Years Ago:
I woke up at eleven in the morning with a pounding headache and my mom banging a pot with a wooden spoon.
Usually, I'd call doing this to me when I'm hungover a cruel and unusual punishment, but knowin' my mother's fondness for waking me up by throwing water in my face if she thinks I've been bad recently, this was more or less kind.
"I'm up! 'm up!" I groaned, rolling out of bed and falling to the floor, hitting my face on the nightstand on the way down. "Ow."
"Hurry up, Sam," she said. "You know, at some point you're gonna have to start waking up to the alarm like anyone else."
"I do wake up to the alarm," I groaned, still on the floor. "I'm jus' usually not fighting off Tequila's Vengeance."
She huffed, and I heard glass clinking together, then the tap being opened.
"I'm going, I'm going," I forced myself to my feet and got dressed before my mom finished her slow walk back to my room.
She got there, looked me up and down, then threw the water in my face anyways.
"... why?" I asked, miserable and soaked.
"You said you weren't going out with those people anymore," she said. "You promised, Sam. I told you those kids were no good and you said you wouldn't spend more time with them!"
"I didn't!" I said. "I just went out with some friends I know from Butchie's."
"Uh-huh," she said, then gestured at my hands. "And what's that on your knuckles. Or rather,
where's the fucking skin on your knuckles?!"
I looked at my hands. Sure enough, knuckles covered in scabs.
"Oh," I said, alcohol having made me forget of that. "Well... see..."
hold down by neck, apply preassure to sides to cut off blood flow to brain and cause dizziness, five punches to the collarbone, confirm crack with sixth punch, once he's having trouble breathing start hitting face, aim for temple, cause brain damage, keep going, make sure he's not moving, keep going, hit, hit, hit-
"I kinda got in a fight."
"A fight," she drawled out, reaching for her chancla. "Hm."
"Wait-wait-wait, it's not what you think!" I said. "Look, one of the people I was out with was Aisha. Remember Aisha? You liked Aisha."
She had liked Aisha. She'd made some hints about me dating her, too, which'd left me in the awkward position of having to explain to my Catholic mother that while I
did like Aisha's company, it just wasn't possible
without touching on the subject of her being a teenage prostitute.
"I recall," she said, still holding her chancla menacingly. "Keep talking."
"Well, there was this creep that wouldn't stop bothering her," this much was true, "He didn't take the hint after I tried being nice," also true, "So I pushed the issue, and he tried to hit me," again, also true, "So I just hit him a few times and he ran off." That was a lie. He was dead in an alley somewhere.
"Hm..." Mom nodded and put her flip-flop back on, before taking out a small box of aspirins from her pocket. "Good boy. I'm proud you stood up for your friend."
"Yeah," I said, feeling like my mouth was full of sand as I took the box. "
Gracias, ma."
I really don't like lying to my mom. Even after seven years of doing gang shit behind her back, I still felt the urge to spill all my secrets and beg forgiveness. Try to seek absolution for using a friend as bait so a known rapist would go to a discreet location, where I could kill him. Try to get her to say it was okay for me to kill a man with my bare hands, just out of a general hatred of rapists and a desire for money.
But she'd never accept what I was or done. So I played the part of the dutiful son.
Over breakfast, I said, "Hey, uh, mom, it's kinda lookin' like it's gonna be a busy day today too. You should probably have dinner without me."
"Mr. Daniels isn't pushing you too hard, is he?" she asked, worried, "Because he's not getting that dinner date if he keeps you away from dinner this often."
"Nah," I said. "Bar's just been busy lately, so I've been helping. It's lookin' to die down soon, tho. Also, please don't date Butchie."
"Not up for you to decide,
pichón," she said. "I have kind of a busy day ahead of me too."
"Students giving you trouble?" I asked.
"Eh," she shrugged. "I've been asked to attend a few meetings, watch over detention, that stuff. Teens will be teens."
"I wasn't," I said.
"That, my dear sweet ray of sun," she said, "Is because you are a freak of nature."
"... fair." I nodded.
Later, once coffee was drank, toast was buttered and eaten and we got dressed up for our respective jobs, I bid her goodbye at her car with a kiss on her cheek, saying, "
Que te sea leve, mami."
"
Igualmente, mi sol." She kissed my temple, gave me a hug, and drove off to an undeserving high school.
I didn't make it to the corner before my day went to hell, as a burly white teen about my age came up and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, mockingly copying my voice as he said, "Goodbye,
mami! Dude, how old are you?"
I sighed, "Hello, Arthur. How have you been?"
