The name is Ollie Weeks... This is his story.

[Koji96]

Edited April 11, 2025 by Koji96

[Koji96]

Edited April 12, 2025 by Koji96

[Koji96]

Retribution, Not Justice
The air in Bayview was thick with the scent of oil and gasoline as Ollie leaned against the workbench, absentmindedly running his fingers over the edge of a wrench. The weight of his recent experience lingered in his mind, a constant, pulsing reminder of the world’s cruelty. His left eye gone. Stolen from him by the same system that had always viewed him as expendable.

As he stared at the half-dismantled engine in front of him, a sharp sniffle cut through the stillness of the shop. Ollie turned his head and spotted her Amara, one of the few people at Bayview who had ever shown him kindness. Her hands were shaking as she wiped at her face, her eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. Something was wrong.

Ollie straightened, setting the wrench down. "Amara?"

She flinched at the sound of his voice, turning to face him fully. For a moment, she seemed to debate whether to say anything at all. Then, her breath hitched, and the words spilled out in a choked whisper.

"It was a guy from the city… I don’t even know his name. He wouldn’t take no for an answer."

Ollie’s fingers curled into fists. His pulse thrummed in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the shop. The weight of her words settled into his bones, igniting something deep within him a fire that demanded justice. No, not justice. Retribution.

He forced his voice to stay level. "Where?"

Amara hesitated, but then, seeing the look in his eye, she relented. "Last I saw, he was heading to the bank."

Ollie nodded once. He didn’t say another word before turning on his heel, grabbing his leather jacket off the hook by the door. Night had fallen by the time he reached the area. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, where screams would be swallowed by the walls, where people drifted through without leaving a trace. Ollie sat in his truck across the street, watching. He scanned the streets, his gaze following every silhouette that matched the description in his mind.

Patience. He could wait.

And when the time was right, he’d make his move.

It wasn’t long before his target emerged. The man was lanky, moving with a cocky swagger, completely unaware of the fate that had been sealed the moment he touched Amara.

Ollie followed, keeping his distance. The man walked confidently down the alley beside a rundown warehouse, oblivious to the shadow trailing him.

A perfect place to strike.

 

Silent as death, Ollie moved in.

The struggle was brief. A rag soaked in chloroform muffled the man’s shouts before they ever reached the street. His knees buckled, and Ollie caught him, dragging him toward the waiting trunk of his truck.

The next thing the man knew, he was bound to a chair in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. A single, dim bulb flickered above, casting long, jagged shadows against the concrete walls. The air was damp, suffocating. The metallic scent of tools laid neatly on the table beside him filled the space.

Ollie sat across from him, rolling up his sleeves, his expression void of anything resembling mercy.

"I don’t give second chances," Ollie muttered, picking up a pair of pliers. He grabbed the man’s trembling hand, fingers twitching in resistance. "But I do believe in consequences."

The first snap of bone was drowned out by the man’s muffled scream as Ollie forced his finger backward, popping it out of its socket before reaching for the blade.

One by one, the fingers fell.

By the time Ollie reached the man’s mouth, his sobs had turned to incoherent blubbering, drool mixed with blood spilling down his chin. Ollie tilted his head, studying him, before leaning in.

"You took her voice when you made her afraid to speak," Ollie whispered, gripping the man’s tongue with the pliers. "Let’s see how you do without yours."

The man’s scream was cut short as Ollie yanked the muscle free, tossing it onto the bloodstained floor.

He stood, wiping his hands against his jeans as he stared down at what remained of the man.

"If you live, you remember this. You remember what happens when you touch someone who doesn’t want to be touched."

Ollie turned, leaving the man writhing in agony, his sobs echoing against the warehouse walls.

He didn’t care if he was found. Didn’t care if he survived.

Amara would never have to fear him again.

And that was enough. For now.

Because the truth was this wouldn’t be the last time.

It had been too easy.

The way fear transformed a man. The way they broke so quickly. The way justice never came unless it was carved out of flesh and bone.

Ollie had crossed the line tonight. He knew that.

But as he stepped out into the night, wiping a smudge of blood from his wrist, he also knew something else.

