Most people thought of Brockton Bay as a single city. It wasn't.
That hadn't always been the case, of course. Like most cities on the East Coast, it had been around in some form since the eighteenth century. Maybe it started as a fishing village, maybe a place where natives gathered, maybe as a trading post. It didn't really matter. What had really started it going was the shipping industry, combined with the coal boom. Ships had come across the ocean to buy or sell cargo, and trains had taken that cargo all over the country. Back then, the city had a single purpose, and it expanded in a focused way, everything supporting that growing industry.
Not that the growth had continued forever. The city was blocked in by hills to the north, west, and south, and by the ocean to the east. Not enough to prevent roads and rail-lines, and those same hills went a long way toward explaining the city's unusually mild climate, but it still provided an eventual halt to the city's expansion. So while other cities like New York, Boston, or Chicago had kept growing and growing, becoming massive world-renowned metropolises, Brockton Bay had stagnated.
Then parahumans had arrived. Then the riots happened. Shipping dried up, and villains moved in. The people who had money refocused on tech, banking, or tourism, and everyone else was left to themselves.
And the city had ceased to be one city, and become three.
It wasn't something people thought about much, but nowadays there were only two main roads connecting the Downtown core to the north end of the city. There had been more in the past, straight thoroughfares radiating away from the docks, connecting to each other in a web, welding the trainyards, warehouses, factories, and wharfs to the city center and the money that flowed from it. But after the riots, reconstruction happened, and many of those roads were re-routed, serving the new skyscrapers that were built and, perhaps not incidentally, cutting off the former working-class from the new opportunities that sprang up.
I wasn't sure it had been deliberate, but I also wouldn't have been surprised if someone had told me it was.
Similarly, the south end had sealed itself off from the rest of the city, and in much the same way. The college and the shopping district had expanded, new high-rise apartment blocks had gone up, new high-income housing had been constructed in the hills to the west, and beachfront homes had gone up in place of old industrial areas. And among it all, the straight roads had disappeared.
Brockton Bay was three cities, each with their own industries – or lack thereof – populations, schools, malls, grocery stores, and in many ways their own cultures. Both cape and otherwise.
I walked through streets that just days ago hadn't been mine, my team arrayed behind me. We passed by a Fast'n'Go, a convenience store you'd never see in any other part of the city. The cashier watched us through glass walls, his eyes wide but not afraid. He didn't bolt, or duck under the counter, or even try to make a call. He didn't raise a phone to record us, either, or make a move to follow, to see what might be an 'exciting' fight.
In the north, capes were gangsters, and usually racially-focused ones. If you stumbled across one, you ran. If you saw one in the street, you turned off your lights and hid, hoping they'd go away.
Downtown, capes were entertainers. If you saw one, it was probably one of the city's officially sponsored heroes. A member of the Protectorate or Wards. Chances were they were doing a public event. There were still fights, but the real ones happened at night, out of the public eye.
The South was different yet again. Here, capes were a curiosity. They didn't hassle shopkeepers for protection money, or beat people up if they were the wrong color. They also didn't sign autographs or hold press conferences. They were the dregs that couldn't make it where the big money was, heroes and villains both, slinking around and taking what they could without drawing down the ire of the real capes.
Or maybe I was just feeling tired, uncomfortable, and worried, and I wasn't being fair. After all, we were here now, and I wasn't going to settle for being a dreg. Couldn't. My father wouldn't accept it.
We came to an intersection, and I looked around, orienting myself. I knew the area, but we weren't exactly on the main streets, and the midnight darkness made it a bit tough to read street signs, even with my mask on.
The territory we'd taken from Sixer and Stray was about three blocks long and a bit over one across, centred on the old mechanic's shop they'd run, located in a commercial area that wasn't doing very well. Plenty of empty stores caused by low traffic, all the former customers going to one of the new malls that kept popping up, leaving only specialty stores that did what most malls didn't, or smaller business that served the people that lived in the area. There didn't seem to be any plans to rejuvenate the area, either. Not yet far gone enough to be a blight.
It made for an area without much in the way of residents, except for a couple of older apartment buildings. Lots of room to set up shop, but not many customers. Perfect for a duo that had been about selling their muscle to other villains, or the occasional hero. No so good for much else. I'd wanted it partly because it bordered on the nicer neighborhoods near the beach, but wasn't nice enough itself to have quick response times from the police or PRT. But most importantly, I'd wanted it because it was in easy walking distance of the Falmel.