"Livin' the dream, man," he said. Arthur was a ginger with dreadlocks, and if that wasn't enough reason to want to push him in front of moving traffic, he was also only a soldier for the Blackgaters on account of his cousin being one of the higher ups. And since Arthur was under the impression that he was some kind of badass gunman, he kept getting sent on jobs with me. Officially, to watch my back. Unofficially, because I was the only one professional enough to not shoot him in the head. "You heard the word?"
"Nah, what?"
"Looks like the war's winding down," he said. "New guys ain't got the muscle to back up the fight."
I scoffed, "Could have told you that was gonna happen a month ago. Only reason they got this far is that our product is shit."
"So fucking what?" Arthur said. "Crime Alley is
our fucking territory. If the fiends got a problem with that, they can fuck off somewhere else."
"They
did," I said. "That's what gave the Hellions the dough to back a war."
He scoffed, "Yeah, well it ain't give 'em the brains to pick one someone they own size."
"You ain't wrong there," I said. "Still, if we keep slingin' shit on the corners, this is gon' keep happening. And sooner or later, we're gonna come up with someone that has muscle
and knows how to use it."
"So what do we do?" he asked.
Get their connect and out bid them, make our own connect, stop fucking killing
everyone and start having them join us
instead, so we have the real estate and
the product.
"Fuck if I know," I groused, taking a box of cigarettes from my front pocket and putting one in between my lips. "I'm just a soldier. Ain't gettin' paid to think, here."
Arthur laughed, "True that, true that."
I took a long drag and breathed out a cloud of cancer smoke. This was going to be a long day, I could already tell.
{[X]}
"Got three jobs for you."
Big Mike was a thirty-year-old black man with dwarfism, which pretty much said everything you needed to know about the average Gothamite's sense of humor. He'd been introduced to me about two years back, after my old boss Namond got caught with a triple homicide, and so far he seemed to regard me the way you'd consider a trained attack dog. Except I ocassionally slipped in some smartass comment here or there.
"Just three? Shit, and here I thought you'd ask me to burn half of Gotham since the weather was nice."
Case in point.
"Don't bitch," Mike's voice was rough with a smoking habit dating back to before puberty, which still showed on the cigar on his mouth. "Everyone's running around, and it's just three jobs."
"Nah, see, anyone else, it'd be '
just three jobs'," I said, making a shoddy imitation of his voice on the last part. "But knowin' you, at least one of those is gonna be '
clean up a dozen corners' or some shit."
"... just the one-"
"Mother
fucker," I said. "You know those have like three people on average, right? All of them with guns? I ain't fuckin' Superman here, Mike!"
"Look, will you calm down?" he said, "You're good enough to count for two, and you've got Redhead with you."
"So that evens me out to bein' one man again."
He gave me an unamused look.
"Fine," I said, "I'll figure it out. What are the other two jobs?"
"Clear up a stash house," he said, handing me a paper with two lines of his neat, tidy writing, "First address is the corner, second address is the stash house."
I let out an appreciative whistle when I recognized the second place, "This is in the suburbs. Shit, this is in the
nice suburbs. Some higher up live here?"
"I didn't ask," he said. "Point is, they got product and money holed up there. You gotta go, kill everyone, take everything, then fuck off."
"Elegant in its simplicity," I said. "And finally?"
"Actually, this'll be your first job," he hopped out of his chair and gestured for me to follow him out of his office.
We were at a strip club he owned, which served as stash house, money laundering and meeting place. And also as a strip club. One Arthur very much enjoyed, if the way he threw money downstairs all willy-nilly was any indication. The place was called The Candy Cane Club, it had pink lighting everywhere, and at the moment it was closed on grounds that it was too fucking early.
Mike took me down to the basement, past where they kept the booze and into a back room where there was a blonde guy maybe three to four years older than me. Pimply, white, blonde curly hair and a broken nose, he was tied to the chair he was sitting on my the wrist, and if the red marks were any indication he'd been trying to escape. On a table behind him there were several knives, corkscrews and other sharp things. Next to it, there was another chair.
The kid looked at me with confusion as soon as I came in.
"Who's this miserable asshole?" I asked.
"Nobody important," dismissed Mike, "But he was muscle at the meeting when the Hellions got their connect, so you've got to try to get some names and faces out of him."
I sighed, "I can't guarantee anything."
"Don't need to," Mike said, "Just gotta make an attempt."
"Fair 'nuff. Can you leave me a clean shirt outside? Maybe somethin' I can clean up with?"
"Sure."