He had no intention of stepping back.

[Koji96]

-Echoes of Gabe-

The warehouse door creaked shut behind him. The night air hit Ollie’s face like a slap—cool, metallic, full of city static. But it didn’t cleanse anything. The smell of blood clung to him. His heart was steady, his breath calm.

This wasn’t adrenaline. This was control. Purpose.

And for the first time in a long time, Ollie felt... clear.

He walked toward his truck, fingers still stained red, when he noticed something.

The driver's side mirror was turned inward.

He hadn't left it that way.

He froze.

A folded piece of paper had been slid under the wiper blade. No markings. No ink on the front. Just weight.

Ollie opened it.

Inside, a single line was typed—blocky, sterile, like an old terminal feed:

"You understand silence. Come find us."

Below that: A set of GPS coordinates. No name. No contact. Just coordinates.

The GPS coordinates didn’t lead to some underground bunker. No fortified stronghold. No hidden compound.

Just an alley.

 

-Shortly before Ollie's arrival-

 

The night was thick with tension, the kind that clings to the skin and seeps into the bones. In a dimly lit back alley of Vespucci, the leader of the Shadows, John Chapel stood alone, the weight of the city pressing down on his shoulders. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from the boardwalk were the only sounds accompanying him.

His phone buzzed—a private line, known to only a select few. He glanced at the screen, a single name displayed: Governor Lewis Langley.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked by stoic resolve. He answered, bringing the device to his ear without a word.

Langley's voice was cold, measured.
"It's done. Ehrmantraut has been executed. As per Executive Order 11."

Johns's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm.

"No trial. No due process. Just a signature."

A pause. Then Langley replied,
"He was a threat to the stability we've built. You understand the necessity."

The leader's eyes narrowed, his free hand clenching into a fist.

"I understand that you've made a martyr of him."

Then suddenly the line went dead.

John lowered the phone, staring into the shadows that enveloped the alley. 

-Later that night-

Ollie leaned against the cold brick wall, the events of the evening replaying in his mind. The blood on his hands had long since dried, but the memory remained fresh leaving a smirk on Ollie's face.

The alley was still—coated in salt air and silence. John stepped from the dark, boots crunching gravel as he moved toward Ollie. Slowly, he reached up and pulled the Oni mask from his face, revealing the man beneath.

His voice was low, solemn.

“It’s Gabe.”

Ollie stiffened.

John didn’t flinch.

“Executed. No trial. No press. The state carried out Order Eleven. Your cousin is gone.”

For a moment, Ollie didn’t react. He just stared.

Then his breathing hitched—
and the scream came.

It burst from his throat like an animal had clawed its way out. He fell to his knees, fists slamming into his own face, again and again, until his glass eye popped free and rolled into the gutter.

“Ollie told him—he told him to stay quiet. Ollie told him not to push it!”

He slammed his fist into the pavement, cracking his knuckles open.

“But Gabe never listened! He never—GODDAMN IT, GABE!”

His voice broke. He shouted curses at his cousin’s ghost until his throat turned raw.

“Ollie tried to stay clean. He really did. Ollie was fixing bikes, minding his business…”

His hands trembled. Blood smeared his cheek, mixing with the salt of tears.

“But now? Now Ollie’s got nothin’ left to fix.”

John stood in silence, letting it settle. Then he stepped closer and placed a folded piece of paper on the pavement beside him.

“He left something behind,” John said. “A manifesto. Not for us—for someone who would carry it further than he could.”

Ollie stared at the paper like it might catch fire.

“He believed in something bigger than himself. So do we.”

A pause.

“We’ve been watching you, Ollie. We saw what you did tonight. What you were willing to become. Gabe wasn't just your blood—he was one of ours. And you? You’re not just a man. You’re what comes next.”

Ollie looked up, one eye missing, the other burning.

“Ollie ain’t a man anymore,” he whispered. “He’s a consequence.”

John nodded once.

“Then let them feel it.”

He extended his hand.

“Join us. The Shadows. Carry his legacy—not in memory, but in action.”

Ollie stared at the hand.

Then took it.

[SloppyYugger5000]

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