The last time Yamamoto came to this city, he had been greeted by chaos. The streets were burning, sirens splitting the night sky, always punctuated by the staccato of gunfire and the low rumble of things crashing, exploding, and crumbling underfoot.
Brockton Bay had been a city at war with itself, clinging to life amidst the violence. Now, as he returned, the quiet was unnerving. The eerie stillness blanketed the city like a shroud. Not even the wind dared to disturb the silence, and he couldn't help but wonder—what had changed?
This time, he didn't bother with his usual slow walk, where he would take in the sights as a mundane man might. No, this time he moved with purpose. A brief flex of his reiatsu, and a single shunpo brought him to the front of his house. He halted, his features settling into a frown the moment the familiar scent of blood reached his senses.
His eyes cracked open, pale red eyes revealed. He scanned the area as the smell triggered a flicker of recognition.
"Yamamoto-sama, you're back," Sachiko greeted him, her voice oddly composed as she opened the door just as he arrived.
"What happened here?" he asked, though a part of him already knew the answer.
She gave him a puzzled look before responding. "You did. Before you disappeared with the other heroes, you… killed the majority of the Slaughterhouse Nine present."
"Oh," he replied, his tone betraying nothing. He had forgotten that. The memory of such insignificant whelps had slipped away, lost in the ashes of countless other foes. If he had been forced to remember every arrogant fool he'd reduced to dust, he would've turned senile by now.
A low hum of reiatsu stirred around him as he probed the surroundings. He was still recovering from using multiple #90 Kido, but even with diminished reserves, the city held no threats worth his attention. His frown deepened, the silence pressing in on him. He'd expected resistance, opportunistic scavengers, and perhaps the rest of this so called Nine. Instead, the absence of danger left him unsettled.
"So quiet," he muttered to himself. The city had once been a cacophony of battle, the sound of destruction ringing out like a constant drumbeat. Now, it felt as though it had forgotten how to scream. A faint reiatsu flickered on the edges of his awareness, mundane and insignificant. He dismissed it almost immediately.
Sachiko stepped closer, her eyes cautious. "Since you and the others vanished, there hasn't been much left to fight. I heard the rest of the Nine scattered, and the Teeth, the ones who had hired them, have been under siege by Marquis."
"That explains the peace," Yamamoto murmured, though he knew better. It wasn't peace—it was silence. And silence was always temporary. His eyes flickered briefly, searching the distance for something, someone. As always, Sachiko read his thoughts before he voiced them.
"The kids spotted a few of the Empire's thugs lurking on the outskirts, but they've been keeping them at bay. None of their capes actually came. What's left of our local gangs have handled the rest."
The Empire. The group consisted of the bold fool who had tried to stand tall and the prideful whelp who had sought vengeance.
Brushing past Sachiko, Yamamoto entered the house. His sandaled feet clicked against the floor, each step echoing in the stark emptiness of the space. "How long has it been?" he asked, though curiosity, not concern, drove the question.
"Nearly an hour," Sachiko answered, closing the door softly behind him. "Long enough that some began to worry. Word reached us of Behemoth's attack on Lyons, but it's too soon to know what became of the battle. Are you well?"
Yamamoto let out a quiet hum, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. "Do not trouble yourself. I simply tested its mettle and found it wanting."
Sachiko hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching his, but she did not press. There was something there—an unspoken question, perhaps even a flicker of doubt—but Yamamoto cared little for it. The truth would reveal itself in time, or perhaps it would be hidden away, just as such people often did. Either way, it mattered not.
"The supplicant and his whelp in armor of steel?"
Sachiko blinked in surprise before recovering smoothly. "They were airlifted shortly after you disappeared." So the man might still draw breath then.
He paused in the center of the room, surveying the space with a final glance. "I will need to rest," he said, his voice firm. "I am not to be disturbed."
Chiyo bowed, her respect unwavering despite her lingering uncertainty. "Of course. I'll ensure the children know not to intrude."
"However," Yamamoto interrupted her just as she turned to leave, "there are debts to be settled, and insults to be answered. How do I contact this… PRT you've spoken of?"
Marquis had been under siege before. The Empire, the Protectorate, and even those fast rising upstarts; the Brockton Bay Brigade had all attempted to stake their claim in his territory. They'd scouted often, testing his defenses, always circling like vultures.
Unlike the other superpowered factions, the Marché was sustained by a single individual: him. That fact alone made him the target of constant pressure, forcing him to stay on the defensive, always ready, always poised. It was a ceaseless annoyance. Yet, beneath that, a challenge. It kept him sharp. But even he wouldn't be foolish enough to let an opportunity slip by when it arrived.
