cinched tight across his thighs. The fabric looked built to be dragged through anything the city could throw back at him. Inside was open space, and marble floors. Vet's sneakers whispered against the polished stone as he moved, they were muted gray, black, and white. A man near the entry froze the second he saw them. Fear hit his face before his mouth could move, Vet just kept coming, filling the space. Santy crossed the distance in two strides, he grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him clean off the floor.
The long crimson garment hanging from Santy's belt shifted with the motion, split and layered rather than loose, heavy and structured, like a battle skirt. It framed his legs, opening at the front and sides, his belt held firm at his hips, thick and reinforced. Metallic clasps caught the light as the weight transferred through his stance, gear built to endure impact. At his ankle, a heavy cuff glinted faintly as his footing adjusted. Even the way he stood said this was intentional. "Where's DJ?" Santy growled. The man stammered, he couldn't even get a word out. Footsteps answered for him instead, Slow, but Confident. The wide staircase in front of them rose to a half-landing, then divided into two smaller stairways leading left and right. At the top of the right side, DJ appeared. He leaned forward against the railing, posture loose but coiled, as if the distance between them was already measured. The split colors of his jester's cap, blue on one side, red on the other, hung crooked from his head, small gold bells chiming softly with each subtle shift. A thin gold circlet with a red gem rested at his brow, catching the light when he tilted his head.
Messy black hair framed a sharp, narrow face. Golden eyes glinted with amusement as he looked down at them grinning, too sharp to be friendly, too deliberate to be empty. His tunic mirrored the cap, half blue, half red, trimmed in gold beneath a dark vest heavy with chains and ruby-bright pendants. Bandaged forearms rested casually on the rail, black-gloved hands relaxed, unbothered. Loose dark trousers tucked into curled black boots reinforced with gold, built for movement. "Drop him," DJ said calmly. Then he raised his arm, elbow fully extended and locked straight, two fingers up. He flipped his hand, fingers down, then back up, and flicked his wrist, throwing the peace sign at Santy and Vet like a challenge. Santy hurled the man, the body slamming into the marble and skidding hard. Santy and Vet each raised their hands, five fingers on the left and one on the right, the pinky, six total, facing each other, six feet under. Santy locked his elbows straight and pushed the sign fully forward, no bend, mirroring DJ. Vet didn't, he kept his hands lower, closer to his waist, tighter and controlled, and stared DJ down. "So what are you trying to do," Vet said, voice calm, dangerous.
"Why are you even here?" DJ said. "It's been empty for months." Vet stepped forward. "You don't get to choose what belongs to Fifty-Fifty, nav'vuh ." Vet glanced at the door and gestured toward it, like the answer should've been obvious. "There was a big no-entry sign right there" he said. "You erased it and put up your own. I don't care if this place sits empty three hundred sixty-five days a year, it belongs to Fifty-Fifty." Veins stood out along his forehead as tension pulled tight under his skin. He took another step. "So I'm gonna ask you one more time," Vet said, palms out, shoulders lifting like he was giving DJ a real choice. "How do you wanna handle this?" DJ didn't answer right away. He tilted his head, eyes flicking between them, one breath, two, Like a snake deciding whether the strike was worth the venom. The Deuces Crew was new, still forming, still untested, but they had more bodies and better odds, DJ could see it. DJ was the sovereign of the Deuces Crew. He had Boyer and Kessler, his primes, the second-in-commands who carried his authority and made sure his orders were followed. He had Mr. Trouble, the hitter, the offensive frontline of the crew who usually struck first. Bubba was the anchor, the defensive backbone of the crew, holding against anything that tried to break through. Remedie was the mender, the healer who kept the crew in fighting shape. And Limbo was the architect, the strategist who mapped the fight and controlled the plan before it even began.