The problem was, it put us on the map.
"Hey, something wrong?" Chariot asked, breaking my train of thought.
I blinked, focusing. "No, everything's fine," I said.
"Okay," he said. "But you were spacing out, so I kinda figured—"
"It's fine," I said, interrupting him. I started walking again, crossing the street that divided our territory from that of Crossbone and Bonebreaker. "Just going over the plan one last time."
"Do we get to know the plan?" he asked. "Hell, do we get to know why we're doing this at all?"
I stopped again and turned to face him. He held my gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Just—"
"It's fine," I said, interrupting him again. "It's not like I expect you all to go in blind. Just give me a minute to put my thoughts together."
He nodded, and we started moving again.
Unfortunately, there wasn't that much to say. For all my brooding on the subject, and for all that my father had drilled the politics and powers of all the heroes and villains in the south end into my head, the reason for the attack was pretty simple.
We held territory now, and to some extent that gave us leeway. Not as much as it would have in other parts of the city, but some. Other villains would stay out, and make sure none of their business took place nearby. After all, stealing the take of a rival's dealers was a quick, easy way to make some money.
But heroes were kind of the opposite. While most conflict between villains took place on the borders of territories – skirmishes and tagging for the most part – heroes tended to head deeper inside. Looking for those same dealers or gang members, trying to make arrests when they could, and if they were lucky – or unlucky – they might encounter the villains in charge.
That wasn't something I wanted to deal with yet, so to some extent we were flipping the script. Going into territory held – 'protected' – by a pair of heroes, doing to them what they tried to do to other villains.
But then, that was probably the core advantage villains held over heroes, or so my father told me. They— We got to be on the offensive. If the heroes came by on a patrol, villains could be told by their non-powered gang members, or set up cameras, or find some other means of getting an early warning, and then decide to either suit up and confront them, or let them pass by. Turned the other way, villains were also the ones to initiate crimes. Whether it was a bank robbery or pushing a rival villain out of some territory you wanted, it was the same thing. We got to make the plans, and strike anywhere we chose. Heroes could only react.
I knew all that. It all made sense, too.
The problem was, despite how obvious and clear the reasoning was to me – hitting multiple targets in quick succession, putting everyone else on the defensive and keeping any fighting out of our own territory – it still felt a bit...
I grimaced. Villainous. It felt villainous. The kind of cold, calculating villainy that could measure and decide on targets from a purely pragmatic point of view. Hit some local villains because they're strong, and it will make others think twice about engaging. Take their territory because it's in a good position near the base, and because it doesn't have much of a hero presence. Hit the heroes next to them right away, to send a message and force other groups nearby to pull back and hunker down, maintaining the initiative.
All that was missing was a table with a map of the city on it, with little figures to slide around as fights happened and borders changed. It wasn't an image I'd ever wanted associated with me.
Of course, there wasn't any way I could tell the others that.
We crossed another street, and I led us into an alley between a dentist's and a UPS office, both closed for the night. We left the streetlights behind, and I could barely make out the winking skull and crossbones emblem painted on the bricks. We were getting close.
"We're going after Crossbone and Bonebreaker because they're aggressive," I said. True of course, if not the full story. "They like to fight villains, and they're pretty rough about it. If they were the type to go after unpowered criminals, they'd be considered vigilantes, if they weren't in jail. It's what got them kicked out of Downtown. They took on Coil's mercenaries, put a few in the hospital. The next time they got the favor returned, and after they healed up they relocated to here."
"So you're saying that if we didn't go after them, they'd come after us?" Rune asked.
"More or less," I said.
"Would that be so bad?" Turismo asked. He was looking around as we moved, peering into every shadow, little trails of sparkling dust trickling from his fingers. "Let them come, then send them packing."
"We could do it that way," I said, and paused, once again debating how much to say. I opted to continue. "But this sends a better message. We took on Sixer and Stray the night before last, and we got away without any injuries."
"I'll say," Rune said, grinning. "Kicked their asses and sent them running with their tails between their legs."
"I think I get it," Chariot said, more quietly than before, with a little bit of anger. "We take out some of the biggest hitters around, and come out unscathed enough that we can do it all over again the next day. It'll make anyone else think twice before messing with us."
I nodded. "More or less," I repeated.
"Okay, so what about the fight itself?" Turismo asked. "What's the plan there?"
