Chapter 10 The Bay

  Fucking Chad. The audacity. Friend? That guy was as much my friend as a boot was to an ant. And Mindy? If she knew half the shit Chad pulled, she’d think twice about calling him a “good guy.” That bastard was one of the reasons I dropped out of school. Grade 12... so close to the finish line. Just one more push and I could’ve graduated.

  College was never in the cards, but finishing senior high would’ve meant something. A little credibility. A shred of proof that I wasn’t completely useless. But no, Chad and his goons made sure of that.

  I walked aimlessly, the thoughts gnawing at me, feeding my anger. By the time I stopped, the sound of waves greeted me. The bay stretched out in front of me, its orange glow reflecting the setting sun. I sat on the sand, jeans be damned, and stared at the horizon.

  The sand was damp and gritty, but I didn’t care. I plopped down right there, jeans be damned, and stared out at the sunset. The warm orange hues spilling over the water should’ve been relaxing, but all I felt was this gnawing resentment bubbling up inside me.

  I could still remember it all, every single thing. The name-calling, the shoving, the sneers in the hallways. “Freak,” they’d say. “Mama’s boy,” “loser,” “nobody.” And Chad? Chad wasn’t just a part of it, he was the ringleader.

  It wasn’t just words, either. The “accidental” spills on my uniform, the sharp elbows in the middle of a crowded classroom, and the worst of all, holding back. That was what really got to me. I couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t defend myself without exposing what I was.

  And oh, the gangs. That school was practically their playground, a recruitment ground masquerading as an educational institution. Teachers turned a blind eye, either too scared or too apathetic to do anything. Kids too scared to say no, too desperate to matter, joined up for protection. I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it, but saying no had its price too.

  You’d think a place like that would attract heroes, someone to clean it up, but no. Heroes didn’t bother with low-stakes stuff like high school gangs. "Bunch of dickwads, that's what they are..."

  I kicked at the sand, watching it scatter in front of me. What was I even doing? Sitting here, letting old ghosts haunt me? I shook my head, but the memories kept coming.

  The time Chad and his buddies cornered me after class, slamming me into the lockers, saying I should “know my place.” Or that one week where they spread rumors about me being a rat, making sure even the few acquaintances I had kept their distance.

  It was a miracle I lasted as long as I did.

  And then Mom... her problems started getting worse, and I couldn’t even count on home to be a safe place. Between her drunken tirades and Chad’s constant torment, I was running on fumes. Add a very recently dead Mom… No wonder I cracked.

  I picked up a small rock and tossed it into the waves, watching it disappear.

  "What a time to break bad..."

  What was I expecting, though? For someone to swoop in and save me? No one ever did. Not when Dad left. Not when Mom hit rock bottom. And sure as hell not when I dropped out.

  I let out a bitter laugh. "Friend," Chad had said. What a joke. If he were my friend, then I would be a saint.

  The waves rolled in and out, their rhythm steady and indifferent. It was calming, in a way. A reminder that the world didn’t care about my problems. It just kept moving.

  But me? I was stuck. Stuck in the same cycle of anger, bitterness, and survival.

  I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. If I ever got out of this mess, if I ever made something of myself, it wouldn’t be because of people like Chad or Mindy. It’d be because of me.

  And I’d make damn sure of that.

  I stood up, brushing the sand off my jeans and shaking my head at how ridiculous I probably looked. But in this moment, I felt clarity, a rare kind that didn’t come often these days.

  “Okay,” I muttered to myself, feeling the words solidify in my mind. “I’ve decided.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  If I was going to survive, no, thrive, I needed to get serious about the cape business. No more half-measures, no more aimless robberies, and no more running around in my hoodie and ratty sneakers. If I wanted to make something out of myself, I needed ambition. A goal.

  I stretched my arms and rolled my shoulders, feeling the ache from earlier. “First,” I said out loud, my voice firm, “I’ll need to address my wardrobe. A proper costume, something that actually screams ‘professional’ instead of ‘wannabe crook.’”

  I didn’t know what it would look like yet, but it needed to be practical and intimidating. Something that could give me an edge, not just in combat but in reputation.

  “Second,” I continued, pacing a little now, “let’s try a hand at joining a gang. Not as some grunt, though. I need leverage, a position where I can grow.”