"W-What?" Nobody Important said, but Mike ignored him to give me a nod and leave. I locked the door and walked around ol' Nobody, who kept talking, "W-Wait, what are you going to do?"
"Calm down," I said, taking the chair and dragging it forward to sit in front of him.
Hope entered his face, "You're not gonna hurt me?"
"Eh. I might have to hurt you," I said. "I just want you to shut up."
I stretched my legs forward, slumping on my seat and breaching his personal space as I watched the hope die in his eyes. I took out my cigarettes, tapped out one for me and offered him one. He nodded, hesitantly, and I put it between his lips before lighting it with my zippo.
Once that was done, I sat back, lit my own cancerstick and said, "So, what's your name, man?"
"I-It's Ray," he said, "How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"
Fifteen?" he said.
"I'm tall for my age. What's it to you?"
He seemed a little more relaxed, now that he realized I
was, in fact, younger. "Why'd they ask
you to ask me questions?"
"Must be my talkative nature," I said. "So, you mind if we talk for a bit?"
"I-I'm not telling shit about the connect!" he said, apparently locating his balls in the process.
Okay, let's actually try to talk things out. Make a connection, reason with him, that sort of shit, "... why'd you join the Hellions, then?"
"Huh?" he blinked, dumbfounded. "What?"
"It ain't a complicated question. Why'd you join up?"
"Why the fuck would I tell
you-"
"C'mon, man," I rolled my eyes. "One soldier to another. Ain't like I'm gonna be wearing a fucking wire after they asked me to torture you, right?"
"... that's what this is, isn't it?" he said, adding two plus two and getting fourty-seven. "You're just some fucking kid wearing a wire, and this is some big trick, isn't it?! Well I'm not falling for it!"
I lifted up my shirt, showing I didn't have a wire, but he insisted that I must have some kind of recorder hidden on me. I thought about dropping my pants and showing there was nothing there either. But despite years of friendship with Billy, I wasn't willing to make things
that homoerotic, so I instead declared negotiations dead, stood up from my seat, grabbed his face and put out my cigarette on his eye.
In a past life, I was a calm person. I'd had some genetically-keyed anger issues, and I'd learned to control them. More than that, they'd never been bad enough to do worse than break someone's nose. And now there I was, torturing someone for information they probably didn't have, just because I'd been told to by my boss.
It was the little moments that let you know you were going to go to hell.
About five hours later, hands tired, ears ringing and shirt ruined, I came out of the back room. After changing my clothes, cleaning up a little and tossing everything dirty next to the shuddering and wheezing form that was Ray, I went upstairs to see that business had opened. I greeted a few of the working girls with nods and smiles, some of which were returned, and I climbed up to Mike's office.
"You get anything out of him?" he asked.
"Besides blood?" I groused. "Yeah, said it was some old greek guy, balding, black hair. Soft spoken."
"Any names?" Mike pressed.
"Nah, ol' Ray wasn't paying that much attention," I said, cracking my knuckles and trying to limber up my stiff hands. "Still, he said they met at some port-side cafe that the greek guy seemed to own. Didn't remember the name, but I think he meant Spiro's, down by twelfth and hundred-sixtieth?"
Mike wrote it down, "You sure?"
"More or less," I shrugged. "Been there before, recognized some of the things he described. Could be wrong, but it's worth checking out, right?"
"That's for Russ to decide," Mike said. "Go do the other jobs. And take your dumbass friend, he keeps touching the girls."
"Not my friend," I muttered, but left anyways. It was a little hard to find Arthur in the mess, but eventually I found him feeling up some poor college student dressed in white lingerie at one of the private booths.
I entered without remorse, saying, "Arthur. Time to go."
"H-Hey, man, come on!" he shouted. "I got the rest of the hour, I ain't done!"
I raised an eyebrow at him, then looked at the girl in the eye. She looked at me with thin-veiled hope, and when I nodded for her to leave, she whispered "
thanks" on the way out.
"Now you're done," I said. "Get your car, pick me up at the place in an hour or I'll cut your dick off. Don't be fucking late."
I left the booth, ignoring his outraged cries. I was almost out the door when a voice called out, "Sam?"
"
What?" I asked, before realizing who spoke and backing up, "Oh, Trixie, I'm sorry. What's up?"
Trixie was a tall, leggy black woman. Short-haired, with kind eyes, a nice smile and a way of walking that left you with your jaw hanging. She was also Mike's bottom bitch for his side-gig as a pimp.