"Not much to it," I said. "Neither of them hit as hard as Sixer or Stray did. Well, Bonebreaker can. He's a brute. He hits hard and can take a punch. But he's no faster than a regular person and he can't do much at range, which makes him pretty simple to deal with. Chariot, if possible, I'd like you to keep him occupied."
"Sure," Chariot said.
"Crossbone's a bit more tricky," I continued. "He's a blaster. Throws big anchors made of energy. They burn if they hit you, and can stick you to things. If that happens, it lets Bonebreaker close in, so avoid that if possible."
"Sounds like good synergy," Turismo said. "And they've been a team for a while, right? Are we expecting this to be a tough fight?"
"Not especially," I said. "They've got some experience, and they work well together, but in the end it's still two against five. Normally Bonebreaker protects Crossbone, but there's enough of us that he won't be able to. Just avoid the anchors, don't get reckless, and we'll win easily enough."
Nobody said anything after that, but the silence was less uncomfortable than it had been. Even Chariot seemed less unhappy.
More of my father's words came to mind. The first job of a leader is to be confident.
There'd been more to it, of course. There always was, with him. Always another example or piece of advice. Still, I hadn't planned it that way, but if showing my own confidence was going to increase everyone else's, I wasn't going to complain.
We passed out of the alley and into a small parking lot, bounded on two sides by a short concrete wall topped with a chain-link fence, and on the other by a few buildings and another alley, wider, presumably what cars used to get in and out of the space. It would have made a good place to fight, away from any potential collateral damage except for a few parked cars, but sadly that wasn't likely to happen.
One of the problems with fighting heroes, and a reason they were able to stick around in a city where the villains outnumbered them so heavily, was that they rarely had much to protect. Or at least nothing of the sort villains could strike at. Similarly they didn't tend to have obvious places of business, areas they needed to regularly show up at, where they could reliably be found. If you wanted to attack them you had to do it while they were out and about, patrolling, or already in the middle of an attack.
Villains might always be on the offensive, choosing the place to attack – or not, as they chose – but in a way, heroes were the ones that got to choose the time.
Of course, as with everything that involved capes, there were exceptions. Ways to break the rules, whatever they might be.
"Vasistha?"
"They're close," she said, speaking for the first time since we'd set out. "That way."
I followed her pointing finger, trying to bring up a map of the area in my head.
"Near the little mini-mall?" I asked. "The one with the doughnut place?"
"Yes," she said. "They just passed it. They're moving, but not fast. That way." She gestured again, indicating their path of travel.
I nodded, thinking. It was about as I'd expected. The pair patrolled 'their' territory most nights, before moving out in search of trouble. Unusual for heroes. They didn't usually hold territory in the way villains did. No easy way to make money from it. My father figured that some local businesses had likely pooled together some money to pay them to do it. Not common, but it did happen. The other option was that they lived in the area and were just stupid enough to start every patrol in their own neighborhood. Again, that did happen from time to time.
Well, if that was the case, they were going to be even more unhappy when we kicked them out, though they'd have only themselves to blame.
"We'll intercept them out in the street," I said. "It's as open an area as we're going to get, and that just works to our advantage here."
The others nodded, and we set off.
Roads in Brockton Bay were rarely that wide. No space for it. Almost none were more than two lanes, and there wasn't a single real freeway. But a road was still a road, and when the five of us stepped around a corner and started marching toward the surprised figures of Bonebreaker and Crossbone, it gave them plenty of time to act and a clear line of sight toward us.
They took it. Unlike with Sixer and Stray, there was no talking. Even if they hadn't heard of us yet, five capes showing up by surprise wasn't likely to mean anything good, and fight or flight really were the only choices they had.
A glowing red anchor shot toward us, five feet across and trailing a silent chain of light, but it only hit asphalt. It sank in nearly a foot, sending up smoke that smelled like tar.
I started jogging forward even as Crossbone released the chain, stepping back and getting into what I assumed had to be a shooting stance. One of the weaknesses to his power was that the origin point of the chain was along his inner thigh, meaning he couldn't run and maintain fire. As the chain hit the ground it started sputtering and jerking, disappearing link by link. It reminded me a bit of a fuse, and I felt a flash of worry, but I hadn't heard about the anchors detonating or anything like that. More likely it acted as a timer, the anchor disappearing once the links were gone. Did that mean they lasted longer the further he threw them? I could see it.
It was good information, but I didn't have much time to process it. I dodged another anchor through enhanced instinct, slashing at the chain with my heat axe, but it had no effect, passing through harmlessly. Bonebreaker was up next, charging forward, encased in an ornate shell of pale bone, all curls and whorls. He was intimidating. Not much taller than me even in his armor, but much wider, and his feet pounded an audible rhythm on the street as he rushed to meet me.
