This memorial wasn’t half as happy as Demetrius’. At almost 60, no one expected the battered head trainer to really have that much of a life left. Ten years, maybe. It was different for those who died in the bloodiest battle of the Orchrisan street war to date. Most of them had been young, lives cut short in a fight that wasn’t really theirs. That more than anything else filled Quentin with true remorse and regret for his choices. He could live with killing Warlords, but Shades dying because of him…

“Hey,” Jonas whispered to him. “You should probably say something.”

They stood off to the side together. Once again they rented out a large tavern, completely on Quentin’s shards. They needed it for the thirteen urns and pictures. Most of the young gladiators hadn’t sat for a portrait and were done mostly by memory by Kit, who showed a surprising amount of artistic skill for a fighter. The loss brought them all together, and now they held a collective breath, as if waiting to let it out so they could move on.

“What could I even say?” Quentin asked quietly, looking around. A bunch of hardened fighters, killers and thugs and friendly maniacs, all stone faced and fighting back tears. Everyone in there knew everyone who died, and the collective grief blanketed the inn, suffocating them all. “This is my fault. All of it. If I go up to speak, people are going to throw shit at me and I’ll deserve it.”

Jonas winced. “I don’t think it’ll be that bad. They need something. You can’t just say nothing and go on from here.”

He knew Jonas had a point, but that didn’t make the prospect any more appealing. Leadership was hard enough on a good day, let alone when he failed at it. But Jonas had a point. Quentin needed to say something. Going up and making a speech sounded like the hardest thing in the world. Necessary, but…not yet. “Excuse me.”

As Quentin passed, people looked up to him with inscrutable expressions. How many of them cursed the day they decided to join up and fight some southern kids? It had to be at least half of them by now. He continued on to the bar itself and ordered himself a drink, sliding a couple of qala pieces across the bar. He threw back the alcohol, embracing the burn.

“All right, Quintius?” Pete asked from beside him. The short gladiator leaned backwards against the bar nursing a beer. His pockmarked face looked about how Quentin felt.

Quentin froze. He hadn’t seen who was there, and now he wanted to run away. Bruce had been one of Pete’s best friends, and the one who convinced him to join in. If anyone hated him, it had to be Pete. “Not really,” he said, motioning for another drink. “I don’t think anyone is.”

“Truth,” Pete sighed, taking a drink of his own. “This was ugly. Not sure any of us is really afraid of dying. I mean, in the arena shit happens, right? But this…They brought an entire army with ‘em. They hit home.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded and downed his next drink. He stopped there. No need to get completely blind drunk to run away from his responsibilities. “Stupid question, but are you okay?”

Pete grunted, looking down at his feet. “I guess. I’ll survive, at least. Or maybe I won’t, but it’s not like all of us can live forever, eh?”

Quentin flinched. “It changes the way you look at things,” he said. “Since dying I can’t really worry much about myself, but everyone else…”

“Did you know that me and Bruce’ve been friends since we were like eight?” said Pete, making it so much worse. “Best friends. Me and him, we’d fight with sticks and pretend to be gladiators until he ended up making it. I didn’t, but he did. And when he got home at night, he’d train with me and teach me what he learned until I eventually made it in too. Felt like we could take on anyone.”

He looked back up at Quentin. “Guess no amount of training can prepare you for a giant who can crush you to death with one hand. What’re we going to do about it?”

“You...you don’t want to call it quits?”

Pete’s face twisted into shock and disgust. “Of course not. We’re going to kill that son of a bitch. You thinking of ducking out, Quintius?”

Quentin shook his head vehemently. “No. I intend on killing him and anyone else he has with him. Even if he didn’t kill our friends, he went too far. He hurt innocent people just because he could.”

“Shit, there’s that,” Pete said, finishing his beer. “Even on our raids, we didn’t touch anyone who wasn’t wearing red. Did you know those bastards smashed the Tran’s noodle shop? If it wasn’t Bruce, I’d kill them for that alone.”

The last thing Quentin expected to do was laugh, but he chuckled before he could suppress it. “I guess when you put it like that, we have to get them back.”

“Absolutely we do,” Pete laughed as well. “Bruce’d never forgive them. We used to eat there before every fight, for good luck. Now we’ll never do that again. Look, some of the boys are pissed with what happened, but I don’t know how many wanna stop. We got momentum, we got anger, just…Promise me we’ll get them.”

“We’ll get them,” Quentin promised. “I have a plan already, it’s just setting it up. Christophe won’t survive the month.”

Pete gestured over at the memorial table. “Then fuckin’ say so.”

Well, how could he refuse that? Quentin smiled crookedly at him and pat Pete’s shoulder once. Maybe it was silly, Pete being able to get through to him where Jonas couldn’t. Sometimes Quentin thought Jonas would just take his side automatically, especially after Demetrius’ death. Pete had every reason to tell him to fuck off forever. Maybe things weren’t as bad as Quentin imagined.

