CHAPTER TWO

“Monarchy Desires”

 

 

Bass shook the ice off the rafters.

January 23rd, 2025. 

 

Black Wednesday.

 

Inside the NU Kingdom, firelight strobed across stone walls and leather jackets. The Renegades and Underworld gangs haven’t been together since helping get rid of the Sunny Seven back at the Southern Shore; tonight, they were one pulse under the same roof.

 

Jessica Volkov — Skratch to the ones who fought beside her — sat behind her kit like a storm engine. Half her hair had grown dark, the other half stayed the dirty blonde of old battles. Sweat crawled down the scar over her right eye as she hammered the drums. Her custom holster crossed her chest, twin metal sticks glinting every time the strobe hit.

 

Charles “Sunny Jean” Victor prowled the front of the stage, fedora low, sunglasses cutting the glare, guitar snarling through an amp that hissed like an animal in heat. 

 

Chezter thumped beside him, black spandex gleaming, the yellow X stitched over his mask catching the light with every groove. His new 2024 image looked like the comic book hero of a world that never got drawn. 

 

 

Hundreds filled the hall — Underworld mages, Renegade bikers, spell-casters, and sinners — all of them dancing. Grizz, Rod, Steven, Deryck and Claudia. Tilly and Layla were at the Davenport Zoo having their own fun with the ‘tutes. At the far end, the King (Erroll) and Queen (Agatha) of the NU Kingdom watched from their twin thrones, smiles sharp as daggers.

 

Sunny leaned into the mic. The crowd roared. Sparks climbed into the air. For one fragile heartbeat, the apocalypse felt like a memory.

 

Then the door exploded inward.

 

BOOM!

 

 

Snow and wind came with a wounded Renegade biker named Vitaly. 

 

Frost rimed his beard, his biker cutte was shredded, and a black hole smoked through his abdomen. He staggered forward, eyes glassy.

 

Grizz caught him before he hit the ground.

“Vitaly! What happened to you?”

 

Vitaly’s lips bled the words. 

 

“A man shot me.”

 

Sunny dropped the guitar. Jessica was right behind him, kneeling in the pool that spread beneath the fallen Renegade. 

 

Around them, the music died into the hiss of broken speakers.

 

“What?” Grizz asked. “You were shot?”

 

Jessica’s voice cracked. 

 

“That’s crazy — we don’t have guns.”

 

Vitaly swallowed air that didn’t want to stay down. 

 

“Cody…”

 

Jessica froze. 

 

“What about him?”

 

“He killed … Cody.”

 

The room tilted. 

 

Breath left in pieces.

 

Vitaly’s head lolled. He fought it. 

 

“I wrapped myself up… rode here. A man with a patch over his eye. Machine gun. Said he killed Serj last year…”

 

“I thought Serj left because the war was too much for his trauma?” Claudia said.

 

“That’s what we thought,” Grizz replied.

 

Vitaly coughed, tried to keep talking, but the sound turned wet.

 

“He fired real bullets. Hit our troops. The disabled — he didn’t care. Lined everyone up … pulled a pistol …”

 

Someone whispered, “Oh my God.”

 

“I hid inside the storage closet after getting hit,” Vitaly gasped. “A body fell on me. Bullets hit us both. I was the only one left. I saw him kill everyone in the yellow room balcony — Christmas decorations still up — he killed Cody.”

 

The tears came before the blood stopped. His body shook once, twice, then went still.

 

Jessica stared at him, hands trembling over her knees. Shock burned into rage before she could breathe. Adrenaline was still running through her veins after their important gig. Tears ran down her face.

 

Sunny reached for her shoulder. “Jess—”

 

She stood too fast. 

 

“No, Sunny! I’m fine. I have to get home.”

 

“You can’t go back right now. Not alone.”

 

Her jaw locked, eyes glassed with heat.

 

The King knelt beside the body, Grizz pressing his own hand over the wound as if faith could patch it.

“We’ll patch you up, brother. Hang on.”

 

Vitaly’s fingers twitched. He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and pushed it toward the King. 

 

“Here …”

 

The hand fell limp. That was the last word he ever spoke.