She was a little up there in years for the streets, but between her reliable personality and head for numbers (and, if post-drink Mike was to be believed, her
head) she'd kept her at her place as bottom bitch and caretaker for the strippers for almost ten years by then. We got along fine, on the grounds that I never treated her bad for being a hooker and that one time I broke a guy's arm in three places for trying to get mean with one of her girls.
"Hey, can you walk one of my girls to her train?" she nodded at the college girl, who was very clearly making conversation with another of Mike's girls so no one would approach her. She was a pretty girl, a short brunette with soft features and kind eyes. Exactly Arthur's type, the poor girl, and Trixie proved she knew as well when she said, "Got a feeling your friend ain't gonna be too happy to leave her be once you're gone."
"Sure," I said, then frowned at her. "And he's not my fucking friend."
"Yeah, I know," she said, smiling, "I just like seeing you get flustered."
"Hrm," I looked at her arm, noticing no new marks. I leaned in a little to whisper, "How are you doing?"
"Three months next week," she said, with pride. "New personal best."
I smiled at her, "I'm proud of you. Remember, if you need anything you just call, alright?"
"Of course," she said. "What about you, Sammy? How've you been?"
I shrugged, "Tired. Busy."
"You look it," she said, giving me a look. "I can't tell if you got punched in the face twice or if those are eyebags."
"I think both," I sighed, then grinned when she chuckled.
"Look... Sammy," she said, "I can just go to Mike and talk to him, get you some time off... it ain't right how he's been working you."
She wasn't done talking before I was shaking my head, "Trixie, I can't ask that. You're gonna need as many favours in the bank with him as you can get."
She grimaced, "Still-"
"Still nothin'," I said. "Things are windin' down anyways. I can hold on for a little longer."
She grimaced, "If you're sure..."
"I am," I said, then I added, a little awkard, "Still... thanks. For offerin'."
She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, then a little push, nodding at the college girl to go change, "Go on, then. The game waits for no one."
"That it don't," I muttered. "See ya 'round, Trixie."
"See ya, Sam."
I waited by the door, and once I saw College Girl walking out of the back wearing a shirt and jeans, I stepped out of the building. There was a line of people waiting on the other side of the bouncer, and some college-aged kid wearing too much hair gel at the front of the line glared at me and said, "Oh, so
I can't come in but a fucking
high schooler can?!"
I frowned at him, and the bodyguard--Rick, nice guy, huge card cheat--put a hand on his chest. "You need to back off, son."
"Oh, what, does his mom work-" that would be when College Girl, who was clearly too young to be my mom, walked out.
While the kid was staring at her, I offered her my arm. She took it, and I started walking her off of the premises. It was a monumental effort not to smile at the way he stared at us.
Once we were out of ear shot, I leaned in and whispered, "Nice timing."
"Heard him from inside," she whispered. "I recognize him, he groped Charlie last week."
"That so?" I looked over my shoulder, trying to memorize his face. "Thanks for the tip."
"Huh?"
"Don't worry about it."
She let go of my arm after a while, then crossed her arms and started shivering a little. It'd been warmer early in the day, but Gotham's autumn nights were fairly unkind to the unprepared. Feeling the weight of the Spicy Latino Lover stereotype on my shoulders, I offered her my jacket and tried not to shiver too much under my hoodie when she took it and wrapped it around herself, fitting a bit loosely..
"Thanks," she muttered.
"No problem," I said. "Just a jacket."
A very warm jacket that I could be wearing. Chivalry is bullshit.
"Not that--I mean, that too, thanks, but--back there. Thanks." She cleared her throat. "I've, uh, I've only been doing this for a while."
"Mm," I said neutrally, because it'd seemed obvious to me but it felt rude to say it.
"I'm--God, this is such a cliché, but I'm kinda trying to put myself through school," she gave an awkward smile, gesturing back at the place. "I don't think I looked like much of a psychiatrist-"
"Wait," I gave her a look, "You're studying psychology at Gotham U? On purpose?"
"Yeah?"
"So you're
trying to be a supervillain?"
She rolled her eyes, "Oh, like I haven't heard that a million times before."
"Had to say it," I said, grinning.
She looked at me, "So, how'd you know Trixie? You seem..."
"A lil' young for a costumer?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "'Cause I am. Nah, we more like work friends."
Her eyes got really wide, and after a second I realized what she assumed.
"I ain't in
her line of work!" I said, "I just- my job puts me in the same place as her a lotta times. We get along, and every so often I help her out or she helps me out."
"Ah, yeah, that makes more sense," she said, nodding.
