(THO) CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It turned out to be easier than he’d expected.

Gojo had been bracing himself for some elaborate, drawn-out, and ultimately pointless, scheme: maybe weeks of reconnaissance; digging through financial records; shaking down lieutenants and soldiers; or maybe even a little cloak-and-dagger work. But no, the Empire Eighty-Eight’s biggest weakness wasn’t buried in some encrypted hard drive or locked in a vault.

It was right there, staring him in the face the entire time.

Reputation.

It wasn’t just that Kaiser and his inner circle thrived on image, but that their image was the glue holding the entire organization together. A gang like the E88 didn’t rule Brockton Bay solely by force. They ruled because people believed they should; because their control over Brockton Bay rested on the story they told about themselves. A story where they were framed as the defenders of ‘their’ people, the strongest wall that kept the bad things out.

And in a city this fractured, where the police couldn’t police and the PRT couldn’t protect, that belief had been worth more than bullets or manpower.

So for years, the E88 had been able to sell that image well. And in certain white working-class neighborhoods, they’d been the closest thing to a reliable security force, more so because they actually followed through on promises made than anything else.

But the problem—for them—was that times had changed.

Specifically, Gojo had arrived.

The crime rate was at an all-time low, not because the PRT had suddenly discovered competence, but because one man in a blindfold had shown the gangs that he wasn't to be underestimated. The Empire Eighty-Eight wasn’t protecting anyone anymore, not when muggers and rival gangs were getting wiped out before they could even pull a trigger, and especially not when the average criminal was more afraid of Gojo than whatever God they worshipped. 

And people were noticing, even their own people.

For the first time since the reign of the Allfather, the E88 wasn’t the loudest, most fearsome name on the street. Their grip over the city was slowly loosening. 

Gojo didn’t have much use for the kind of identity politics that drove this world—back home, strength was strength, and everything else was noise—but he was smart enough to recognize the game when he saw it. Here, allegiances were bound up in bloodlines, neighborhoods, and histories. If he wanted to strip the Empire bare, he’d have to fight them on their own turf and win.

Which was how he ended up making a decision he’d never thought he’d make: 

He was going to publicly declare himself as the city’s protector, their symbol of peace so to speak. And it wouldn't be done in the vague, PR-approved way that the Protectorate liked to do, with flowery speeches and strategically timed press. Or with staged photo-ops of kissing newborn babies to show his tolerance or soft-side or whatever bullshit they did. 

No, he was going to stand in front of Brockton Bay, look them in the eye, and flat out tell them that they didn’t need the Empire anymore.

It wasn’t his style. He preferred action to speeches, teasing to grandstanding. But in this case, words would hit harder than fists. And as the saying went, needs must.

When he’d floated the idea to Piggot, he’d half-expected an immediate no. Instead, she’d leaned back in her chair, tapped her pen against the desk, and—after a long, considering pause—nodded.

“You’ll have your press conference,” she said. “But keep it clean. I want no threats, and no provocations.”

“I would never,” he’d replied, smiling like a man who absolutely would.

And now here he was, standing behind a curtain at the PRT’s downtown headquarters, the muffled sound of reporters and camera crews bleeding through from the other side. They’d given him a podium, a time slot, and a stern lecture about ‘controlling the message.’ He nodded through it all.

Gojo had no intention of controlling the message. He was the message.

If all went well, Kaiser’s carefully cultivated image would crack irreparably before the conference even ended. By tomorrow, maybe even sooner, the city’s water-cooler conversations and PHO threads would be alit with one simple, dangerous idea:

We don’t need the Empire.

That would be the first domino. And once it fell, he’d make sure the rest followed.

A voice in his earpiece cut in: “You’re up in thirty.”

Gojo grinned under the blindfold. Maybe after this, he’d hop on PHO for an AMA, give the local trolls something to chew on, and feed the meme machine a little. But for now, there was only one thing on his mind.

The press conference.

Time to make a little history in this city.