Scotty had stowed himself away near the back of the station, avoiding those who’d only told him to mind his head, indulging himself to brood over the injustices suffered at the hands of the Vittori in the room. What was left in his flask would have to be rationed - it was impossible to know how long the storm would rage on, charging the already static air - and knowing this, Scotty took a generous swig for his nerves.
When the first man snapped, it took several enraged members of both parties to wrench them off one another, the men still spitting like a pair of alley cats. Before they could be shamed into an apology by their comrades, or any semblance of peace restored, the sickly crack of cartilage split through the air, and from there the station snowballed into chaos. A crack of lightning shot overhead. Seeing no more reason to restrain himself, Cain picked a glass from where it had been resting and chucked it blindly into the crowd. Finally, the chance to enact some revenge.
“Damned fucking right it is!” Scotty shouted above the clamor as folks darted to the far corners of the room to avoid the mayhem.
There was nothing sweeter than the taste of chaos, except perhaps for the bittersweet flavor of revenge. They’d taken the warehouse from them, stricken it from their hold with the simple toss of a few Molotov cocktails, and Kai was going to beat his vengeance into any Vittori that had the misfortune of crossing his path. Scarred, broken knuckles were a sign of a life well spent, from the days in the detention center to the very moment he stood in the firehouse. If the Vittori were looking for a war, he’d been gearing up for battle.
The shout of agreement had Kai laughing like a damn idiot, adrenaline keeping him from noticing the pain of what could only be determined as third degree burn. There’d be time to get the wounds checked later, when he didn’t currently have a fight on his hands. Or a fist flying directly at his face. The impact jarred his senses, knocked the shit-eating grin right from his features as he stumbled back. A hand quite instantly shot up to his face, where fingers pressed to the warmth now pooling underneath his nose. Drawing fingers away to inspect the red that now coated the tips, he cocked his head questioningly before a laugh bubbled from the pits of his stomach. “Well now, seems like these boys came to party,” he spoke while using the sleeve of his dampened jacket to wipe the blood from his face. Swiveling his head until he peered over at Scotty, he gave the other man a toothy grin, “Think Zeph’ll still be mad if they threw the first punch?”