He went up to the memorial and looked over each piece of art, committing the drawings and the faces behind them to his memory. They died for him and Razia, they died in search of vengeance. Right about then, Quentin didn’t care as much for vengeance as he did stopping them from hurting anyone else. He may have been a bastard leading other violent bastards, but there was a difference.

Quentin turned around. He stood there silently, looking around the rest of the building and noting who all was there and who they sat with. Jonas watched him from their spot. Jaxon glared at him like he blamed him. That much was fair. A few of them, like David, openly cried as they swapped stories of the fallen. Quentin stood there and drank it all in, waiting patiently for people to look up.

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It took a while, but eventually they did. The low level of chatter faded away to just a little buzz, and then not even that. Quentin took a deep breath. He had no clue what he was going to say. Maybe that was better, just coming straight from the heart. He started the only way he knew how.

“Bruno,” he said, projecting as much into his soft voice as he could. “Renee. Zachery. Desti. Gillian. Kevin. Alani. Jacon. Isaac. Isaiah. Garold. Salah. And Bruce. One and all, they died on their feet, fighting to defend their homes.”

“Fighting for you!” someone in the back called out. A murmur rose up. “They died because of you!”

It hurt to hear, but Quentin couldn’t deny it. “Yes,” he said simply. “They died because of me. And whether or not you want to move forward and follow me, we’re all in danger now.”

“Is that a fucking threat?” Another voice called out.

“Of course it’s not, he’s just got eyes,” someone answered. All at once, voices rose up, louder and louder, clashing against each other until it drove Quentin up the wall.

He clapped his hands together once, the sound of it silencing the room. “I don’t blame you for blaming me. It is my fault. And I don’t blame you for being angry. You should be angry. At me, and at the Warlords for doing this. We had to know that at some point they’d strike back. They brought a small army with them and we still managed to fight them off. And as much as these losses hurt, I’m proud of you all.

“Not for fighting for me. For defending the north side. They came and they started hurting innocent people. People we know and live with, friends, family, pillars of our community. They came and they broke and burnt everything they could to try to punish us for coming after them. For trying to get justice for Demetrius.”

“You weren’t trying to avenge Demetrius!” That first contrary voice called out. “You’re just protecting your bitch!”

“That’s just not true!” Jonas shouted, pushing away from the wall. He stalked down to stand at Quentin’s side, looking around with open contempt. “Some of you were there when Christophe killed Quentin. He fought to avenge Demetrius then, he does it now. I spend half my time with him these days, and I can tell you he’s never once done to make things better for him!”

A man stepped forward from the back, short hair slicked back. He looked native Orchrisan, olive skinned and sharp nosed. Vito, Quentin remembered. “Of course you’d say that. You’ve been mooning over him this entire time.”

Jonas flushed but bared his teeth. Quentin put a hand on his shoulder. “Ignore it,” he whispered. Louder he said, “I’ve never been shy about how this started, or my part in it. If you want out, I’m not going to stop you. Anyone who wants out gets a little something for your patience and your troubles. And the families of those who have died fighting will also get something.”

“Blood money,” Vito sneered.

Surprisingly, that just made Pete snicker loudly. “Of course it’s blood money you idiot. We’re gladiators. Every shard we get is blood money.” That earned a few more laughs, and the room buzzed with still more life.

Quentin cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height, neutral scowl on his face. “I’m not going to act like I’m not new at this. At all of this. I’m just trying to do right by everyone. No one’s stuck here, but for those of you who want to stay and fight, I’m not asking you to do it for me. I’m asking you to do it for North Orchrisus. As many of you no doubt have heard, Mr. Cicero is dead. I watched it happen, and now the north is up for grabs for a lot of ambitious, shitty men who want power.”

“Oh, like you don’t want power?” Vito crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at him. Privately, Quentin was grateful for the opposition. He didn’t think he could do this if someone hadn’t been giving him someone to fight against and play off of.

“I do,” he said. “I want to be strong enough to protect my loved ones. I want the power to make things better and keep our streets safe. I was never attacking just to hurt someone else. We attacked the Warlords because we wanted to thin their numbers and make it clear they didn’t get to come up north and hurt people anytime they wanted.

“We spent two weeks raiding down south and taking everything we could to weaken a group of shitty people so we could go in for the kill. And now, even if you don’t want to go south or fight the Warlords, the street war is everywhere. Cicero’s gangs are now divided and going after each other for every scrap of territory and power they can get.”

Another murmur through the crowd. Quentin couldn’t tell what their general reaction was. Some were pissed at him, and fair enough. Others seemed content to let him say his piece before they made any decisions. Not all of them were complete hotheads, at least. The veterans and tired fighters who joined up for a last bit of glory and fun at least watched him like a hawk.