I wasn't alone, though. Chariot came up behind me, then sped ahead, wheeled boots sparking off the ground as he zigged and zagged, tossing handfuls of metal spheres covered in blinking LEDs into Bonebreaker's path.
He might have been a brute, but he wasn't a fool, and the hero slowed, checking his momentum through sheer brawn and turning aside, away from the spheres that rolled toward him. I took the opportunity to break in the other direction, speeding up and heading for Crossbone. Behind me, I could hear Turismo doing the same.
"Crud!" Bonebreaker swore, turning on us, but I ignored him, leaving him for Chariot. The sound of squealing tires and a sudden crashing impact told me it was the right decision.
Another anchor came at me as Crossbone backpedalled, accurate enough that I doubted it was panic fire. The focused set of his mouth below his plastic visor – not pirate themed, thankfully – told me the same.
I raised my gun for a moment, but didn't fire. Crossbone was wearing body armor, and he'd probably have been fine, if injured, but 'probably' wasn't a good word when talking about bullets. The hesitation let him throw another anchor my way, but I was already dodging when it appeared, turning my rush into more of a flanking attack, jogging around him, keeping some distance.
Turismo did the same, circling in the other direction, trying to get behind him, but Crossbone was too experienced for that. He didn't stand still, or backpedal, or keep throwing anchors when they obviously weren't hitting. Once again he showed his experience by sprinting right through the gap we'd made, heading straight for Bonebreaker.
Turismo didn't let him. He tossed a handful of his dust, the heavy particles moving much faster and in a much longer arc than I'd have expected, coating Crossbone's back and part of his legs, with the spilloff scattering onto the road. The hero cursed, stumbling and clawing at his back as the dust sparked and popped, sending his legs twitching, but he didn't fall.
It was enough to let me catch up again, and I moved in. Crossbone spun on me, clearly hearing my approach, and threw another anchor. Not at me, this time, but at the ground in front of him; it stuck there, five feet across and nearly as tall, a barricade I couldn't easily get around.
My jaw clenched for a moment before I could force it to relax. That wasn't a tactic I'd considered, when hearing about his power.
"Kids," Crossbone muttered, eyes shifting from Turismo to me and back as he finished shaking the dust off his costume, moving to keep the anchor between him and us. "You've all got plenty of get up and go, but you don't have the experience to back it up."
I didn't answer, too busy watching the anchor's chain disappearing, shortening toward nothing. It wouldn't be long. I risked a look toward Bonebreaker, but he was still a good distance back down the road, flailing at Chariot as the tinker danced around him, speeding up and changing direction quickly and randomly enough that I could barely keep my eyes on him. So we had time.
The last link of the chain burst, and the anchor flickered and twisted, then disappeared. I charged, but Crossbone had clearly been expecting that, and slammed another anchor down on the road in front of him, and I backpedalled, getting ready to go around the side.
I didn't notice until too late that this anchor didn't have a chain. It disappeared almost as soon as it hit the road, and Crossbone rushed through the space it had occupied, barrelling into me full-on, taking us both down to the ground.
The back of my helmet bounced off the asphalt, the impact still enough to jar me. Using my momentary disorientation, Crossbone sat up, knees clenched to my ribs, and raised his hands in what looked like a boxing guard. I swung my heat axe without thinking, but Crossbone blocked it, his forearm meeting my forearm and forcing the glowing blade away from him, careful not to touch it. He grinned, his power ready to fire, and it wasn't a nice expression.
My eyes widened, and I had a moment of sharp clarity, my mind accelerating, taking in every detail around me. I could see the cracks in Crossbone's visor, several held together with tape, and the way his dark hair hung around his neck, greasy and stringy. His body armor was the cheap kind, probably from a military surplus store, which made me glad I'd decided against shooting him. I noticed his ratty jeans had metal pads on the knees, and his ripped denim jacket had more of the same on his elbows. I noticed the red light swirling around his legs, about to form and anchor that would pin me to the street, and probably roast a straight line through my chest at the same time, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I also noticed when his mouth dropped open in surprise, and he jerked downward, as if trying to duck under something that wasn't there. I went with the motion, bucking my hips and doing my best to throw him off me, turn his duck into a full roll, but his knees were clamped on too tight. He steadied himself with a hand on the ground beside my head – the same hand that had been about to form the anchor, thankfully – and used the other to punch me in the jaw, snapping my head to the side. He hit me again, and a third time, before rolling off me and stepping away, weaving side-to-side. I didn't realize why until I saw Turismo move into view, tossing handfuls of dust toward Crossbone one after another.
