Chapter Text
Walking down the broken cobblestone street was a young man in a black and white varsity jacket, bearing the letter S on the front and a depiction of a husky dog on the back. His black, combed-up hair glistened in the setting sun, and the wheels on the large battered case he was dragging by him squeaked and rattled on the cobblestone blocks. His name was Sylvester, and he played upright bass in a band called The Huskies, a trio playing old world inspired Rock 'n' Roll and Rockabilly music. Like many other kids born in the Downs, the poorest neighborhood in the City, Sylvester was very well accustomed with the City's dark underbelly. While the situation has now improved since he was a child, it was still far from ideal. Main improvement was that the the constabulary had at last established its presence there, and the militias that upheld (at least a semblance of) order there before were outlawed. But the local gangs still fight for power over the black market. He was in a very sour mood, musing to himself about how this whole mess works.
The main driving force behind it are tobacco and alcohol, thanks to the soft prohibition that's in effect. While alcohol is technically legal, it is a strictly controlled substance. Many hoops need to be jumped through in order to produce it and sell it, and the laws only allow for a very limited supply of crops to be allocated for its production, with very high taxation on the final product. Tobacco, meanwhile, is banned outright - one cannot find a smidgen of it on surface. And this is where the underworld steps in. Hidden greenhouses that grow fruits, grains, barley and tobacco plants under lights that simulate the sun are hidden in secret locations. Their produce is harvested and delivered to secret stills and tobacco processing plants that run all night, pumping out beer, wine liquor and tobacco products that are served in illegal underground clubs afterwards. There, gambling flourishes, deals are arranged and stolen goods are fenced.
Sylvester stopped in front of a run-down alley and looked into it. It was dirty and filled with trash and dumpsters, just like many other dark alleys in The Downs. He then glanced up at the clock tower of the local Foundationalist church that could be seen above the top of surrounding buildings. At that very moment the clock struck nine in the evening, and that gongs scared a flock of pigeons that rose off its roof and flew off into the distance. Suddenly the sound of wheels clacking on the cobblestone echoed down the street. Sylvester quickly turned his head towards the source, but it was just some kids on push scooters. It was too soon for the gangs to come out anyways.
Despite the fights over control of these establishments being savage, gun violence is all but non-existent, since the chemicals required for making gunpowder are in extremely short supply and there are virtually no guns in the city (the few existing ones being rusted old world relics only suitable for decoration.). Therefore, the gangs go medieval on each other, using melee weapons such as knives, hatchets and bats, while clad in makeshift armor made from sporting equipment reinforced with metal plates (usually acquired from scrapping old kitchenware, trash cans etc.). Their clothes and armor are always dyed in the colors of the gang, and bearing their logo. Another telltale sign of the gangs was their means of transportation. They would utilize bicycles, razor scooters, skateboards, longboards and a variety of man-powered makeshift vehicles to get around. The rattling of many small wheels on the cobblestone was usually the telltale sign of an approaching raiding party, which usually happened during the late hours at night after barrier reset and the magical girls had already went home.
After the kids passed by, there was no one else around so Sylvester casually entered the alley, dragging his worn case with him. In the middle of the alley he took a left turn into a small courtyard filled with wooden boxes. There was a basement door on the ground in the back, and a small vent in the wall behind it. Sylvester set his case down and approached the vent. “Hey there, I would like to get real sloppy tonight!” he spoke into it and stood back. Some rattling was heard behind the basement door and then the bouncer opened it, beckoning him in.
A long walk downstairs into the sub-basement later, Sylvester found himself inside Sloppy's Den, the seediest dive bar in the whole City. A place of ill repute, cheap rotgut that was so diluted with water it was considered a mixed drink, and one of the very few live music venues willing to give a chance to musicians playing non-mainstream music. The Huskies were set to have their gig there tonight. Quite a few people were already there, and Sylvester was surprised to find his bandmates, Buddy Bopper and Valencio Belmonte among them. They were sitting by one of the dirty tables closest to stage, with an open bottle, three full glasses and a pack of cigarillos waiting on it.
“Aaaaayyy! Syl! We got a shot of probably-vodka with your name on it, jack!” Buddy shouted as soon as he noticed him. Sylvester approached their table, set the case down.... and tried the chair. Realizing it was barely holding together, he threw it across the barroom and grabbed another one from the table over, which he slumped into afterwards. “This time it does not seem to be mostly water at least... wait, youse looking really bummed out there, what's wrong bud?”
“Tommy's... gone.“ Sylvester replied in a grave voice and set the worn case down. His reply struck with such force that even Valencio, up until that point preoccupied with fixing up his 'do, stopped and turned his sights to him. Sylvester slumped into the chair and immediately downed the shot of rotgut, then pulled out and lit himself a cigarillo.
“Gone? Wait, what do you mean by gone? What happened?” Valencio asked and put away the pocket mirror he had leaning against an ashtray.