I frowned, "What, I ain't pretty enough to be a child prostitute? I'll have you know I'm plenty flexible in body and mind."
She gave me a horrified look, and when she saw me grinning, gave me a little shove. "Ass."
I chuckled.
"So what kinda solids do you do for her?" she asked. "Just walk girls to train stations?"
"Sometimes," I nodded. "I'm also her sponsor."
"Sponsor?" she frowned, "For what?"
"... fuck, I thought you knew," I grimaced, "Look... I'll explain, but you ain't makin' no motherfuckin' attitude changes over this. You don't treat her worse or nicer, you just talk to her as always, a'ight?"
She frowned, but nodded slowly.
I sighed, "So... a'ight, way back, Trixie got hurt by some assholes. Hurt bad, needed pain medication and shit. And this bein' America, of course she got addicted to shit she couldn't afford. Things kinda spiralled from there, and she ended up hookin' for dope."
"Jesus," College Girl whispered. "Poor-"
No fucking way.
"Don't fucking pity her," I spat. "She's been fightin' it for as long as I've known 'er. Longer than that, too. She ain't ever need nobody's fucking pity, and she ain't need it now. Trixie's a fuckin' soldier."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," she said, raising her hands. After a while, she asked, "So you help her?"
I shrugged, "She calls me if she feels the itch, I help make sure she's goin' to meetings, help keep track of how long she's been clean. Make sure she notices the progress, even when it feels small."
She smiled at me, "That's really cool of you."
"Jus' book keepin'," I shrugged. "She's the one puttin' in the legwork."
"And she's been doing well?"
"New personal best next week," I said, smiling with pride. "Got high hopes for her. Y'know she's been going to night school?"
"Really?"
"Said she wants to be a teacher," I grinned. "She's gonna do great, I'm sure. You know how she is, kids would love her."
She gave me a look, then started walking a little closer to me.
When we arrived at the train station she told me her name was Stacy, that she was ninteen and that she hoped to see me again. I told her I hoped she never had to, that I was younger than I looked and I kept my name to myself.
Trixie died of overdose the next month. I never saw Stacy again, but last I heard she was started hooking and was still doing it when she died.
Sometimes helping people feels like moving a lake with a thimble.
{[X]}
"You didn't have to interrupt my dance," Arthur bitched for the twelfth time that drive. "I had the rest of the hour."
I sighed, calmly reminding myself that I wasn't a crazed murderer that killed people on the same gang as I. "Arthur. For the last
fucking time,
I remember. But what
you need to understand is that you
didn't have the rest of the hour. What you had, is a motherfuckin' job."
He huffed, but didn't argue (
for once) and instead drove forward. Since he was twenty-three, he was in charge of driving places. And since I had at least five functioning braincells, I was in charge of giving directions, since Arthur couldn't pour water out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel.
"Turn right here," I said, and he did. I put on a black facemask I wore for jobs on the street and spoke up so he'd hear me through it, "A'ight, start slowing down, it's the next corner."
When he saw me lowering the window, his mood immediately brightened, "Oh, shit! Are we doin' a drive-by?!"
"Stop shouting," I said, adjusting the black wool gloves I had on (latex can still leave a recognizable mark in place of fingerprints) and grabbing a cleaned glock. "Drive-by's too imprecise. Standing orders are to kill
everyone, not shoot up a wall and
maybe a few Hellions and a half-dozen innocent bystanders. Go slower, you're too fast."
"If we're not doin' a drive-by then why am I slowing down?" he asked, as the corner was getting closer. Still, he followed orders.
Credit where it's due, the Hellions were immediately suspicious of the slow car, and started getting ready in case of a fight. There were five soldiers in the corner, all male. One sitting on a stoop, two standing next to him, and three standing on the other side of the corner. All reaching under their shirts.
"You'll see," I said, taking off my seat belt and making sure the light was all the way off. "Keep your head down and whatever you do, do
not step on the gas."
Before he could answer, I opened the door and started walking next to the car in a crouch. Once we were close and while they were still wondering what the fuck I was doing, I stood up a bit so I could aim through the open window with both hands
I took three shots. Two missed, but one caught the kid sitting on the stoop on the side of the neck.
"Oh shit!" Arthur screamed.
"Get down and don't speed up!" I shouted at him, and he threw his body over the shotgun seat just in time to avoid the returning fire from the Hellion soldiers.
I crouched behind the door, trying to ignore how Arthur screamed in my ear, and took a risk to lean past the side of the door.
Tres balas. Quedan doce. I took three shots again, and managed to nail one of the three twice in the stomach and another in the arm.