Three of the Slaughterhouse Nine were dead with the remaining either captured or running. Their leader had disappeared alongside half the Protectorate roster and that old man. An old man that Marquis had been forced to raise his threat ratings for, considering he single-handedly murdered three of the Nine, with what witnesses claimed to be an effortless act.
The old man had gone from a curiosity with the potential to be used, to a peer with that single act. He had proved that his altercation and defeat over Krieg and Iron Rain had been no fluke, no mistake, no stroke of luck.
Just like Marquis, he had shown himself to be a lone powerhouse, a single focus point powerful enough to truly change the tide in any fight he found himself in, which made it all the more important that he had the meeting with the old man. If he somehow survived his spontaneous visit to Behemoth.
Gunshots rang out, forcing him out of his contemplation. He looked outside the window of the car he sat in and observed the goings-on with a bored stare. Gunfire, chaos, bodies—nothing new.
Marquis had experienced sieges before, but this time was different. For the first time, he was the one laying down the siege. He teetered on the edge of breaking the Endbringer truce with this act—though, given that the Teeth were a pack of mad dogs who never bothered to show up for the fights, he felt there was enough leeway to proceed without consequence. After all, their presence meant they hadn't diminished their strength by sending forces to confront the Endbringer.
The Teeth had fortified themselves in a refurbished warehouse. Peaking through slits and windows. It was defended by horribly dressed men and women, clad in bone trinkets.
Polished Skulls worn as helmets. Ribcages crudely strapped across their chests, femurs tied to their shins, ulnae, and radii wielded as gauntlets. It was a macabre display that still managed to look off-putting to someone like him, whose powers revolved around the same thing.
On the other side of the battlefield were his own men. Dressed in neatly pressed suits, their movements precise, clinical. Where the Teeth's ground forces fired wildly in bursts of primal panic, his enforcers operated with efficiency—every shot deliberate, every action measured.
At first, it had been almost entertaining, watching the clash from the safety of his car. This was what he had trained his men for, after all. But entertainment faded quickly when faced with a reinforced bunker, no matter how savage the defenders.
He'd heard it said that a hundred men could repel a thousand if they had a well-fortified position. Today was proving that adage correct. The warehouse stood tall despite the relentless barrage, and the Teeth's thugs, as crude and undisciplined as they were, had entrenched themselves.
Another volley of gunfire erupted, and this time a scream followed. Marquis turned his head slightly, just in time to witness one of the Teeth's foot soldiers tumble from a third-floor window. The man hit the ground with a satisfying thud, the dull wet sound a body slamming into the ground alongside the crack of broken bones echoing through the chaos. A small smile curled at the corner of Marquis' lips.
But his amusement was short-lived. Another thug, clad in his grotesque bone armor, immediately filled the fallen man's place. The savagery persisted.
"Enough," Marquis decided, his voice low but firm as he stepped out of the car.
The gunfire halted from both ends. He stepped out fully and smoothed his long hair back, which made the bone white featureless mask he wore all the more clear against his darker locks and skin. Unlike his regular attire of lace and frills, this time he was dressed as a statement.
A black suit, to match the ones his enforcers wore, an act that bolstered them. And a black overcoat hung over his shoulders. He put his hands in his pockets and began a slow walk forward, stopping at the reinforced barrier to block incoming bullets that his enforcers had fashioned.
"Come out Butcher. I'm tired of this whole farce, and I would like to crush your little cult sooner rather than later." Of course, he didn't add that the reason he was in a hurry and had decided to end this himself was because he had only thirty minutes left to be back in the house to watch Amelia's favorite cartoon beside her.
The last time he had missed it, she had refused to speak to him for a day. A whole day. His trigger had nothing on the suffering and heartache he went through that day.
There was no reply, even though he could clearly see multiple goons watching him from the window. His foot began to tap against the floor as he let out a sigh. A gunshot rang out, and without bothering with a gesture, a shield formed of bone appeared in front of him.
"Hmm," he observed the cracks that had formed in the shield. His bones had a durability that was on the same level as steel, so for it to have suffered this much damage, it couldn't have been an opportunistic attack. It was a well-calculated strike, most likely fired from a sniper. Butcher?
"Boss?" a lieutenant called out. The man almost stuck his head out of hiding to return fire, but Marquis waved him off.
"I'm fine."
That is what he got for trying to be an honorable man in a city full of the mad, the cruel, and the petty. A smirk tore across his face, hidden as it was by his plain mask. It was a good thing that beneath his veneer of placidity, he was just as mad and cruel.
"Oh well, posterity would note I tried," he remarked flippantly. He needed to give the people watching in hidden corners a show after all. So he snapped his fingers, and everyone hidden in the warehouse died.