Turismo stopped beside me and reached down, extending a hand, and I felt a sudden flash, like electricity hitting my forehead. I reached out, but instead of letting him pull me up, I pulled him down on top of me, just in time for an anchor to flash over us. He froze, face stuck halfway between angry and terrified, then scrambled to his feet.
I followed a moment later. "Don't let your guard down," I told Turismo as we squared off again. "He won't."
"Good advice," Crossbone said, speaking loud enough for us both to hear him. "But that's not gonna—"
He was cut off by the empty paint can that fell on him from above. It clanged off his skull and he went down in a heap. An old couch followed a moment later, breaking apart as it hit him, burying him in broken wood and upholstery. A trash can followed that, then a number of garbage bags, bits of scrap lumber, an old cabinet, and a shower of other junk I couldn't identity. Then, in an impact which shook the ground – and my skull – a metal dumpster cratered down a few feet beside the pile.
Once my ears had stopped ringing, I realized the fight was over. Crossbone was buried and possibly unconscious, and Bonebreaker was frozen in place, staring at the garbage that covered his teammate.
"Hey assfuck! Yeah you! Up here! I got plenty for you too!" I glanced up to see Rune floating in the air about forty feet up, standing on the top of another dumpster – still full – and jabbing a finger toward Bonebreaker. Two more dumpsters floated nearby, equally full. Vasistha stood on top of one, a broken lamp in one hand and a garbage bag in the other.
"You little cunt!" he shouted, but was cut off by Vasistha throwing the garbage bag at him. He swiped it aside, shredding it and sending the contents scattering down the street.
Rune laughed, loud and mocking, and I saw Bonebreaker tense up, his armored shell flexing and creaking.
"I think we can agree that this is the end," I said, raising my voice and walking toward Bonebreaker. He snarled and started toward me, Chariot moving in his wake, but I just raised my gun and pulled the trigger. The buzzing snarl and the dozen impacts against his chest stopped him cold, and he raised his arms to defend himself.
"Your teammate is hurt," I said. "Out of the fight. But we're all still standing. You're tough, but there's five of us, and we have the firepower to take you down."
"Yeah, well maybe you do," he said. In the quiet, I noticed that his voice was very... normal, despite his appearance. He sounded angry, and a bit tired, but that was it. "But I can guaran-fucking-tee it'll—"
I swung my gun toward the pile of garbage burying Crossbone, and he stopped talking. His fists clenched and unclenched, but he didn't speak.
"We're taking this territory," I said. "It's ours, one way or another. What condition you're in when we lay claim to it doesn't matter to me."
"That's what this is?" Bonebreaker asked. "You want Freely Street?"
I nodded, my gun still trained on Crossbone.
"Little bastard," he said. "So, I agree to leave, and I get to take Crossbone with me?"
"More or less," I said. "You choose to leave, and that's the end of this. You don't, and it isn't."
"And what if I say I'll do it, then just take my buddy and stay anyway?"
"You get another few days here, I suppose," I said. "Then we come back, and evict you more permanently."
He grunted, then turned and spit on the ground, his armor's jaw moving to accommodate the action. "Fuck it. We've moved before. We'll go. But don't expect us to play nice the next time."
"That's fine," I said. "As long as you don't expect us to, either."
He grunted again, but didn't say any more. I sheathed my axe and gun, then gestured. Turismo and Chariot moved over to me, falling in as I walked away, careful to keep an eye on Bonebreaker as I did. He didn't move, though, apart from turning his head to track us as we went. Then we turned a corner, and he was out of sight.
I stopped and held up a hand, cocking my head to listen. I could hear Bonebreaker as he stomped over to the garbage pile and started tossing pieces of it aside.
"Are we not leaving?" Chariot asked in a low voice.
"We are," I said. "I just wanted to make sure Bonebreaker wouldn't try for an ambush."
"Oh," was all he said in response.
I nodded, and started walking again. Soon enough, Rune joined us, lowering her dumpsters to the ground in a messy cluster, uncaring of where she was dropping them. I didn't comment, just holding a hand out to her to help her get down. She took it with a grin, then hopped down carefully. I did the same for Vasistha, who climbed down somewhat slower.