 

 

CHARLES VICTOR

 

 

January 1st, 2007.

 

“HAPPY NEW YEAR’S!”

 

The crowd’s cheer thundered through the Victor household. Balloons brushed the ceiling. Paper hats crooked sideways on laughing heads. Music drifted in from an old stereo, the kind with a cassette slot nobody used anymore.

 

It was Charles Victor’s favorite day — not because it marked a new year, but because it marked his year. He’d made it his birthday. The real one didn’t matter anymore; foster records were fog and whispers. His parents once said August 9th, 1990, but Charles decided the new year was cleaner. Easier to reset.

 

The Victor house smelled like baked ham and cinnamon-sugar candles. His mother, Monica Victor, sat in her wheelchair by the counter, pouring sparkling apple cider into champagne glasses. The soft hum of the chair motor mixed with laughter. She had dressed up anyway — gold sweater, hoop earrings, a little mascara to hide the fatigue. She cut slices of cheese and salami for crackers with careful precision, her paralyzed legs wrapped in a fleece blanket.

 

Charles leaned against the doorway, watching her hands. She never lost grace, even when pain made her tremble. In November 2006, they were attacked at their house by robbers, and capped mom in the stomach with a shotgun bullet that ricocheted and hit her.

 

“Ma, you sure you don’t want me to do that?” he asked.

 

Monica smiled. 

 

“Boy, you’d eat half the tray before it hit the table. Go help your father with that radio before he breaks it.”

 

In the next room, Thaddeus Victor crouched by the stereo, tapping it like it owed him money. 

 

“Damn thing can’t catch a signal,” he muttered. “Back in the day, all you needed was a good antenna.”

 

“I could plug in my iPod,” Charles offered. “Got some good tracks.”

 

Thaddeus shook his head. “Good tracks? You mean noise.” He grinned — barely — but it was something. “This house had real music before all that digital junk.”

 

Neighbors filtered in with plates of food and forced laughter. The Victors had become a community symbol since the shooting — the story everyone whispered but nobody spoke directly about. They said the Victors were lucky. They said faith had spared them.

 

Charles didn’t feel spared.

 

He glanced at the front window. The bullet hole was still there, repaired with tape that caught light like a scar. The neighbors brought casseroles and smiles, but their eyes always landed there — the ghost in the glass.

 

He tried to ignore it, but memories don’t obey.

 

November 2006.
The door had crashed open.
Gunfire.
His mother’s scream.
Blood pooling near the refrigerator door while the smell of onions still filled the air.

 

They came for Charles and those he loved.

 

His best friend, Jerry, aka Jerz, had been talking to the wrong girl — Alberto’s girl — and Alberto didn’t take betrayal lightly. 

 

So Alberto hired hitters. 

 

And when one of the shooters turned toward him, Charles fired first.

 

The wrong man got caught.

 

Jerz took the fall.

 

Now, as his mother refilled glasses, Charles stared down at his reflection in the cider. 

 

“You good?” she asked gently.

 

He forced a grin. 

 

“Yeah, just thinking about the year ahead.”

 

“Think smaller,” Monica said. “Think about tomorrow. Think about breakfast. That’s how you make it through, baby.”

 

She rolled toward him and placed a glass in his hand. 

 

“To new beginnings.”

 

He clinked hers and took a sip. The apple cider fizzed softly, harmless, like it didn’t know how much weight it carried.

 

Thaddeus turned the dial on the radio until static became rhythm — a faint old-school soul song drifting into the room. 

 

The neighbors clapped. 

 

Somebody yelled for a countdown even though the ball had already dropped.

 

Laughter.

 

Charles stepped out onto the porch for air. Fireworks cracked over the neighborhood. Lights reflected off the frost-covered lawn. He exhaled and whispered to no one,

 

“New year, new me, right?”

 

The wind didn’t answer, but deep down he already knew — the version of himself that made that promise would one day die, and something much darker, much louder, would take his place.

 

 

SUNNY JEAN

 

 

The night after Vitaly bled into gray.

The celebration was dead; the room smelled like spilled liquor and gun oil.