DJ felt good about this, so he lifted both hands, two fingers raised on each, showing the Deuces sign as he flicked his wrists at them again. Santy's hand snapped to his coat, A deck of cards spilled into his palm, edges gleaming, their faces blank. Santy flicked a card, and it cut the air sideways as the face flashed mid-flight, symbols scrambling before settling long enough for him to read it. STRATEGY CARD — STACKED DECK. Santy chuckled as he felt it lock in, the next three draws bending to his favor. "Alright," he said. "Let's stack it." The card dissolved in the air before it could hit the ground, and he didn't hesitate and drew another card, flicking it into the air. SUPPORT CARD — LUCKY SHARE. He can transfer part of his luck to someone else. Santy stepped past Vet and slapped it flat between his shoulders. The light split, half dissolving into Santy, half sinking into Vet like a second pulse of heartbeat. Vet laughed once, sharp. "Oh. That's generous." Across the room, Limbo's eyes narrowed on Vet, Vet stepped forward, grin sharp, almost feral. He pointed straight at Mr. Trouble, but his eyes stayed locked on DJ.
" If you try anything I'm gonna put you down like a dog."
"GAMBLER'S HAND," Vet said angrily as he rolled a die. He didn't toss it onto the floor, he rolled it into reality itself. While Vet waited to see what number would land, Santy drew again. STRATEGY CARD — COUNTERFEIT. He glanced at it once, already knowing, and flicked it upward. The card vanished midair, swallowed like it had never existed. Santy didn't pause, he drew his last card immediately. At the same instant, Vet's die hit, and It landed on three. He can now conjure a random weapon or object into existence. Space tore in front of him, metal screamed as something forced itself into existence, reality permitting its passage. The weight hit first, before the shape fully resolved. A blade dropped into Vet's grasp, the steel was pale, bone-colored, cut through with a central groove darkened by old, dried blood, the stains sunk so deep they looked grown into the metal. The surface wasn't polished. It was scarred, etched with memory, every mark a record of something that hadn't survived it. The edge was straight, severe, made only to end things. Then it answered, fully formed now, and hungry in the air before him The blade started to split.
The split came violently, along its flat, tearing open lengthwise like a jaw being pried apart. Jagged, thorn-like barbs revealed themselves along the inner edges, angled inward, hungry to catch, to tear. Between the separated halves, thin strands of saliva stretched and snapped, webbing the gap. A blue glow ignited between them, alive, and unstable, pulsing like a breath as it crawled up the length of the weapon. Pain wasn't a consequence here, It was the design. The grip was wrapped tight in dark material, red threading biting into it like veins, ending in a sharp, fang-shaped pommel. Vet closed his fingers around it, and the weapon growled loudly in approval. DJ's smile vanished. "Boyer, Kessler," he snapped. Boyer, Kessler, and Bubba held the half-landing, forming a line no one could pass. Mr. Trouble stood at the top of the left stairway, eyes locked downward on Vet, a hard, angry glare sharpening his features. His mind raced, planning his first move, calculating the moment to strike. Remedie was next to him now, shaken but steady, and Mr. Trouble's glare sank into something uglier. He knew Santy had thrown Remedie, but he could see clearly who was really running the show. Vet called the shots, and Mr.Trouble didn't like it one bit. Limbo was near DJ, but positioned wide to the side, where he could watch Vet and Santy from an angle instead of head-on, already reading the fight as it unfolded.
The Deuces Crew moved, deep crimson three-piece suits marked them, tailored close through the torso and sharp at the shoulders, worn without the jacket. Crisp blue dress shirts sat beneath buttoned vests, the contrast deliberate. Black ties cut straight down their chests, clean and centered, letting color and posture speak. Each vest was finished with a thin silver pocket chain. The sleeves hugged their strong forearms, cuffs cut precise, steel watches resting at their wrists like quiet markers of authority. Some hands slipped easily into their pockets, others hung loose at their sides. They advanced with DJ's confidence, calm and certain the room was already theirs. The two primes took the edge of the half-landing, locking down the wide staircase from the top. Bubba came up a half-step behind them, planting himself in the center of the half landing where the stairs split, forcing anyone on the stairs to face him first before choosing left or right. Santy flicked his wrist, the space between them warped, he shifted hard toward the wide staircase, posture aggressive, angle clean, like he was about to carve straight through to the sovereign. Boyer and Kessler saw it at the same time, Santy was the bigger threat, while Vet was smaller and contained. They made the call instantly, both primes peeled off Bubba and surged toward Santy together, Bubba squared up on Vet and Mr. Trouble broke wide to flank.
