(Note: The following fanfiction includes drug references, consumption of alcohol, certain suggestive themes, dark themes, extreme language, and extreme violence. This may not be suitable for minors)

(SPOILER ALERT for Book VI: A Massacre in the Family)



Final Battle:

The night: was noisy. The bustle of cars, people, trains, and planes clogged the sound waves of the Bronx. The smoke and smell of fuels filled the air, choking the airways of anything that lived there. It was damp though. The rain from the afternoon had stopped. The streets were still soaked. And it was hot. Blazingly so. 

The place: was dreary. It was a small little bar tucked away in the worst part of the Bronx. Criminals from all over Manhattan, mostly enemies of the Red Revenge, gathered here to plot and scheme, and occasionally, kill one another.

Sam: was disheveled to say the least. His hair was matted and messy and clung to his face. His suit jacket was hanging to one side and there was a rip n the shoulder. His tie was long gone, his blue eyes had lost their sparkle, growing dim in the agony of his pain. 

He walked to the bar and sat down.

"Can I help you?" the bartender asked rudely.

"Yeah, something strong." Sam replied, not looking up from the surface of the bar. He smelled sweat, alcohol, and...blood.

The bartender set his drink down and motioned at someone. A moment later, a beach-blonde girl in a tight mini-skirt walked over and sat down next to Sam. She tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. She leaned up and licked in his earlobe, whispering softly to him about 'the back'.

Sam shook her off again, but the girl tried once more.

"I said I'm not interested!" Sam exclaimed, grabbing her around the throat. "Now beat it you little tramp!"

The girl squealed and back peddled. Sam turned around to find the wrong end of a shotgun on his nose.

"Get that out of my face." he growled.

"No one messes with my girls." the bartender said.

"I said, get that out of my face you son of a bi-"

The man slapped him with the butt of his gun and Sam fell out of his chair. He growled and pulled a dagger out, driving it into the man's wrist. He howled, falling back. 

"You asshole! That went right through the bone!" he exclaimed.

Sam frowned and pointed the shotgun at the bartender's face. "Try me again, and this is going up your rear." Sam said.

The man nodded and fell down, shivering in fear. 

"Hey!" 

Sam turned to see Dealer, Horseman, Slime, and several other popular criminals he knew standing up, hoisting some object. 

"That man has been good to us. No one comes in here and has their way with him and gets away with it. No one except Reaper."

"But he's dead." Sam said.

The criminals exchanged glances and Sam leapt. He stabbed each one somewhere. Horseman lost an ear, Dealer got a knife through the elbow. Slime got three in the stomach.

"It's all your fault!" Sam yelled. "It's your fault they're all dead! All you're fault!"

He grabbed the cook by the throat. "I should've killed you all when I had the chance." he pulled out a dagger and would've driven it into the man's throat, had a pink-gloved hand not stopped him. Sam struggled and turned, seeing the calm green eyes of Vendicta. 

"Beat it! All of you!" Vendicta yelled. "Before I help him!"

The criminals ran as fast as they could, howling of their individual injuries as they did.

As soon as the last of them were gone, Sam fell to his knees, tears flowing freely. 

"They're dead, Rose. All of them. Dead. All my fault. I should've... I should've killed them all. All of them. Dead. My fault, all my fault."

Rose shushed him and helped him stand up. "Come on." she said. "Let's get you home. Shh. It's okay. It'll all be okay."