 

It was supposed to be joy — but when a man bleeds out on your doorstep and says Cody’s dead, joy dies with him.

 

So the celebration became a meeting.

A mandatory one.

 

The great hall of the NU Kingdom looked more like a war tribunal now — tables flipped for cover, candles guttering, walls sweating with frost. The Renegades and the Underworld. Faces hollow from sleeplessness and drink.

 

Sunny stood at the head of the table, fedora shadowing his eyes, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. Jessica sat a few feet away, elbows on her knees, drumsticks crossed in her hands like she might stab the table with them if anyone said the wrong thing. Chezter leaned against a cracked column, silent, mask fogged at the edges from his breath.

 

Snow beat against the old stained-glass windows. The wind made the whole fortress hum like a broken bassline.

 

Sunny: “We had one rule. Nobody touches firearms. Crossbows, blades, spells — fine. But guns? Those died in 2019, right? I was literally under a rock, so someone please inform me.”

 

Grizz slammed his fist on the table. 

 

BAM!

 

“How the hell did someone pull a trigger last night? That weapon was military.”

 

Queen: “Vitaly said he saw a man with a patch over his eye. Does that sound familiar to anyone?”

 

A murmur crawled through the room. 

 

Everyone’s eyes flicked to Sunny.

 

Jessica stood and holstered her drumsticks. 

 

“I’m going after him, Sunny. I don’t care what you say. I need to go home.”

 

Sunny stepped forward, voice low. 

 

“You’re not going anywhere without backup. We don’t even know who this guy is.”

 

“Backup slows me down. Am I the only one who wants to avenge Cody?”

 

Sunny reached out, gripping her wrist. 

 

“Don’t make me pull rank, Jess.”

 

Her eyes sparred with his. 

 

“Then do it.”

 

The King’s voice rumbled from behind. 

 

“Enough! We handle this together. Tomorrow we send a scout team to the Crazy House. Tonight we mourn our brother.”

 

Jessica tore her wrist free, staring at the floor. The others rose quietly, one by one, the meeting dissolving into murmurs and grief.

 

Sunny stayed behind, staring into the dying fire in the empty barrel outside the Kingdom’s auditorium.

 

 

GENERAL MOSLEY

 

 

Snow fell in slow motion over the frozen highways of Southern Million State. The pickup truck’s headlights cut through the dark, twin beams crawling over broken signs and abandoned cars half-buried in ice. 

 

Inside, General Mosley sat rigid behind the wheel — pistol resting in his lap, Tommy gun riding shotgun, a pump-action wedged between the seats. The back hatch was covered with a thick blanket, concealing an arsenal that could start a small war.

 

He’d been driving since midnight. January 21st had turned into January 24th without warning. The radio played nothing but static. Every few miles, he passed the remains of a Renegade checkpoint — burned tires, half-melted helmets, bones frozen mid-run.

 

He muttered to himself, low and rough. 

 

“New year, same hell.”

 

The road curved southwest, past the ruins of the old Renegade compound—now a Greaper nest, twitching in the moonlight. Beyond that, a few miles north, lights flickered in the distance. The Nomen were setting up new territory, building walls and towers out of scavenged steel.

 

MILLION STATE MAP: 

• West Million State, aka Million Bay (Davenport Zoo, Crazy House, Renegade Compound Southwest, Suburban Hilltops from year 2022)

• South Million State, aka Southern Shores (Renegade Projects, Mario’s Farm)

• East Million Bay, aka the NU Kingdom

• North Million Bay, aka the new Nomen territory, and General’s gun lair.

 

Mosley slowed the truck. 

 

Three Nomen stood outside a boarded liquor store, breath fogging the air, laughing over something vile.

 

Nomen #1: “So we threw him in a pool of gasoline. Thirty of us, three Renegade bastards. He had a phone that was still working, I swear to god.”

 

Their laughter tore through the silence.

 

Mosley’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He let the truck roll forward until it idled right in front of them.

 

General: “Hey.”

 

They turned, startled by the voice.

 

Nomen #2 (grabbing a crossbow): “Who the hell are you?”

 

General: “Name’s General Mosley. Call me General. You want guns?”