Before Santy even reached the stairs, Boyer and Kessler struck. Boyer lunged down, his right fist jabbed sharp into Santy's nose, snapping his head. His left swung hard, an overhand punch crushing the jaw and spinning him sideways, in a heartbeat, Boyer was back up. Kessler came flying down the opposite side just as Boyer rose, a butterfly kick snapping into Santy's jaw, sending him crashing into a wall. Boyer and Kessler didn't pause, as soon as Kessler reached the edge of the half-landing, they surged together, raining strikes over Santy. Fists and feet hammered him into the ground, relentless, unstoppable, each hit driving him further into the floor, then Santy wavered, blurring at the edges. The blows started to pass through him, in a heartbeat, he puffed into smoke and vanished. It was a fake, a perfect one. The COUNTERFEIT CARD didn't create a copy, when Santy played it, the card burned his next intent into reality, his angle, his timing, his commitment, projecting a version of the move so convincing the world treated it as real. The illusion wasn't visual alone, It carried a threat weight, killing intent. Enough that trained fighters reacted on instinct. Boyer and Kessler didn't chase a fake image, they responded to what felt like a genuine opening on DJ, because for a split second, reality agreed it was one.
Seconds after their strikes landed, the effect had already expired and the illusion vanished. The choice they made, who to engage and who to leave, couldn't be undone. Counterfeit didn't fool their eyes, it fooled their judgment, and that was all Santy needed. The moment Counterfeit collapsed, when the illusion vanished and the primes realized too late they had overcommitted, Santy spent everything. Kessler never saw it coming, Santy lunged at him. His gloved fist met Kessler's cheek and stayed there. His hand locked in place, knuckles fused to bone as he drove forward with his full weight. Momentum took command, Santy carried him sideways, tearing Kessler off his feet, dragging his head with him as if the blow had bitten in and refused to release. He drove Kessler through a stone pillar, masonry detonating outward, his forward momentum never slowing. The fist never left Kessler's face, the motion only ended at the wall. Kessler's head slammed flat, crushed between Santy's fist and solid stone, all that gathered force collapsing inward at once with nowhere left to travel but straight through him.
Santy held him there for a single, deliberate heartbeat. Then he released him, and Kessler folded and dropped. Bankruptcy should have taken everything Santy had, every stacked advantage and every ounce of luck he'd been carrying, but Santy had thought it through the instant he saw the first card. His mind jumped to Fifty-Fifty, his Sovereign. The rule had been drilled into them early, never pair two unpredictable forces. One chaos variable was survivable, two was a coin flip with bodies on the table. Vet was already the exception, he didn't need his power, he never had. He was lethal without it, brutal, efficient, and fully capable of ending fights clean with nothing but timing, and footing. Santy also knew the truth, when Vet did use his power, fights didn't drag, they ended in seconds, and just as often, they went catastrophically wrong. Wild Chance was his power, It bent too hard and snapped too violently. The same roll that won a fight could just as easily erase both of them. That was why Fifty–Fifty had the rule in the first place. One unpredictable force was manageable, two was suicide.That's where luck came in. With real luck on Vet's side, not a gamble, Wild Chance stopped being a risk. There were no bad numbers, no backlash, no collapse waiting on the other side. With luck backing him, Vet could use his power freely, and that was the only exception Santy was willing to make. He built the field in seconds, Santy chose Lucky Share, because it was the only thing he could afford to lose.
Once the luck left Santy's hand and settled on Vet, it didn't change what they were going to do. They were already finishing this. Vet had the sword, and that was enough. The luck wasn't there to guarantee victory. It was there to contain the chaos, to blunt the unpredictability of Vet's power long enough for him to use it without everything snapping the wrong way at once. Kessler and Boyer peeled away, leaving an opening for Vet. He drove straight through it and met Bubba head-on. Steel rang and marble cracked. Bubba wasn't weak, his footing solid and his timing clean, but Vet was faster, wilder. He slipped inside Bubba's guard, twisted past the counter, and the sword opened, It didn't cut, It ate. Bubba's head came off clean, and the body hit a heartbeat later. Vet was already moving again, sprinting toward DJ. Limbo shouted commands, trying to salvage their formation. Boyer broke the second he saw it, Kessler was gone, Bubba was gone, and he folded in on himself, ruined in an instant. Santy felt it immediately and used it. He surged forward, voice rising just enough, intent sharp, telegraphing a killing blow aimed straight at Boyer. Mr. Trouble heard it. He broke off his flank on Vet and turned hard, moving to intercept, to save Boyer before the hit could land. Remedie jumped from above and landed a few feet away, then started jogging toward Kessler, keeping Vet out of his path.
