Chapter 51: 47. Hood Crusader (I)

Growing up in Alabama, Britney Williams shared some similarities with other girls from her hood.

The men of her family were in and out of the prison complex. The women finessed the welfare system to feed the many hungry mouths cropping up. The elder matriarchs were out of the strip club business, so Britney's older sisters and cousins took over to help. They'd touched on crime lightly if times were desperate. Their options were that limited.

No member of the family reached higher education before. And only a few had a High School degree or GED.

While her kinfolks weren't model citizens, and their livelihoods seemed mighty terrible around young and impressionable minds, they'd never force anything on anyone, especially Brit. For some reason, the Williams family took a special shine on her.

She didn't think much of it.

Sure, she got straight B's with an occasional C and never failed a class, but that was laughable compared to her more studious peers. Her academics shouldn't be celebrated. But the family rejoiced anyway.

When she picked up the guitar for fun and turned out halfway decent, the family started claiming she'd travel the world as a famous country singer. That was plain silly gibberish to Brit, but the family rejoiced anyway. Saturday nights became synonymous with country songs and drinks filled with Hennessy.

They had a lot of belief in her, and Brit kept playing it down.

But they weren't far off on how much Brit could shine.

Trash around the neighborhood kept piling up, and nobody initiated cleaning it until Brit stepped in. She canvassed the area and separated greenbacks from the most penny-pinching mister and misses crabs you could find in Alabama. She took a bunch of bored, reckless, and rude boys and turned them into a paid army of street cleaners. Weeks later, the neighborhood looked good enough for an enjoyable Sunday walk. And the local businesses raked in dough from customers more willing to explore the area. This wasn't the first time Brit could affect real change.

It seemed to be an effortless thing for her.

So, when all the thoughtless goodwill Brit had built as a child came to be questioned by a big incident, the family was called to answer. Even though the incident involved their shining daughter breaking the nose of a famous pastor with a local television show. A broadcast where the pastor had thousands of people's hearts and minds who would burn the girl at the stake instead of questioning what could have forced an altercation between a pastor and a devoted, church-active young lady.

It was so bad these zealous idolizers would go looking for Brit to harass her.

Or attack her.

One half of the Williams family pushed every line they could to throw the heat off Brit. Which ultimately led to a few prison sentences. The rest of the Williams family relocated to some random and unknown city in Central Florida.

They saw their finances reduce drastically. Then the family fragmented further, with members going their separate ways for work.

Her kin had once spanned across four houses and a few cabins. They were now shrunk down to fit a paltry section eight home and livable shed in the back. Their losses were devastating.

It gave Brit regrets like no other. She struggled to understand why she'd done that to the pastor for one touch. She wondered if she should've warned him first. Or started seeking help when he kept complimenting her. Or tell someone that he kept wanting to see her womanly body when she was just finishing middle school.

But no matter how often she looked back at it, Brit saw herself decking the man with a straight right just like her dad had taught her.

And she felt righteous.

It was like she had the wings of an angel wrapped around her fist when it connected. If that was the case, then Brit figured she had no choice but to make the best out of things. The consequences that came weren't punishments from the high and mighty.

They were the means to reforge yourself anew. Even if it meant making the best out of Central Florida and all the crazy Florida Men running around.

At the very least, she was right on time to enter the new fancy school they'd finished constructing. She even got a personal invitation to enroll in their band program this upcoming summer.

It sounded like the perfect thing. A fresh start. A brand new state-of-the-art school. She could sink into the background and not stand out. Just be like everyone else.

One year later, Brit took over as Band Lead and overhauled the janky mess the band turned out to be. It was the most righteous and spiritual problem she could tackle at the time.

Two years after that, her almighty band smashed every competition on its way to the top. It left no prisoners. Band programs that had existed for decades fell in shambles in Brit's wake. Among band geeks circles, she was known as the Brit the Crusader. Her tendency to pray with her bandmates before achieving yet another incredible performance was a recognizable hallmark.

The family rejoiced. The school rejoiced. Instate and out-of-state universities with full-ride scholarships-plus-extra rejoiced. It seemed like everyone was rejoicing for the low-income student who turned into a band-leading phenom.