“So is that what you plan on doing?” a round bellied, barrel chested man named Rob asked, hands resting interlocked on that belly. “You want us to take a bunch of territory, beat our chests and do the same shit the gangs do? Is that what we’re gonna be now?”

Here came the hard part. “I don’t know what you all want to do,” said Quentin, looking around again. “But that’s what I intend on doing. I want the Boulevard and the neighborhoods surrounding the Garden. Not for power’s sake, but to protect my girls and make sure they’ve got everything they need to thrive. I want to make it clear to everyone, north or south, that you do not get to do what you want to my people without losing your fucking head.

“If this city’s going to be divided among a bunch of bloodthirsty, greedy sons of bitches, then I’m going to take a slice of the pie for sanity and honor. I have no intention of getting dragged into more gang wars if I don’t have to. I want to establish a neutral territory, where Orchrisans don’t have to worry about being bled by a bunch of wannabe bosses. So here’s what my plans are. Join me or leave, I will respect your decision either way.

“I want every inn and tavern and insula within a mile of here to be under my protection, with every working girl and gladiator who wants a place at the table to have everything they need. I want to make it clear to the other gangs that we’re not out to take from them, but if they push us they’ll pay for it. And most importantly,” Quentin turned his piercing stare to Vito, “I’m going to kill Christophe, once and for all. We’ve got plans in motion, just waiting for them to line up. He will not survive this. I swear this on Demetrius’ memory.”

Silence.

Quentin didn’t know what he expected. Boos, maybe, or cheers if things went really well. All he got was silence, followed by another rising buzz of people muttering under their breaths, discussing things with their friends. It would have to do for now. With one last, hopefully authoritative nod, Quentin turned back to the urns with his friends’ ashes. Their families had already come and paid their respects, and now it was just them. Their brothers in arms.

“I’m on your side,” Jonas whispered to him, walking with Quentin to a table in the back, away from the bulk of the crowd. “For Demetrius, and for home. They don’t get these streets.” He offered Quentin his hand.

Quentin grasped him by the forearm. Together they squeezed, and Quentin let out an exhausted sigh. “Thank you, Jonas. You’ve been as good a friend as Demetrius ever has. I’m afraid I haven’t been as good a friend.”

“I don’t think of it that way,” said Jonas, sitting down next to him. He looked over at the crowded tavern. Plenty of people looked their way but kept their distance for the time being. “I’ve learned so much around you. Losing…Losing everyone was rough, but I think it proves just how much we scared them.” Jonas rubbed his throat thoughtfully. There were still bruises there where Christophe’s massive hand closed around it and tried to crush the life from him.

“Scaring them isn’t good enough if it means they’re willing to try to burn half the city down to get to us,” Quentin grumbled, but he didn’t entirely discount the point. Ever since that day, the city remained on high alert and there was little chance of sneaking an army across the bridge again. Their greatest risk was from fractured gangs, sniffing out weaknesses to exploit.

Then the first of the gladiators showed up at their table.

“I’ll still fight,” said Neil, bowing his head. “For Demetrius, and for home.” Quentin nodded back, and then he retreated, his place taken by the next person in line.

“I’m out,” said Severin, a frown on his face. “I just got married. My wife is already pissed at me. You said something about…?”

Quentin nodded. “Tomorrow, come to the Garden. I appreciate you helping along this far, Severin. You’re brave, tough, and honorable.”

Severin half smiled, and then came the next. And the next. By unspoken agreement, the gladiators lined up to give their answers. To Quentin’s surprise, most of them stayed. Out of the roughly fifty Shades still alive, forty of them stuck around. Enough to still be a formidable force, and one he’d have to spread out and use well.

It took about an hour or so for them all to make their declarations and either embrace their new lives as a gladiator and a gangster, or walk away before they got in too deep. By the time they were done, the tavern had mostly emptied. Quentin, Jonas, the people who worked there, and a few stragglers remained, paying their respects to the urns.

“So what now?” Jonas asked when it was the two of them once more.

Quentin thought about it. First he’d need to talk with Razia and Isa and get their thoughts. Razia was always ambitious and had plenty of ideas, but things were sharper now that Isa stood beside them. He’d never understand her, but he didn’t have to in order to appreciate her. Little by little, the start of an overall plan formed.

“First thing we do is make sure we’re stable and people are well rested and ready for more trouble,” he said. “We have to reach out to the other gangs and see how many will cause trouble for us. We’ll make friends where we can and hurt those where we can’t to make sure they know we’re not weak. We spread out and take this street and manage all the working girls, protect the normal merchants. After that?”

Quentin smiled, the plan fresh in his mind courtesy of his girls. “We’re going to butcher Christophe.”