“When I came to visit, the door was and the apartment was completely turned upside down, nothing of value was left there. Tommy was gone, along with his wife Sunny and my niece Lunica. There were no traces of them left anywhere in there.
"Was their apartment breached? Did they get hit by Poison Rose?"
"Nothing like that, I found no structural damage. So, I called the constables immediately, and they searched everywhere, but hear this: When they asked the neighbors, everyone denied seeing or hearing anything. So y'all know what this means.”
“There was some mobster Tommy still owed money to and they came to collect.” Valencio nodded and downed his shot, shivering immediately because of the foul taste.
“Exactly.”
Indeed, Thomas Mills was a mess. Sylvester's older brother got into gambling, which accumulated debt and forced him to work extra as part-time as an errand boy for the crime bosses he was indebted to. At first his wife Sunny tried to steer him clear of it, but then he introduced her to the highly illegal world of magical girls betting. And being a huge fan of magical girls, she fell right into that trap.
When magical girls first appeared, some people started treating them like competitive boxers. They formed a betting office that monitored how well were they doing, created tables that showed how much each of the popular teams were successful, tracking things like number of monster kills, how powerful were the monsters killed... people started betting on all sorts of magical girl related stuff, but it was not until some clearly disturbed individual started betting on injuries or deaths that the ring caught any attention of City officials. Naturally, the Foundationalists were furious when they learned of the practice and immediately made appeals for it to be banned, and the so the City swiftly outlawed all magical-girl related gambling. One of the reasons for the ban was also the fact that the betting office's agents would venture out during lockdown to keep tabs on the fighting directly (because ranking them purely on video evidence was deemed to be ineffective) thus putting both themselves and the girls in danger. But the ban did not put an end to magical girl betting, the whole operation just moved underground, but at least now the agents stopped running out into the streets at night, instead resolving to watching the best-known fighting spots from the safety of interiors.
As Tommy and Sunny spiraled deeper and deeper into debt, Sylvester tried to help them out as much as he could - even personally working for the mobsters they owed to when he was not doing his day job. But now it seemed like it was not even nearly enough after all. Sylvester first got tangled with the underground when his wife died in childbirth a few years ago. He himself even forgot how long was it, and he did not care, for trying to remember always opened the wound again. He only knew that they were still both very young when it happened. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. But then in little Luni, he found solace. He cherished his little niece dearly, and it was mostly because of her that he agreed to help his brother with the criminal jobs, and over time managed to convince both him and Sunny to steer clear of the gambling for her sake. But now she was gone and it hurt him just as much as when he lost his wife.
Buddy downed his shot and poured them all an another round. ”Founder damn it. And here I thought, that you managed to drag him out of that shit?”
"I did. But looks like there was either some loan shark I did not know about, or some mobster had a score to settle."
"Yeah, good ole Downs, jack. That's what we get for living in The City's asshole. Still, I never expected any of the gangsters here to do that to a child. Just what kinda monster are we dealin' with here?"
Valencio threw back his shot and scratched his chin. “There was that asshole mobster who always wore that checkered suit. Sly rat that one, I bet he would even sell his own mother, so if there was a guy who would be able to kill a child in the City, it would be him. But I heard he got done in out by some mail carrier or something. For stealing their package. Lesson learned, don't mess with a postal worker around these parts.”
"Well one less scumbag to worry about. But who else we got then?"
“What about the one they call The Ragged Wraith? I heard the nightingales sing that that cat is a real bruiser, and the current rising star in the underworld. Rumor has it he simply appeared out of nowhere and just started snuffing out the opposition.”
“The Ragged Wraith? Hmph, now that's a mouthful. Sylvester scoffed and threw the cigarillo butt into the ashtray. “So who is this cat?”
“I don't know, some rough boy from out of the town.” The joke was met with loud groans from Valencio and Sylvester, so Buddy chuckled and continued. “Yeah yeah, I know... but it sure seems that way. I mean, he just practically appeared out of nowhere – nobody ever heard of him before and nobody knows anything of his past. He just suddenly crashed into the Swanny Boys' hideout, down at the Swan Pond. He tore through the place and beat the ever-loving hell out of their boss, and before the rest of the gang got to them, the Ragged Wraith was sitting behind a table while the their (now former) boss was serving him coffee, looking like he got ran over by a tram. Afterwards, Wraith led the Swanny Boys into a turf war with the other gangs, conquering them one by one, integrating them into his own forces. He also is rumored to have stitched together a cloak from the clothes or flags of each gang, and that it is already pretty colorful.”
"Well if what you say is true, then this is the most likely candidate. I should find him and ask some questions..."
Buddy and Valencio both spat out their drinks. In the background the bartender screamed something like 'No refunds!'
Valencio was the first to speak. "Syl, you have full right to be frosty right now, but hold your horses, alright? You heard Buddy, this cat means business. Even if we were still with the Hel... I mean, our old posse, there is no way we could just march up to this cat and say: Hey snake let's rattle. That is just too big of a bite to chew."