But Brit wasn't rejoicing.

The sacred spirit and belief in her actions had faded. She did what she was told rather than what she knew was right. The band didn't need her anymore, but they clung to her like desperate children. The faculty staff was on the verge of laying rose petals and bribes at her feet if they ever noticed her taking a step back. And her family had so many hopes that they banked on her to break the generational curse of poverty.

It was all suffocating for Brit.

To keep going would be the easy and safe thing to do.

But Brit wasn't an easy and safe girl.

Then the big party celebrating the Queen happened two nights ago, and everything changed.

***

Brit sat alone on the sofa. She had her feet up on the footrest despite wearing her hiking boots. Her tower shield rested against the sofa beside her.

If her mom were here, she would've given Brit an earful regardless of her daughter being a [Medium]. Heck, Brit would've given herself an earful under most circumstances. A lady shouldn't slouch around so much when expecting company.

But she wanted to relax for these last moments before the devil came a-knockin'.

Besides, she'd sent her family off into the Florida wilds to disappear for the night. Doing the opposite of what the agents recommended.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the agency. They weren't convincing compared to the new higher power in the Multiverse. She was whipping up Shrimp and Grits earlier when the mysterious power told her to do something different for her family.

So, she flipped the script. She stayed. They'd left.

It made sense. Her family had tough people. They knew how to work the urban jungle and the rural jungle. So, a night outside shouldn't do them too much harm. And if they caught anything from rain or pests, Brit had the power to help.

Power.

Real power.

Brit scanned her profile for Skills and inside her soul for her incantations and hovered over one. Carefully, she emitted a soft and consistent light from her right hand. When she looked into that light, she felt braver and greater and more righteous than ever. She wasn't a pure-hearted maiden, but she didn't have to be in the greater scheme of things.

She could be herself. She could be human. And she could make a difference by doing her best.

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Until Lilith had one of those logical eureka moments and showed Brit levels of evil that she had never known existed.

Brit shuddered as her mind returned to the horrid destruction of the Ratlings and Ratners. None were spared. And Brit had allowed it.

Usually, a quick prayer would sweep aside that slice of trauma pie. But she could still hear the memory of Lilith cheering like a diabolical mad scientist by the time Brit finished a verse.

The phone vibrated.

Brit jolted. She had her Perception dialed up to the limit to pick out approaching footsteps.

The prison complex holding her dad was on the phone's user ID.

Brit's heart sank.

Feet on the floor, hand on her shield, Brit rocked as she fought the temptation to answer the phone.

She knew this was a test. If she gave in to temptation, the distraction would cost her.

But it hurt. Regardless of her dad's faults, she loved him. Every chance to talk with him was precious.

"Next time, Papa," Brit whispered. "We'll talk more after I beat back the devil's foot soldiers."

It might not be accurate to call the big evil the devil. The red man with horns and a pitchfork depicted by earthly media seemed more like a joke to Britney now.

Just like how she could touch on a higher plane of wonder, she also had this strange and alien wisdom: there was evil so great and widespread that it could only be understood by a nerdy word she had heard from some of the weirder geeks of her band.

Eldritch.

The phone vibrated again. It was her dad. Again.

The temptation to pick up returned. It felt stronger.

Brit leaned on her highest attribute, Conviction, and ignored the call once more. She couldn't turn off the phone or put it on silent. She might miss an important call from Lilith and the other Booty Bandits. So, she endured this little piece of torment for the greater good.

***

"She's not answering the call, sir," Knife Warrior Five said to the Senior Knife In Charge.

From his seat on the busted porch of an abandoned home, the Senior Knife ripped off a piece of beef jerky with his teeth and chewed patiently. Surrounding him were twenty men and women preparing to fight and give away their lives for a great cause.

Everyone was armed with their ceremonial and service-ready knives–big and long blades with black coloration adorned by the golden globe etched onto the surface. They all had their dual-hydration packs fitted with two nozzles. One for water. One for poison. The latter was for contingencies that they'd all signed up for.

That was mostly the mundane parts, along with all the spy work and secrecy.

The fun parts included the M249 light machine gun on the table that belonged to the Senior Knife alone. What the World Knife sacrificed in life expectancy, they returned with some custom weapon fire.