"Alright guys, listen up." Their heads all turned to me, attention undivided. "Now that we have some more territory, we're going to have to start making our presence known. We don't have to do a lot, just fly the flag. We're still pretty new around here, so don't be cocky. Mix up your routes and don't hang around one place too long; we can handle any of the locals, but I don't want any of us to get into it with the PRT just yet. Everyone got it so far?"
At the sign of their nods, I continued.
"Turismo, Rune, you two will patrol together. Chariot and I will alternate with you two. Vasistha, your power lets you keep an eye on the area, but it's better most people don't know you're here. Like a ghost."
"That all, Red?" Turismo asked.
"Yeah, I think that's it. If you have any questions, now would be the time."
"So," Rune said, clasping her hands behind her back and looking up at me. "Would you really have killed him?"
There was a moment of silence as everyone looked to me. I glanced around, but apart from Turismo – who didn't look like he cared – costumes prevented me from reading anyone's expression.
Still, I knew the answer mattered. It was something that would define us as a team, and whatever I said there were going to be disadvantages. More, whatever I said, this wasn't going to unify us. There wasn't any way to satisfy everyone, even if I'd known what they all wanted me to say. My father's advice echoed in my head.
Never bluff. If you're called out, carry through. You can never be unsure. Never let them doubt you, or your word.
"Yes," I lied.
The response was almost anticlimactic. Nobody exploded, or protested angrily. Nobody even spoke. I waited for a second, looking around again, meeting everyone's eyes. Then I started walking again, and they all fell in behind me.
Okay, I thought, trying to find a distraction. One more fight won. A couple more blocks of territory. What next?
I wasn't an easy question to answer. We had more territory now, or would as soon as it was known we'd kicked the heroes out of it – assuming they actually left, which I thought they would – but what did that mean? Yes, we had some extra leeway now. Villains wouldn't attack us because we'd taken out heroes. Heroes wouldn't attack us because there was nothing to target. Both of them would be wary because we'd just won two fights back-to-back. But we still weren't any closer to making any money from it.
It might be possible to come to a protection arrangement similar to what the hero duo had with the locals, assuming that had actually been what they were doing. It would be tricky, though. Options of selling drugs or running escorts was also still on the table, though that would inevitably cause friction in the team, and if I was honest I didn't think I could force myself to go that route anyway.
The simple fact was that the options villains had to make money were limited, if potentially very lucrative, and they tended to boil down to either stealing things or selling illegal goods or services. Even running protection fell into that category, from a certain point of view. So in a way our options were pretty simple. The problem was that none of them really appealed to me. Even if we limited ourselves to stealing from other villains, that wasn't going to be a sustainable strategy, and probably not all that profitable of one in the first place. It wasn't like most villains kept their cash hidden in a mattress in their lair or something.
Well, I knew a few in the city that might. Uber and Leet, for starters. Cold Snap. Skidmark. Slapshot, maybe. But none of them worked in the south end, and running heists in other parts of the city, against villains or not, sent a message we couldn't afford.
I stifled a frustrated sigh as we passed back into our territory, and out of our soon-to-be territory. It wasn't like we were short on money or anything. My father had been more than generous when outfitting us, and I had enough cash on hand to pay the others and cover any potential expenses for at least a few months. It wasn't like I'd be asked to pay it back or anything, either. That wasn't my father's style. In fact, if we did run out of cash, I was certain he'd be happy to give me more. As much as I needed. Millions, even. Maybe more.
To most it'd probably seem a bit backwards, lending money just so that I could return a fraction to him at the end of the month, but that wasn't his game, and we both knew it. He wanted to groom me, get me used to doing what I had to do to turn a profit so that, eventually, he could use me in a more practical sense. That's how it would start: a few suggestions, maybe a few offers for cash or equipment whenever I was behind my dues. But they would come with strings attached. Not obvious ones. Not ones where I'd even notice the tug, probably. No, the strings would be in the form of suggestions, and any punishment for resisting would be disappointment at most. But disappointment that would spread. Pass to others. Alter how they acted around me. How they perceived me. Maybe it would even infect the team. If I kept fighting long enough, maybe they'd even turn on me. And then my father would be there again, to help me pick myself up. The only one still on my side. Still willing to provide what I needed, and advise me.
No, I didn't want that. Of course, it wasn't something I could avoid completely, or forever. But I could cut off as many avenues to it as possible. Keep my team loyal. Establish my reputation for myself. Win fights.
But first, and most pressing, was money.