  Alfred’s gang came to mind, but they were small-time. They had muscle, sure, but no real ambition beyond shaking down the desperate. If I wanted to climb higher, I’d need to aim for a crew with bigger aspirations, preferably one with capes on their roster.

  I clenched my fists, the thought stirring something in me. If I played my cards right, I could build myself up. Start as an asset, rise through the ranks, and maybe, just maybe, carve out my own empire. "Hah, who am I kidding? I should be happy enough if I managed to carve my own little space."

  It was nice to have a vision.

  But I couldn’t rush this. The world of villains was cutthroat, and one wrong move could see me dead or worse.

  My mind was already spinning with possibilities. Who could I reach out to? What would they want from someone like me? And most importantly, how could I make myself indispensable?

  The stars above twinkled faintly, their light barely cutting through the city’s haze. They felt so far away, but then again, so did everything worth having.

  I nodded to myself. “Yeah… this could work.”

  For the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of purpose. It wasn’t clean or noble, but it was mine. I patted the last bits of sand off my jeans, took a deep breath, and started walking home.

  Tomorrow, I’d start putting my plan into motion. If the world wanted to treat me like a villain, I’d play the part.

  But on my terms.

  The bus ride home felt slower than usual, probably because my mind was racing ahead of me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the gangs, the city, and the path I was about to carve for myself. By the time I unlocked my door, the decision was cemented.

  I grabbed an old map of Markend from one of the drawers, spread it out on my desk, and pulled out a handful of notebooks and pens from my school days. My handwriting was still neat, a remnant of when I used to care about grades. Now, it was all about survival and ambition.

  Sitting down, I began sketching out everything I knew about the gangs in Markend. Being born and raised here, I’d seen the gritty underbelly of the city firsthand. Mom’s stories from her days with the SRC had given me insight. Sure, some of it was probably outdated, but it was a starting point.

  The major gangs came first. Three names stood out immediately: Murder of Crows, Pride, and Seamark.

  Murder of Crows...

  They weren’t like most gangs. The Great Immigration brought them here, and they thrived by staying scattered, mobile, and secretive. They operated like an underground network rather than a traditional gang. Their reach stretched across the city, with safehouses and resources popping up in the most unexpected places. Joining them would mean blending into their shadowy web, but their lack of a centralized presence could also mean fewer opportunities to rise.

  Pride...

  The Pride was an entirely different beast. Fascists and old-money royals from up north formed their core, clinging to delusions of superiority. Their stronghold was in the northern part of Markend, though most of their dealings happened in the west. They were structured, disciplined, and deeply entrenched in the city's elite. Joining them was out of the question. Their politics made my stomach churn, and even if they didn’t, I’d stick out like a sore thumb. No, I wanted power, but not at the cost of selling my soul.

  Seamark...

  Then there was Seamark. They were the most "Markend" of the major gangs, born from the docks and the city’s maritime history. They controlled a portion of the bay and some neighboring territories, which made them formidable players in smuggling and contraband. Seamark had deep roots and local pride, but they also had plenty of enemies. They might be worth looking into if I wanted to stay local.

  I grabbed a pen and began marking their territories on the map. Murder of Crows didn’t have a fixed area, but I circled places I knew they frequented. Pride owned the north but had their fingers in businesses to the west. Seamark’s domain hugged the docks and the bay, spilling into nearby neighborhoods.

  After the major gangs, I started listing the minor ones. Some were affiliated with the big players, others neutral, and a few were mysteries even to me. My mom’s knowledge of the city's criminal scene was a goldmine, but I knew things had likely changed in the years since she’d been active.

  Still, one thing was certain: joining the Pride was off the table. I underlined it twice in my notes for good measure.

  “Too clean, too rigid, too disgusting,” I muttered to myself. "I know I hold myself sometimes to a double standard, but fascists are a no-no."

  My pen hovered over Seamark's territory on the map. Joining them would mean I wouldn’t have to look far from home. They had resources, connections, and local loyalty. On the other hand, the Murder of Crows intrigued me. Their secrecy and adaptability felt like a good match for someone with my powers.

  I leaned back in my chair, staring at the map. This wasn’t a decision to rush. Gangs were dangerous, but the right one could give me the leverage I needed to survive, thrive, and maybe even take control.

  For now, I’d do more research, maybe scope out a few places. With any luck, I’d find my opening.

  "One step at a time," I whispered, folding the map carefully. Ambition wasn’t built in a day.