Automatic shotguns. Militaristic assault rifles. Tricked out pistols that had the Senior Knife think back to his younger days playing Sam Fisher Splinter Cell games. He almost wanted to smile when one of his younger female Knife Warriors hefted an M32 Grenade Launcher while strapped with a grenade belt around her torso.

No body armor, either. Only the most comfortable cammies, boots, and weapon harnesses they could get. Speed and flexibility were more important, anyway. In the limited time that the World Knife had to figure out the enemy, they were certain body armor wouldn't help much.

No matter. These were still kids. The most dangerous, misguided, and tyrannical kids on earth, but kids nonetheless. And just like when nature decided to infanticide, it was humanity's duty to do the same.

"Keep the calls going," the Senior Knife said. "It'll mess with her head."

It was a shame they had to use their tech geeks to fake the call rather than use the genuine article. Then they could have the dad killed to leave a message. Another family member might have worked, but they flew the coop against predictions, and it was too late to readapt for their capture.

"Won't the MPC intervene at this point?" asked Knife Warrior Seventeen, the only one ballsy enough to rock two berettas like an action hero.

The Senior Knife checked his watch. A smile crossed his face. "The organization is going to have bigger concerns."

He finished his beef jerky and chased it with an adrenaline cocktail from a vial. Then his night vision goggles and ear protection went on afterward. Everyone followed his lead.

Knife Warrior Nine, Thirteen, and Eighteen suffered heart attacks and died on the spot. Their allies recovered their ceremonial knives while the corpses and gear remained where they'd fallen. Each member rode out the initial shakes with no further dropouts as their bodies adjusted to getting juiced to the gills. It was painful, wild, and wonderful all the same. Like going back to humanity's primal roots.

The Senior Knife stood and performed a quick weapon check on his light machine gun. Everyone else followed his lead carefully. It wasn't quiet. But they had plenty of arsenals to overcome any lost initiatives.

"Just keep those calls going." The Senior Knife started forward, everyone following behind him. "Strong-minded girl. Loads of spirit. She's a fighter. But she's still a kid. Daddy's princess, too. We use that to put her off her game."

If they could keep her dumb and emotional, the first Champion kill would be a cinch. There were more dangerous and pressing targets, sure. But anyone with an iota of intelligence would know to target the enemy healer first.

"She's also Level 8. The weakest Champion. So don't let this magic nonsense scare you. This girl is the most human of them all." It was like beating a dead horse with these men and women, but the Senior Knife would hate to waste their lives because they weren't well-informed.

It would've been easier if they could attack the Champions like ordinary assassins. But there were too many unknowns working against such mundane attempts. Subtle attempts would fail by the most contrived circumstances. Sniper rifles would jam. Or the bullets would turn out to be duds. Well-made packaged explosives would detonate on the creators. And word from high up the chain had said nothing short of overt, para-military offensives would work against these damn magical teenagers. You had to go at them packing ridiculous heat and nothing less. That would've been impossible if it wasn't for the insider help, secret allies, and sleeper agents.

Once they were halfway to their destination, all talk ceased. The air smelled heavy with water. All around Knives were mostly abandoned homes with a few squatters skulking about and wild dogs barking randomly into the night.

To the Senior Knife, the area was home for lowlives. The type of forsaken people the Senior Knife considered as human failures. It was almost ridiculous that a girl hoarding real magic powers lived here instead of at a white-picket fence house in the suburbs.

Which worked out, ironically. Nobody would care about collateral damage in the ghetto.

"Howdy, y'all," said a young voice with a deep southern accent, spooking the Senior Knife halfway to death. "I heard a rustlin' out here and thought big ol' raccoons were on the loose. But it turns out to be a bunch of varmints."

The Senior Knife didn't question why she was outside and how she sneaked around and outflanked them. He turned to the source of the voice behind a dilapidated wooden fence. With a quick and militant gesture, he called for half his fellow Knife Warriors to rain fire and brimstone.

They went to town on that magical girl like a bunch of hill-billies on the fourth of July.

"Should've stayed your ass in sweet home Alabama, girl," the Senior Knife said with a manic grin.

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