Screams erupted, echoing in the sudden, oppressive silence as their armor turned against them. Helmets fashioned from the skulls of their victims, breastplates fortified with ribs—what had once been their protection now became their tombs. It was difficult to manipulate the bones of the living. But the dead, their remains no longer fiercely guarded and bent to his will with ease. While sitting in the car earlier, he had spent his time pinpointing each exposed bone, laying the groundwork for this grisly finale.
The commotion was brief. Seconds later, they were replaced by an eerie stillness as Marquis strode forward. Two of his enforcers, faster to recover than the rest, rushed ahead and forced the gate open with remarkable, ruthless efficiency.
He gave them a small, grateful nod as he stepped into the charnel house.
The exterior of the warehouse had been sturdy—reinforced walls, layers of brick and steel. Inside, however, was hollow, a vast space supported by metal walkways crisscrossing the upper floors. His men hesitated at the entrance, the sheer scale of the carnage freezing them in place. The smell of fresh blood, the twisted, contorted bodies, and the grotesque display of bones sprouting from every surface overwhelmed their senses. Marquis, unfazed, continued forward. His polished shoes squelched through blood as he stepped over the corpses that littered his path.
He stopped in the center of the room.
Forty-five men and women had been inside. Now they all hung in the air, crucified on grotesque, twisted spurs of bone that had impaled and lifted them like macabre trophies. Some still breathed—barely—dragging ragged gasps through perforated lungs. A slower death than he usually allowed, but their decision not to wear the skull helmets had spared them the instant demise that had claimed the rest.
Footsteps sounded behind him, tentative and hesitant. Marquis glanced back, taking in the pale face of the approaching figure. It took him a second to place the man, the pistol dangling uselessly at his side. Recognition flickered.
"You're the diplomat," Marquis said, his voice tinged with bemusement.
The man blinked, dazed and confused. Marquis, of course, had never bothered to learn his name, afterall his daughter's interruption had been the only reason the man was still breathing.
"Yes, sir," the man answered, accepting the name as if it were his own.
Marquis let his gaze drift. "Which Butcher is this, by the way?"
The diplomat blinked again, trying to focus. "I believe this is the Third."
"Ah, that explains things," Marquis mused aloud. He barely noticed the man's look of confusion before his hand shot out, grabbing the diplomat by the collar. With a sharp twist, Marquis flung him aside just as a blood-soaked figure descended from the rafters, slamming a cleaver into the spot where the diplomat had been standing.
Marquis stood still, observing the maddened man before him, the Butcher. Blood-red eyes gleamed beneath a tangled mess of matted blonde hair. Slowly, the Butcher rose to his full height, a towering six feet, his body slick with blood as he breathed heavily through gritted teeth.
This wasn't the third Butcher, Marquis noted as he observed the different features and physique. The man likely possessed the same danger sense and it had helped him survive Marquis' massacre, possibly by tearing off his skullcap in time. But this was someone different, a new host. That confirmed it. Each successor truly inherited the powers of the previous Butcher.
The Third Butcher had been a tragic figure. A once-vigilante hero who had fought with brutal efficiency. He had singlehandedly butchered the Teeth's entire cape roster before killing the butcher. An act that made the teeth to employ the Slaughter House Nine. Days later The mantle had taken him, twisting him into a monstrous figure. Blood dripped from the Butcher's body where the bone armor had fused into his skin, the remains of his gory extraction still oozing from the gaps.
The poor man's descent into madness had been the final proof to the cape community of the bay that killing the Butcher was not a particularly wise act. Perhaps if it had still been the same person, Marquis might have felt some shred of pity for the beating to come. But from the look of the figure standing before him, this wasn't the unfortunate hero who had once tried to cleanse the Teeth. The Butcher had claimed a fourth body.
Marquis studied the creature with cool detachment. Blood matted the Butcher's tangled hair, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with a hunger.
"How many minutes remain?" Marquis asked casually, as though inquiring about the weather, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his coat before shrugging it off.
The enforcer who had been saved from certain death scrambled to catch the overcoat before it hit the blood-soaked ground. "Twenty-five minutes, sir."
Marquis clicked his tongue, calculating. Fifteen minutes to reach his villa at the edge of town. Another five to clean up—he couldn't let his precious flower see him covered in blood after all. That left him with just five minutes to dispatch the Butcher.
"Apologies," he said, addressing the maddened Butcher, who stood unnervingly still, as though waiting for him. He couldn't kill the madman. Which meant slashing and cutting attacks were out. Rolling up his sleeves, Marquis extended his hand, and with a low hum, a mace of bone materialized, heavy and solid. He swung it once, testing the weight before pointing it at his opponent.
"This will have to be quick."
[SPOILER="Spoiler"]What is that? it's a bird, no it's a plane, no It's a butterfly, no It's Old Man Fucking Genocide. /SPOILER]