"Yeah cool it!" Buddy exclaimed and poured another round of maybe-vodka. "Take another shot to calm your nerves, ay? Besides... think about it, maybe Lunica just ran away and is hiding somewhere. Because even if some heartless asshole told his thugs to harm a child... you really think they would? I is also possible that they have taken her - or all of them - somewhere, and are holding them hostage."
"Huh, okay. Yeah you are right." Sylvester paused and pulled out another cigarillo from the box. He puffed on it and thought for a moment, then pointed the red hot tip at his bandmates. “You know what? I'm going hit up some of the cats who used to roll with us back in the day. Ask if they know anything, and to keep their peepers peeled.”
“We'll help you out, jack. But remember what the fuzz said. No vigilante activities or we're all getting canned.” Valencio finger-gunned at him.
“Just don't expect us to call you boss again.” Buddy chimed in while grabbing the bottle to pour them another round, but then stopped. “Aw fiddlesticks, this dump is turning into real Antsville quick. We better hop on the stage and start getting ready, before Sloppy comes screaming at us like the last time.”
They got up and headed towards the stage. The place was really bustling already, and Sylvester wondered how could that be, since Sloppy's Den wasn't exactly popular. Not with anyone who wasn't a lowlife anyways. But this seemed to be a different company. These were...
Sewage workers. There were no bigger roughnecks in the City than them - the only men and women who could rival magical girls in toughness, but definitely not in fame. Working the ancient sewers was a hard toil, and what was worse, sometimes there were monsters down there. When they first discovered one down there, the City Sewage Works asked the City Defense Department if they could provide them with magical girl protection down there, however that was met with swift rebuttal from Foundationalists who refused to ever tarnish the sacred duty of a magical girl by sending them down to a sewer. So the workers came up with a sort of a telescopic stun spear. It could not harm the monsters much, but it could keep them out of reach in a corridor while the worker backed away into a smaller side tunnel, where hopefully the monster would not fit or couldn't break into. Naturally, there sometime were smaller monsters that could follow them there, or stronger monsters that could break in, and then the workers would fall prey to them. It was a well paid job, and after trudging through grimy, musty infested tunnels all day, they would usually spend their their hard earned money at much fancier establishments than this, but when it was a rough day they often reached for the strongest, foulest rotgut that would make them forget all those horrors they'd seen down there.
Sylvester thought that this was the case, and sure enough, he overheard the ones sitting at the table nearest to stage.
“Fuck me, what a mess. Five dead today, five! And what's worst, Brandon and Martha just had their kid born two years ago, and the monster got them both! Curse those spineless scumbags from the church for refusing to let us have magical girl protection down there!” The youngest man from the group exclaimed and then threw back a triple shot of what seemed to be the same imitation vodka that The Huskies were drinking before.
“Yeah but what can you do. The magitech girl who gave us those constructs that protected us before aged out last night.” An older female worker responded. ”The CDD tried to get us an actual girl to do rounds with us there temporarily but the church refuses even the possibility that their precious holy warriors get their dresses dirty. After the mess today I'm hoping things will move in the right direction, I got my fair share of contact wounds in my time and threw up plenty of screaming gas. Or that they at least get us some new magitech girl who can make us something that can give us a fighting chance.”
Sylvester was not happy that this was the reason behind the large audience tonight, but he hoped that some good old Rock 'n' Roll mixed with strong cheap hooch would help them forget their woes for at least a short while. When they set up their gear, he stood in front of the microphone and tapped it a few times.
“Good evening y'all. We are The Huskies, and this song is dedicated to all those who perished by the monsters' doing. It's called... Dogs Don't Dream. ONE TWO THREE FOUR!”
And so they started playing. The song was hard, fast and dark:
Arcane Barrier and magic swirls
Cover all that the eye can see
On the street there some evil stirs
Wicked beasts... they're hunting for me!
Sleeping dogs, they don't get to dream,
The magic shield's ripping at the seams
I have no power, no strength in me
Lady in White where have you gone?
Cracked bricks and the old concrete
And evil monster is crawling in
Many limbs and they're grabbing me
Nightmares, pain... and sufferin'!
Sleeping dogs, they don't get to dream,
The magic shield's ripping at the seams
I have no power, no strength in me
Lady in White where have you gone?
Creeping shadow the world is gone
All around is now purple sea
Slime and ooze, I start to drown
Dark and deep... it swallows me!
Sleeping dogs, they don't get to dream,
The magic shield's ripping at the seams
I have no power, no strength in me
Lady in White where have you gone?
They rocked on until barrier reset. The sewage workers turned out to be grateful listeners, and the Huskies even earned themselves a round of applause after every song that night. But Sylvester could only think about his brother and his family. What happened to them? And was this new gangster, the Ragged Wraith, responsible? One thing was for sure – it was time to tap into all of his old sources and find the answer, no matter the cost.