DCU: Split

The van rattled as it rolled through uneven streets, suspension groaning quietly with every dip in the road. The windows were tinted dark, shutting out most of the city, but not enough to hide it completely. What little slipped through was enough—cracked pavement, dim streetlights, buildings that looked like they had been abandoned long before anyone stopped living in them.

Seven men sat packed into the back, gear stowed at their feet, weapons within reach. Their clothing marked them clearly—colors chosen, symbols placed, temporary ink pressed into skin to sell the illusion. To anyone who saw them, they weren't outsiders.

They were the Khadym mob.

One of them leaned back slightly, glancing around at the others before shaking his head. "If the pay wasn't so good," he muttered, "I'd never set foot in this place. I don't get why anyone lives here."

A few of the others gave quiet nods, the tension easing just slightly as someone else spoke up.

"Tell me about it," another said with a short breath of a laugh. "First time I've been here. I heard stories, sure—but this?" He shook his head. "Feels like just breathing the air is enough to make you sick."

"Shut your mouths."

The voice came sharp from the front of the van.

One of the men riding up near the driver had turned slightly, his expression hard, eyes cutting through the low chatter instantly.

"If you get comfortable in this city," he continued, "it will swallow you whole. Stay focused. Stop talking like this is just another job."

The brief moment of levity died just as quickly as it had formed.

One of the men from earlier let out a quiet snort, though he didn't fully meet the leader's gaze. "We can handle thugs," he said under his breath.

The reaction was immediate.

"Do you think no one knows what this place is?" the leader shot back, his voice low but intense. "You think this city just rotted on its own and nobody noticed? The gangs here run everything that matters on the ground. Every street, every block, every corner has someone watching it."

He leaned forward slightly, making sure every one of them was listening.

"If we make a mistake here, we don't get a second chance," he said. "No backup. No cleanup. We disappear."

The van hit another rough patch, the movement rattling through the frame.

"The people here won't care," he added. "They'll see bodies on the pavement and keep walking. That's how it works."

Silence settled over the group now, heavier than before.

"Do not underestimate a single person in this city," he finished.

No one responded.

Outside, the van kept moving, carrying them deeper into it.

The van slowed as it approached the edge of the territory, the driver easing it to a stop without drawing attention. No headlights flashed, no doors slammed. It was controlled, deliberate.

"Out."

The rear doors opened, and the seven men stepped onto the street one by one, boots hitting cracked pavement. The van didn't linger. The moment the last man cleared it, the doors shut and it pulled away, disappearing back the way it came.

For a few seconds, the group stood in silence.

Then they started moving.

They didn't try to hide.

If anything, they did the opposite.

Their voices carried as they walked, conversations loud enough to echo slightly between the buildings. Their accents were thick, deliberate—Eastern European, with a heavy Russian lean. It wasn't subtle, and it wasn't meant to be.

One of them laughed loudly at something that wasn't particularly funny, another responding in kind, the sound cutting through the otherwise quiet street.

They wanted to be noticed.

A man lay slumped against a wall as they passed—a homeless figure, half-conscious or fully gone, it was hard to tell. None of them spared him more than a glance. He didn't matter. Not to them.

They kept moving deeper.

The territory shifted almost imperceptibly. Graffiti changed. Symbols marked walls and doors. The presence of the Rileys wasn't announced outright, but it was there for anyone who knew how to look.

Up ahead, a storefront sat with its lights still on. Three men lingered outside, smoking, their posture loose but aware. They noticed the approaching group quickly enough, the shift in their stance subtle but easy enough for a trained eye to spot.

"Hey," one of them called out, stepping forward slightly. "What are you doing here? Just beca—"

"The don sends his regards."

The response came flat. Gunfire followed immediately.

The Khadym group moved as one, weapons already up, the sound of shots tearing through the quiet street. Two of the Riley men dropped almost instantly, bodies hitting the ground before they could react.

The third wasn't as lucky.

He went down hard, a shot catching him in the side, another tearing through his shoulder. He hit the pavement and tried to move, fingers dragging across the ground as he reached toward the gun that had slipped from his grip.

"We got a live one!" one of the attackers called out, his voice carrying that same forced accent.

"Aye," another replied with a harsh chuckle. "Let him bleed. Riley bastards deserve it."

They didn't step closer. Didn't finish him. The point wasn't to clean it up. It was to leave something behind.

Without breaking stride, two of them turned their attention to the storefront. Weapons came up again, and a full burst of gunfire shattered the glass, rounds tearing through the interior. Shelves splintered. Lights burst. Anything inside that could break did.

One of them pulled a bottle from his gear, already prepped. The cloth at the top caught flame quickly, fire licking upward in the dim light.

He didn't hesitate.

The Molotov arced through the broken front, disappearing inside before the impact.

A second later, flames bloomed.

Heat and light spilled outward, smoke beginning to curl into the street.

"Let's go," the leader said.

No one argued.

They turned and moved, leaving the fire, the bodies, and the bleeding man behind them.

The flames began to take hold quickly, feeding on whatever they could catch inside the storefront. Glass continued to crack and pop under the heat, and thick smoke rolled out into the street, darkening the already dim block.

The wounded man dragged himself another few inches before his strength gave out. His hand fell short of the gun, fingers twitching weakly against the pavement as blood pooled beneath him.

It didn't take long.

