“Is this guy ever going to show up, or what?” Jack asked as he took another drag of his cigarette. “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

Mickey shrugged as he rubbed his hands together in his coat. “To be honest, I’d be happy to wait here all night if it meant not having to tangle with the Manacle.”

Around him a few of his fellow Saints scoffed - and he swore he heard a quiet utterance of ‘pussy’ – but looking over at Jack, he could see his old friend nodding as he conceded his point.

No one who had ever tangled with Manacle was ever in a hurry to do it again. He might not have had the highest kill count amongst the seven Metas who made up the King’s roster, but he more than made up for it with the gratuitous nature of his kills.

“Shit, you put it like that and I might be willing to trade a testicle or two if I got to sit out of the fight.”

Not that either of the men were expecting that to happen. When a gang war started, most Metas started bouncing between safe houses so as to avoid being taken out by a surprise attack. There were exceptions of course. Bruisers were usually tough enough that any attempt to take them out with a quick ambush was doomed to failure, and Artificers tended to bunker up with whatever mechanical monstrosities they had created.

Mechromancer being a prime example of that, Mickey thought as his mind turned to the latest addition to the Saints.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for the dozen gangsters that were now freezing their asses off in the cramped confines of the van, Manacle was neither. Which meant that when one of their contacts called in the pyromancer’s probable location, Zigzag was obligated to take the opportunity to try and take him out.

Fortunately for them, the shapeshifter wasn’t expecting five disguised Saints in a beat up van to take on a metahuman and whatever cronies he had with him.

Unfortunately for them, all of Zigzags usual choices for an operation like this were all already engaged, or unavailable.

So they were calling in someone none of them had met before, but they had all heard a lot about.

“Mechromancer.” Jack called out, perking up as he pointed out the van pulling up across from them.

Sure enough, the make and model matched the one the reclusive Artificer said he’d be using.

“Looks like he brought friends too,” Mickey said as the cloaked figure clambered out and opened the back door, allowing a horde of rattily clad figures to clamber out.

Something was off about them, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Think they’re the guys we’re always hearing about?” Jack asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The Orange Rats, or something?”

“I heard they were all little kids.” A voice from the back pointed out.

Well those certainly aren’t kids, Mickey mused as he watched the group line up in a surprisingly orderly manner on the sidewalk.

The figures were all dressed in purple, much like he and the group in his van were, so they drew little in the way of attention from passers-by. Quite the opposite. Most pedestrians went out of their way not to look at them, slinking past with lowered heads.

Kings ain’t had this territory long, but they’ve already established a reputation with the locals.

And it clearly wasn’t a good one. Which wasn’t too surprising.

Even amongst the criminal factions that made up the West Coast, the kings were considered scum only a bare step above the Hounds.

Still, it makes our lives easier, Mickey thought as he and the rest of the disguised Saints clambered out.

“You assholes stay here and out of sight,” he instructed to the crew in the cabin behind him. “Me and Jack are gonna go talk to him.”

He heard a mild smattering of complaints from his underlings at the prospect of more time in the tight confines of the back of the van, but he ignored it as he clambered out.

“Mechromancer,” Mickey called out as he jogged over. “Glad you could make it.”

It never hurt to be a little sycophantic when it came to Metas – especially ones you knew almost nothing about.

Which was a decision he was glad for when the Artificer’s inhuman mask turned in his direction.

“Please,” the guy’s artificially distorted voice began, “shout my name a little louder. I don’t think they heard you in Atlanta.”

This asshole…

“Sorry sir, Mickey’s just a little nervous is all.” Jack piped in, jabbing him in the back before he said something stupid in response.

A move he was quickly thankful for as three tentacle like arms rose from within the supervillain’s cloak, each tipped with a deadly looking weapon that he couldn’t even begin to identify.

“Y-yeah, just a little nervous,” he choked out, glancing at the deadly looking apparatus hovering over the villain’s back.

It was only as the man turned away that the gangster realized that none of the guys the Artificer had brought had moved during their little conversation. They stood utterly stock still. Inhumanly so.

Now for all that Mickey wasn’t classically educated, and had something of a temper, he wasn’t stupid.