Nueve.
I'm no Rain Man, but if you can keep frosty it's more or less simple to subtract from fifteen.
The one with the bullets in the gut fell, and the one with the hurt arm dropped his gun to clutch said arm. Third guy started running, and I actually stopped walking long enough to take good aim and put a bullet in his back.
Ocho. The front window of Arthur's car broke, and he started screaming and-
No no no nonono-
"Don't you fuckin'-" I didn't get to finish my threat before the car started peeling off. Before I totally lost cover, I rushed over to the wall with the dead soldiers, throwing two blind shots to make them hide behind cover, then getting within arm's reach of hurt-arm guy and putting a bullet in his head.
Och-sie-sei-cinco! Cinco balas!
I put my back against the wall and breathed slowly. I could hear Arthur, still screaming as he drove forward with no front window and an open door.
Idiota, I thought, pulling a magazine from my back pocket and listening closely.
"What the fuck was that about?" someone said. From tone, volume and acoustics, I guessed he was staring after Arthur's dumb ass.
"Who cares?" someone else said, pretty agitated. "Is the shooter gone?"
"I think he left with the car," first guy said, "Weird fucking drive-by. Why not stay in the car?"
Because I don't want to shoot civilians, dick. I waited to see if I'd have to use my remaning five bullets or if I'd have a shot (hah) at reloading.
"I don't think he got in," second guy said. "Maybe he ran off?"
I heard him step cautiously forward. Looking down, I found the edge of a foot peeking past the corner. I aimed my gun, shot it, and when Second Guy fell forward I unloaded two rounds on his chest before backing away from the corner as first guy shouted. I quickly ejected the magazine, held it next to the new one, inserted the new one, put the old one in my back pocket and took aim at the corner.
"H-Hey!" the Hellion called out. "Look, c-can we talk this out?"
"Sure!" I said. "Just walk on out with your hands up and we can talk!"
"Fuck you!" he shouted, "You just killed my friends!"
"I did," I said. "'s all in the Game, man."
"Fuck the Game!" he screamed, and I could hear that he was tearing up. "Man, you killed Brandon!"
"Aw, don't be like that," I said. "I'm sure he's having a great time down there."
There was a moment where the implication was processed, then a boy younger than me ran out, tears in his eyes and a gun on his hand.
He immediately caught two bullets, one on his throat and one in his chest. He twitched and squeezed the trigger, but it wasn't aimed anywhere near me and instead pinged off of a nearby car.
I watched him drop to the floor.
I didn't feel... sad. Or shocked, or horrified, or anything like that, but... But I remember just staring at his face and thinking,
No. No that can't be right.
After a moment, I put away my gun and approached his body. Sure enough, there it was. Plain as day.
"... can't be older than thirteen."
I don't know how long I stared at him. He wasn't the first young'un I'd put a bullet in, and he must have been a full five years older than I'd been.
But...
fuck me, he looked young. He looked so very, very young.
I heard a car stop behind me, and from the noise of it going into the sidewalk and the broken glass falling out when the door opened, I guessed it was Arthur's, so I didn't bother to turn around.
I probably should have, considering that's when I felt a burning line of pain go across my head just before I heard a gunshot and instinct made me drop to the floor. With the spray of blood and the quickness of it, it probably looked like I'd gotten shot in the head.
In fact, I know that's what it looked like, because I heard Arthur whisper, "I got one?"
He laughed, a little hysteric, "I fucking got one! Yeah!"
I stayed still on the floor, mostly because I was really, really tired. Also because I was dying (hah) to see how this went.
I heard him get closer, muttering to himself, "I'm the fucking best. Sam ain't know shit, nigga, I told him I was a cold blooded killer, now he's gonna see I saved his bitch ass-"
If it hadn't given the game away, I would have slapped over the back of the head. Goddamn wiggers.
He kicked me over, and I struggled to keep my eyes still and unblinkingly open, staring at a point just over his head.
Arthur stared at me, and he got really pale. "O-Oh. Oh no."
He swallowed, looked around, then dropped his gun and ran off. I heard him get in his car and peel off again, almost running over my hand.
I stayed there for a while, then groaned, rolled my eyes, and threw the gun down a storm drain before walking off.
God, my night wasn't even fucking over yet.
{[X]}
The blonde girl attending the 6-Twelve two blocks from the site of my 'murder' looked to be about my age. She also seemed to be completely terrified, which was fair, considering I had a bleeding gash across the side of my head and a hell of a bad mood that probably showed on my face.