Engines roared in the distance, growing louder by the second. Tires screeched as two vehicles cut into the street, stopping hard near the burning storefront. Doors flew open and men spilled out, weapons drawn, eyes scanning before locking onto the scene.

"Liam!"

Two of them rushed forward immediately, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him back, dragging him clear of the spreading flames. He cried out weakly as they moved him, his body barely cooperating.

"What happened?" one of them demanded, dropping to a knee beside him. "Who did this, Liam?"

Liam coughed, blood spilling from his lips as he tried to force words out. His chest hitched, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

"R-Russians…" he managed, voice barely holding together. "Khadym…"

The men around him stiffened at that.

"Came outta nowhere…" Liam continued, his eyes unfocused as he struggled to stay present. "Said… said the don… sends regards…"

His head lolled slightly, but one of the men grabbed his face, forcing him to stay conscious.

"Stay with me," he snapped. "How many?"

Liam blinked slowly, trying to remember. "Seven… maybe…"

Another cough tore through him, weaker this time.

The man beside him stood, turning toward the others, his expression already hardening into something colder.

"Get him out of here," he ordered. "Now."

Two others moved immediately, lifting Liam carefully as they began to pull him toward the vehicles.

Behind them, the fire continued to grow, the storefront collapsing inward piece by piece.

The man in charge looked back at it once, jaw tight.

"Khadym," he muttered, "fucking liars the lot of them!"

***

The second team didn't arrive in a single van.

They came in staggered, two at a time, filtering into the edge of Escabedo territory like they belonged there. Hoodies, jackets, loose fits that hid their gear without looking out of place. By the time all seven were present, they didn't look like a unit. They looked like a handful of men who had drifted into the same block for their own reasons.

Then the leader gave a small nod.

They tightened up and moved.

Their voices carried as they walked, Spanish rolling off their tongues with practiced fluency. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever was—but it was close enough, especially out here where no one expected perfection, just confidence.

"Move faster," one of them muttered, irritation lacing his tone. "I don't want to linger in this place longer than we have to."

Another scoffed. "You think this is bad? You should see the ports further south. This is nothing."

They kept talking, not loudly, but enough to be heard by anyone paying attention.

A couple of figures lingered near a corner ahead, watching them approach. One disappeared inside a nearby building without a word.

Good.

That meant eyes were already on them.

They turned down the next street, deeper into Escabedo ground. The signs were there—subtle markings, tags layered over older ones, territory claimed and reclaimed over time. A mechanic shop sat half-open ahead, light spilling from inside, the low rumble of voices drifting out.

Five men stood near the entrance, one leaning against the wall, the others close by, mid-conversation. They noticed the approaching group almost immediately.

One of them straightened. "Oye," he called out, stepping forward slightly. "You lost or what?"

The group didn't slow.

One of them spat to the side, then looked up, meeting the man's eyes with a thin smile.

"El mensaje viene de arriba."

The message comes from above.

It took half a second for confusion to register. Then the guns came up.

The first burst hit hard and fast, shattering the moment before it could turn into anything else. One of the Escabedo men dropped instantly, another stumbling back as rounds tore through his torso.

One of the mercenaries took a hit to the shoulder but was quickly covered.

The fourth managed to move out of the way but his last friend was shot.

He ducked behind a metal support, a shot grazing his side instead of dropping him outright. He hit the ground hard, scrambling, one hand already reaching under his jacket.

"Got one moving!" someone called out.

"Let him crawl," another replied, voice cold. "He'll talk."

The wounded man tried to bring his weapon up, but a shot cracked against the metal near his head, forcing him down again. His breathing turned ragged, panic setting in as blood began to soak through his shirt.

The attackers didn't press him. They shifted focus. The mechanic shop door was still open.

"Clear it," the leader ordered.

Gunfire ripped into the interior, rounds tearing through tools, walls, anything in sight. Glass shattered somewhere deeper inside, followed by a shout that was cut off just as quickly.

One of the men stepped forward, pulling something from his jacket—a small cylindrical canister. He twisted the top, waited half a second, then lobbed it through the doorway.

It bounced once. Then detonated with a sharp crack.

The blast sent a shockwave through the interior, knocking loose anything that wasn't bolted down. The sound echoed out into the street, louder than the gunfire had been.

"Move," the leader said.

They didn't wait to see the full effect.

The group turned and pulled back the way they had come, pace steady, not rushed they covered their injured in the middle. Behind them, the wounded Escabedo man struggled to stay conscious, his vision blurring as he tried to piece together what had just happened.

By the time Escabedo members arrived minutes later, the street was already settling into aftermath. Engines roared in, doors slammed, men flooding the area with weapons drawn and anger already building.

They found their man near the support beam, barely holding on.

"Who did this?" one of them demanded, dropping beside him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to keep him from slipping away. "Talk!"

The man coughed, blood staining his lips as he forced the words out.

he rasped. "Penitente…"

The name spread quickly between them.

And just like that—Another fire had been lit.

__

A/N: this chapter was supposed to be all of the groups attacking, then I realized the flaw of Kanes plan is if all attacks happen the same night it is very obviously coordinated something Kane SHOULD KNOW. Two is pushing it even, once I realized Kanes fucking idiocy it has plagued me. I apologize. Kanes an idiot it's not my fault in the slightest. Kane ruined this chapter