The air around the Merchants' shantytown reeked of cheap drugs, burnt tires, and sweat. Gravitas walked through the debris-laden streets with deliberate calm, his boots crunching on broken glass. His dark skin glistened under the dim streetlights, his sharp features framed by the shadows. A long, black coat billowed behind him, its tailored lines at odds with the squalor around him.
Gravitas is a tall, imposing Black man in his late 20s, with sharp, chiseled features that radiate intensity. His skin has a deep, rich tone that adds to his commanding presence. His amber-colored eyes burn with a quiet intensity, the only outward hint of the immense power he wields. His expression is almost always calm and composed, but there's a latent danger in his gaze as if he's constantly assessing the world and finding it beneath him.
His hair is faded at the side with the top in several braids, preferring a clean, professional look. His physique is lean but muscular, his every movement purposeful and controlled. Gravitas walks with the poise of someone who knows he commands attention.
(Image)
The Merchants were in their usual state of chaos. Junkies sprawled in alleys strung out on whatever garbage Skidmark's crew peddled that week. A loud, distorted bassline thumped from a makeshift sound system in the center of the camp.
Gravitas stopped near a rusted car acting as a barricade. Two gang members stood guard, their glazed eyes barely registering his approach.
"Hey, man," one slurred, shifting his weight unsteadily. "This... this ain't no tourist spot. Get lost."
Gravitas tilted his head, his voice calm but cutting. "Where's Skidmark?"
The other guard laughed, the sound dry and wheezing. "You deaf? Boss don't talk to nobodies. Turn around 'fore we—"
He didn't finish. Gravitas raised his hand, palm open, and the air seemed to ripple. Both guards were suddenly yanked forward, their bodies slamming against the car with bone-crunching force. They crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.
"I'll ask again. Where is Skidmark?"
A trembling junkie pointed toward a shack near the center of the camp. Gravitas didn't bother thanking them.
The shack reeked of sweat and stale smoke. Skidmark lounged on a filthy couch, a half-empty bottle of something vile in his hand. Squealer tinkered with a dismantled engine in the corner, the only person in the room remotely focused. A couple of lackeys sprawled on the floor, laughing at something on a cracked phone screen.
Skidmark wears a mask that covers the top half of his face, the lower half of his face is dark-skinned, with badly chapped lips and teeth that look like "shelled pistachio nuts". His health was visibly affected by his methamphetamine addiction.
Squealer is an impoverished and trashy Caucasian woman who is dressed trashy and wears too much makeup to the point it looks practically caked on. She was streaked with oil stains and wore a white top and jean shorts. These clothes were so skimpy that she was more indecent than she would be if she had been naked.
(Image)
Gravitas stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate attention. The lackeys scrambled to their feet, but Skidmark didn't move, his bloodshot eyes narrowing.
"The fuck are you?" Skidmark growled, his words slurred but venomous.
"Your replacement," Gravitas replied, his tone flat, his amber eyes locking onto Skidmark.
Squealer froze, her wrench clattering to the floor. The lackeys exchanged nervous glances, but Skidmark laughed—a harsh, grating sound.
"You got balls, I'll give you that. But you don't just walk into my house and start talking shit."
Skidmark can create a deflector effect, a type of force field that pushes things with about as much force as a gusty wind. It can exponentially increase any force put into it. His power caused the affected area to glow with a blue-to-violet color effect.
Skidmark raised his hand, activating his power. The space between them shimmered as a wall of distorted force expanded outward. Gravitas didn't flinch. Instead, he raised his hand, fingers curling into a fist.
The shimmering wall of force buckled and compressed into a single point before collapsing with a deafening crack. The sudden vacuum pulled Skidmark forward, slamming him face-first into the floor.
"You call that power?" Gravitas asked, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but his presence was suffocating. "Let me show you what real power looks like."
Gravitas lifted his hand again, and the entire shack groaned as if under immense pressure. The floor buckled, walls splintered, and the air itself seemed heavier. The lackeys dropped to their knees, clutching their chests, unable to breathe. Squealer stumbled backward, her tools forgotten.
Skidmark pushed himself up, blood dripping from his nose. "You think... you can take me down?!" He staggered to his feet, his hands trembling as he tried to summon his power again.
Gravitas didn't give him the chance. With a flick of his wrist, Skidmark was yanked upward, his body hovering several feet off the ground. Gravitas clenched his fist, and Skidmark screamed as the pressure increased, his limbs contorting unnaturally.
"This is mercy," Gravitas said, his voice cold. "You've wasted your power. Wasted your people. This gang is a joke, and I'm done laughing."
With a final motion, Gravitas hurled Skidmark through the shack's flimsy wall, his body crashing into the dirt outside. The gang members who had gathered nearby scattered as their leader landed in a broken heap.
Gravitas stepped out of the shack, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Merchants. The camp had gone silent, save for the occasional moan of those still recovering from his gravitational field.
"Skidmark is finished," Gravitas declared, his voice carrying across the camp. "I am your leader now. You answer to me, or you join him." He gestured to Skidmark, who groaned weakly, unable to move.
A few brave—or foolish—members shouted protests. One fired a gun, the bullet curving mid-air before embedding itself in the shooter's thigh. Gravitas didn't even look at him.