The place was mostly empty, except for her and I. The white fluorescent lights and the various electronics created a small buzz of white noise in the background, the many aisles full of varied and colourful products made sight blur over, and all together created a massive feeling of being in a liminal space.
Either that or I was
really starting to feel the blood loss.
"How much for everything?" I asked, still wearing my facemask.
She looked at the disinfectant, bandages and bag of chips I'd put in front of her. Then at the kinda-visible gun stuck down the front of my pants (with the safety on, obviously).
Eventually, she defaulted for the typical Basic White Person answer when faced with an armed minority, "You can have anything, just please don't hurt me."
I rolled my eyes, got my wallet and gave her a hundred. "Just point me to the bathroom, please. You can keep the change."
She looked down at it, then at me. She seemed to debate with herself for a minute, before taking the hundred and walking around the register. "Come with me."
I followed her, figuring that getting killed by some teenager in a dead-end job would be a fittingly stupid end to the night. To my disappointment, she instead sat me down on a reasonably-clean toilet that had managed to keep its lid and helped me clean and dress my wounds.
She helped me wipe the blood off of my face, and while she was stapling my head gash closed--I'd avoided mirrors out of resignation that my non-existen good looks were lost forever, but as she did it I was taken with morbid curiosity as to whether I'd have been able to glimpse my skull--I sat there and tried not to fidjet, even if the disinfectant fucking
stung.
Still, it was kinda awkward to just have her there, working at my skull. So I said, "Y'seem to know what you're doing."
"My family and I always take the yearly first aid public class," she muttered, carefully applying the staples.
She was talking about a popular outreach program by the mayor's office; for the last two decades, every year there were classes on first aid available for anyone to sign up for a whole month. There was a limit of about five hundred people a year, but there was only a mild-to-average chance that you'd die before the next year, and that was a pretty easy gamble compared to the average Gothamite's typical routine of walking from a terrorist plot by an ancient league of assassins to a sudden bombing by a deranged clown with shitty makeup and boring fashion.
"I used to take that," I commented.
"Why'd you stop?" she asked. "I'm still learning new stuff after all this time."
"They implimented a rule about having a certain amount of arrests on your record," I said. "After 'bout twenty or so, it's assumed that you can't be trusted not to become a back alley doctor or some shit."
"That seems... harsh," she noted.
"It ain't--
¡Ay, concha tu madre!" I winced when she applied a staple at a sensitive place. I made a face and said, "Sorry. As I was sayin', it ain't ideal, no. Shit, I weren't that bad off either, compared to some folks I knew. At least I deserved it, my neighbor's fourteen year old kid ain't qualified and he just got picked up 'cus some racist motherfuckers figured a young black boy wouldn't be out on the street unless he was selling coke and dope."
She kinda made a face as she worked, but said nothing.
"Hey, easy, I saw the 'Vote Luthor' pin on your bag," I said. "You can shout 'All Lives Matter' if it makes you feel better."
"I know I'm fixing a crack on your head, but that doesn't mean you can use your ass as a hat," she muttered, finishing up the staples. "I only have that stupid pin there so my parents won't bother me. Dad dropped me off and I couldn't be bothered to care what some asshole costumers thought of me."
"Then what was with the face?" challenged the asshole costumer (me).
"Nothing, just..." she shrugged. "Sorry. That sucks."
"Oh," I blinked. "Wow, holy shit, sorry."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, just..." I waited until her hands were away from my head to shake it a little. "I just realized you're the first empathetic stranger I've met in like three months."
"Yikes," she said, which was fitting. "I'm guessing this was an unempathetic stranger?"
"Incompetent co-worker, actually," I scoffed. "Funny thing is, as much trouble as Arthur's shit aim got me? This time him being too fucking incompetent to hit the broad side of the planet might have actually saved my life."
"Why'd you have to work with this guy?" she asked, pulling a roll of bandages and a pad from her kit. "I always thought that gang members are all friends."
"Shit, I
wish. This a business like any other," I said. "I'm just the dumb motherfucker that got stuck trainin' the manager's cousin, you feel me?"
"Oh god, I totally get it," she rolled her eyes, "I got stuck training the regional manager's dumbass son-in-law for like two weeks, he wouldn't stop staring at my tits the entire time."
I gave her a look. "Okay, that sucks and I appreciate you trying to empathize, but considerin' that mine had
a gun and I was stuck with 'im for five months, I'm gonna say you don't
totally get it."
"I mean," she said, "We both felt
unsafe."