“Those aren’t Helots,” Jack said, unknowingly echoing his own thoughts as he looked over the rows of raggedly dressed drones.

“Spartois.”

An older man walked up behind them, dressed as a King like they were.

For just a moment Mickey feared they might have been rumbled, but that panic passed as he cottoned on to what the guy said.

“Spart-us?” he asked.

The man nodded. “Close, Spartois. Apparently they’re named after a Greek myth about men being born from dragons teeth or something like that. Might have been something else. Should really remember it though, god knows the kids at the workshop must have told me that story a good half dozen times. Kids are damn near obsessed with the things.”

“Ethan,” Jack said, a smile breaking out over his face as he shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t know you were hanging out with the Mechromancer. Last I heard you were rubbing shoulders with Bronte’s… crowd.”

The man had clearly caught himself from saying ‘faction’ at the last second. Mickey didn’t know why he bothered. Everyone knew about the division forming within the Saints. It was only the ever-present threat of the Kings that was keeping it from turning into actual violence as Zigzag and Bronte jockeyed for position. Neither of the two meta humans could afford to do away with the other while the Kings were still a threat, but everyone knew that the second that was no longer the case someone’s head was going to roll.

Of course, he and Jack were part of the rapidly dwindling third faction who wanted nothing to do with the brewing civil war.

Though how long we’ll be able to stay that way remains to be seen.

He knew he was already receiving solicitations - and a few subtle threats - from proponents on each side, and he doubted Jack’s situation was any different.

“Yeah, well things didn’t quite work out with her,” Ethan shrugged, “so I’m working with the Boss over there. Guy’s made me his… I don’t know, liaison?”

The guy gestured over to where the Artificer was crouched over a box, muttering to himself as he fiddled with a device who’s function Mickey couldn’t even begin to guess.

Yeah, I could see why he might need one.

“Didn’t work out?” Jack echoed, returning the conversation back to the original topic. “I thought… I thought he was, you know, on Bronte’s side.”

Finally given up pretending, huh? Mickey smiled humourlessly.

Still, what Jack was saying was true. That was the scuttlebutt Mickey had heard too.

Bronte tried to hide it, but a few people claimed to have seen her visiting the Artificer’s down workshop on Fourth.

Though it would be more accurate to say that his workshop is Fourth these days.

From what he’d heard, swarms of Helot drones had taken over the entire street, patrolling the place and only allowing street rats ferrying scrap in or out. Once upon a time those kids might have been easy pickings for whichever particular scumbag might have wanted something from them.

Nowadays everyone knew that a kid in orange was off limits unless they wanted to draw the attention of the drones, whatever scrap they were carrying usually not worth the effort of dealing with the inevitable metallic reprisal that accompanied acquiring it.

Last he’d heard, the kids were calling themselves the Block Party.

No idea why though.

“Again, sort of.” Ethan shrugged. “Mechromancer and her… well, I don’t know much I should say.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “stop dithering like a maid and spit it out already.”

Ethan glanced at him, before retuning his eyes to Jack. “Look, it’s complicated. I’ll say this though, if you want to stay out of the pissing match between Bronte and Zigzag, I think Mechromancer’s the best bet. The guy can be a bit of an ass, but he takes care of his people. I can swear to that.”

The look in the guy’s eyes as he spoke made Jack believe him, or at least, believe that they guy believed in what he was saying.

Jack clearly did too, as he leaned forward eagerly.

“Do you think he might be looking for more guys?”

Whatever Ethan might have said in response was lost to time though as the Mechromancer’s distorted voice cut through the air.

“Spit, get out here,” the villain instructed. “I’m done mapping the building.”

If he hadn’t been keeping a careful eye out, Mickey might have missed the way Ethan’s face twitched slightly into a frown as the villain spoke. He had just a moment to wonder why, before another figure appeared from the back of Mechromancer’s van.

A kid in a dishevelled looking purple sweater.

The outfit was baggy and hung off the kid’s thin frame, but even so, Mickey could see a faint hint of orange poking out from under the collar.

One of the Block Party.

“Alright Spit, show me what you can do,” the Artificer said, passing off the Omni-pad in his hands.