"You will obey because I offer you something Skidmark never could: order. Power. Survival." His amber eyes burned with intensity. "Under me, the Merchants will become more than a gang of junkies and cowards. We will be a force to be feared."
Squealer, wiping oil from her hands, stepped forward cautiously. "You're serious about this?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Let's see what you've got."
The rest of the gang, cowed by the display of power, murmured their assent. Gravitas turned without another word, leaving the broken form of Skidmark as a grim reminder of what defiance would bring.
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The camp stank of stale urine, burnt plastic, and despair. Trash heaps doubled as landmarks, and the ground was littered with needles and broken bottles. Gravitas stood at the center, his amber eyes surveying the pit of chaos he had inherited. He didn't speak for a long time, letting the weight of his presence silence the grumbles and half-hearted complaints of the Merchants who had gathered around.
The ones brave—or stupid—enough to meet his gaze squirmed under it. Most didn't even try.
Skidmark had ruled through a mix of intimidation and erratic violence, but Gravitas' method was different. There was no screaming, no threats. His power radiated from him as a quiet inevitability, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.
"This..." Gravitas said, gesturing to the camp with a sweep of his hand, "...is unacceptable."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. He let it grow for a moment before speaking again, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade.
"I don't care what you've gotten away with before. That ends now. If you want to stay, you work. You clean this up. You follow my orders." He stepped forward, his coat billowing slightly in the wind. "Anyone who has a problem with that can leave. Or I can make you leave."
A wiry man with a patchy beard stepped forward, his chest puffed up with misplaced confidence. "Who the fuck do you think you are? This is Skidmark's turf, and we—"
The man's words cut off with a strangled gasp as he collapsed to his knees, clawing at his throat. Gravitas didn't move a muscle, but the air around the man shimmered faintly as if distorted by an unseen force.
"You were saying?" Gravitas asked, his tone calm, almost polite.
The man didn't respond. He couldn't. Gravitas released him, and he crumpled to the ground, coughing and retching.
"Anyone else?" Gravitas asked, scanning the crowd. No one met his gaze.
Gravitas found Squealer in her makeshift workshop, surrounded by half-finished contraptions and a haze of smoke that smelled faintly of chemicals. She looked up as he entered, her expression wary but defiant.
"Let me guess," she said, leaning back in her chair. "You're here to tell me what to do now."
"You're good with machines," Gravitas said, ignoring her tone. "Better than anyone else here. That makes you valuable."
Squealer was pleased but didn't want to show it so she snorted. "And?"
"And I reward value," Gravitas said. "You'll be my second-in-command. I'll give you the resources you need to work. But there will be rules."
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of rules?"
"No drugs while you're working. And you follow my orders without question." He leaned closer, his amber eyes locking onto hers. "Disobey me, and I'll find someone else to take your place. Do we understand each other?"
Squealer hesitated, she was terrified, but also...turned on. She took a deep breath and then nodded. "Yeah, we understand each other."
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Gravitas ordered the camp cleaned up, and anyone who refused was expelled. He personally dealt with the most vocal dissenters, demonstrating his power with precise, devastating efficiency.
Junkies who couldn't work were given a single choice: clean up and contribute or leave. Most left. A few stayed, desperate for another chance. Gravitas didn't care about their reasons. He cared about results.
Gravitas began reaching out to the docks, targeting those left behind by the city's economic collapse. He promised protection and purpose in exchange for loyalty. His reputation spread quickly, bolstered by his efficient dismantling of ABB drug operations on the outskirts of the territory.
One of the first recruits was Trainwreck, a rogue villain with cybernetic enhancements. Gravitas approached him personally, offering a place in the new hierarchy.
Trainwreck has a round face, small eyes, unwashed greasy hair tied into a ponytail, and acne-scarred cheeks. He wears steam-powered armor while his upper face is covered by a metal mask and goggles.
"You're strong," Gravitas said, watching Trainwreck crush a metal pipe with one hand. "But strength without purpose is wasted."
Trainwreck tilted his head, intrigued. "What's your purpose, then?"
"To build something better than this," Gravitas said, gesturing to the decaying remnants of the Merchants. "You can help me, or you can stay here and rot."
Trainwreck considered for a moment, then nodded. "I'm in."
Late one night, a group of former Merchants returned, angry at being expelled. They brought weapons—knives, bats, even a car rigged with explosives.
Gravitas met them at the edge of the camp. He stood alone, his coat billowing in the wind.
The car roared toward him, its engine screaming. Gravitas raised a hand, and the car stopped dead in its tracks, suspended in the air. The attackers froze, their faces pale with terror.
With a flick of his wrist, Gravitas crushed the car into a compact ball of metal and dropped it at their feet.
"You've made your choice," he said, his voice calm but unyielding. "Leave now, and never return."
The attackers fled without another word.
By the end of the third week week, the camp was unrecognizable. The trash was gone, replaced with orderly rows of tents and makeshift buildings. The drug production facilities were upgraded, and the gang's operations were streamlined under Gravitas' control.
The Merchants were no longer a gang of junkies and thugs. They were a disciplined force, united under Gravitas' vision.
And this was only the beginning.