That was the setup, Vet made it look like he and DJ were about to go head to head, with DJ already squared up and his hands raised. The instant Mr. Trouble committed to Santy, Vet shifted and dashed back. At the same time, Santy moved, then vanished sideways. Mr. Trouble filled the space where Santy had been, but Santy was already elsewhere. Steel flashed as Vet took his head clean off, the blade cutting through in a single brutal motion, the rescue ending before it could even begin. Mr. Trouble's eyes had given it away earlier in the way he stared, Vet knew he'd been aiming for him the whole time. Santy dashed over to Remedie and hit him fast and heavy, the blows drove him down before he even started healing Kessler. Air ripped from his lungs as Santy kept him from rising, and kept him from saving anyone, Limbo shouted, but it was too late. Vet was already moving, leaping from the main floor all the way up to where he was in a sword-lunge pose. Mid-air, his sword opened, snapping down like a predator. Limbo never saw him coming. Vet flung the weapon over his shoulder and started walking toward DJ as Limbo's body slammed into the ground behind him. They moved so fast the Deuces Crew didn't have time to react. DJ didn't even get a chance to trigger his power. Vet and Santy baited their formation, then picked them off in brutal bursts, too quick for anyone to regroup. Santy dragged Boyer by the hair across the stone, leaving a dark smear behind them. He slammed Boyer's face into the wall, again and again, grinding it against the paint, trying to scrape the DEUCES sign away.
It didn't work, he knew it wouldn't, but he kept going anyway. Vet had wandered a few steps off when he stopped. "Hey," he said, amused. "Santy." Santy paused as Vet stared at a crystal screen off to the side, still glowing. An arena flickered to life inside it showing Solace, mid-fight. Vet grinned wide. "You gotta call Fifty-Fifty, right now." He tapped the crystal with a knuckle. "Tell him to turn this thing on. He's gonna wanna see this." Then Vet turned back to DJ, who was on his knees, broken and hollow, watching everything he'd built lie dead around him. Vet crouched in front of him. "Hey," Vet said lightly, like he was asking for a favor. "C'mon, throw up the sign." DJ didn't move, Vet laughed and slapped him across the face, not hard, just mocking. "Please," Vet said, holding up two fingers, and flicking his wrist. "Just one more time." Another slap. DJ's eyes were glassy and unfocused, his face was wrecked, one eye was swollen shut, the other struggling to stay open. Blood ran freely from his nose, thick and dark, streaking down over split lips and a jaw that sat wrong from the damage. Teeth were missing, gaps showing whenever his mouth fell open, and his breath came wet and uneven.
He couldn't even look up. Vet straightened, still smiling. "Man," he said lightly, disappointed. "I thought it meant more to you." He shook his head once. "We're not kids anymore, DJ." Then he threw up the six fingers, the sign held clean and unflinching. "I'd die for this." Santy and Vet stood back, eyes on DJ as he walked away, Vet having chosen to let him go. He didn't leave cleanly, he staggered, each movement heavy and uneven. He swayed, caught himself, then nearly went down anyway, arms thrown wide as he grabbed for something that wasn't there. Blood soaked his ribs, and he fought for air in quick, shaky draws. Santy let out a quiet laugh, low and unbothered, Vet followed it, sharper, amused in a way that carried no warmth. DJ tripped again and went to one knee, then scrambled back up like the ground burned. He didn't look back, he already knew better. They watched him retreat until he was small, someone had to walk away. This was how the city learned what happens when you touch what belongs to Fifty-Fifty.