 

Nomen #1: “What?”

 

General: “Guns. I got a few.”

 

The men looked at one another, laughing.

 

Nomen #2: “Get the fuck outta here, old man.”

 

Mosley opened his door slowly, boots crunching on the snow.

 

Nomen #1: “Yo! Don’t try anything stupid!”

 

Nomen #3 (female, lowering her bow slightly): “Relax, he ain’t moving fast. Probably just crazy.”

 

Mosley’s voice was calm, deliberate. 

 

“Easy. I’m just goin’ to the trunk.”

 

He walked to the back, flipped the hatch, and threw the blanket aside. Cold air caught the metal gleam of fifteen rifles. AKs, shotguns, pistols — all polished, all waiting. The weapons clattered onto the frozen asphalt.

 

He shut the trunk, brushed snow from his sleeves, and started back toward the driver’s side.

 

General: “No bullets inside, but there’s a note on one of the shotguns. That’s where you pick up supplies. Tell your people we’re interested in your offer.”

 

Nomen #2: “Who’s ‘we’?”

 

The engine turned over.

 

VROOM! VROOM!

 

Nomen #1: “How we supposed to know if these even work?”

 

From across the street came a low, wet groan — a Greaper, crawling from behind a wrecked taxi, skin glistening under the neon liquor sign.

 

Mosley sighed, raised his pistol, and fired one round into the sky.

 

POW!

 

The sound cracked through the night like thunder. 

 

The Nomen flinched hard, eyes wide.

 

Mosley smirked, slid back behind the wheel, and drove off without another word.

 

The Greaper limped closer to the group, teeth clicking like broken glass. The Nomen didn’t move until it was nearly on them.

 

Nomen #1: “Hit it!”

 

The female swung her shotgun like a bat, slamming the butt into the creature’s head. The first strike staggered it. The second split its jaw. The third burst its skull, spraying black fluid over the snow.

 

Nomen #2: “Damn…”

 

Nomen #3 wiped her face, disgusted. “It’s snowing. Let’s get outta here.”

 

Nomen #1: “We should tell Aiden about this.”

 

Nomen #2: “Yeah, but let’s make sure it’s real first. You know how Aiden gets when things aren’t legit.”

 

They gathered the guns, one man holding up the note stuck to a shotgun barrel.

 

Nomen #1: “It says ‘33 Desert Way.’”

 

Nomen #3: “That’s not a street.”

 

Nomen #1: “No. It’s the desert off Highway 33. It’s probably piles of snow now.”

 

The three exchanged a look — the kind that meant danger and opportunity were the same thing — then started walking.

 

Behind them, the Greaper’s blood steamed against the snow, painting the road like ink.

 

 

HOBO JETPACKERS

 

 

Not far from there, eight homeless men huddled around a metal drum fire behind an old airfield, passing half-empty bottles and laughing through the cold. They were called the Hobo–Jetpackers — drifters who scavenged half-broken military packs years ago, and turned them into toys.

 

One of them strapped in, belched, and hit the ignition. 

 

SHOOOOOOSH!

 

The jetpack sputtered, coughed blue fire, and launched him fifteen feet before it died and slammed him into a snowbank.

 

BAMMM!

 

The others howled with laughter. “KA-BOOM!” they shouted in unison, clapping their frozen hands.

 

SHHHOOOOOM!

 

Another tried. Then another. By the fifth attempt, the snow pile exploded — a dull, wet pop that left chunks of jetpack and man raining down over the others.

 

BADABOOM!

 

They laughed even harder. “KA-BOOM!” they chanted again, over and over, drunk on madness and fumes.

 

Beside the fire sat a small bottle of expired suicide pills — the same brand that had once been used to poison Sunny Jean before his arrest in 2018.

 

One of the Jetpackers popped a handful, strapped his rig tight, and pointed at the sky.

 

“Watch this!” he yelled.

 

SHHHOOOOM!

 

The pack ignited, and he shot upward into the night, vanishing into the clouds before the inevitable explosion turned him into a falling star no one would ever wish on.

POYYSSSHHHH! VRMMM!