"Well,
yeah. But you gotta know that there's
levels," I said. "Like, yours was a creep, and mine was a creep with a gun and delusions of African heritage. There's kind of a gap there."
"Look, I'm not gonna play Misery Poker with you," she said. Then she crossed her arms, "Now say I was right or I'm not dressing your wound."
"... are you serious?" I asked. "Are you bein' serious right now?"
"Yes. Say I was right, unless you want to walk around with an open head wound."
"
Maybe I want
to walk around with an open head wound," I grumbled, but finally gave up and said, "You were
right. Now, your majesty, I ask respectfully that you dress my bleeding fucking head wound before I pass out."
She smiled at me, then had me hold the pad as she wrapped the bandages.
"How old are you, by the way?"
"Fifteen," I said, staring ahead again. "Why?"
"I'm fifteen too," she said, "What school do you go to?"
"Graduated two years ago," I muttered. When she gave me a skeptical look, I rolled my eyes, "I left my diploma on my other jacket, but if you
must know I skipped three years and graduated early. Top of my class despite having a part-time job for most of my time there, in fact."
Granted, it was mostly because of my previous life's memories and a talent for memorizing worthless trivia, but I was honestly kinda proud of my status as valedictorian, despite how few people believed it happened.
For example, Cashier, who sardonically asked, "What, and you just left college?"
"Never went," I said, still a bit bitter, "Tried for most of last year to get in Gotham University, and failin' that, Metropolis U-"
"
Metropolis?"
"Look, I know, I feel dirty, but I was desperate by then," I said.
"Still," she said. "How'd you look at yourself in the mirror?"
young boy couldn't be older than thirteen, dead, dead, no future, my fault, my fault, my death, every death my d-
"I don't."
"Hm," she seemed to sense that I didn't appreciate the joke, and moved on to something less sensitive, like my academic failures. "So how come you couldn't get in?"
"Eh, problems with my name, face, history, zip code and credit balance," I shrugged. "Even a community college in Gotham has to think about its status when it takes in students, no matter how well they did in school."
"That's awful," she said.
"It's life," I shrugged. "Just more time to focus on my career."
"Is that career getting shot in the head?"
"... some of the time
is going into considerin' a career change." I confessed. And it
was a confession, I'd never said it out loud, even as a joke.
"Sounds smart," she commented, finishing up with the bandages. "What have you been thinking?"
"Maybe a cook?" I shrugged. "I like to cook."
"Could be nice," she said. "What's your style?"
"I mix and match, but mostly-"
"Let me guess, mexican?"
I stared at her, she stared at me.
"God dammit," I said, "I
knew that pin was yours."
She broke first and started laughing. I soon joined her.
"Nah, but seriously," I said. "Call me a mexican again and I'll kill your whole family, pets included and first."
She suddenly looked very serious, "Wait, what?"
"I'm kidding," I said.
"Oh."
"I'd never hurt a pet."
She stared. I made a neutral face.
Her eyes narrowed. I grinned a little, despite myself.
"You're fucking with me."
"
Obvio."
She tapped me in the side of the head, and smiled mockingly when I whined.
She started picking up everything, and I stayed looking at her for a moment.
"Why did you help?" I asked her, "Can't have been just been gettin' to keep the challenge."
She shrugged, putting away the bandages. "I dunno. You looked like shit, and I guess I just felt I knew enough assholes and didn't want to be another one."
... ha.
"Not a bad policy," I muttered.
"Thanks, I try," she smiled at me, picking up the kit and opening the door to leave. "What are you going to do now?"
I stood up and took out my wallet as I answered, "Finish my errands, I suppose."
"Wait, what?" she looked at me like I was crazy. "Dude, I just patched up a
hole in your
head. You should be--well,
ideally you should be in a hospital, but
realistically you should be
dead."
"Mm, thanks for the cheery diagnosis, doc," I grumbled, taking out five hundred dollar notes and putting them forward. "Unfortunately, I'm not in a line of work that's too forgivin' with leaving jobs half-done."
She looked at the money, then up at me, "I can't take that."
"You can, and you oughta," I said. "Look, if it bothers you that it's '
dirty money', I get it, but it buys you shit like any money and-"
"It's not that!" she said, "I'm not going to take payment for patching you up so you could go die!"
Wow, she seemed
genuinely bothered by the idea of me dying on her watch. It'd been a long time since anyone but Mom, Butchie or Billy felt like that for me.
I gave her a smile, and gently reached down and grabbed her hand. She hesitated, but she didn't fight as I held it in front of her and smiled, "Listen. I
promise I won't die. And I ain't
never break a promise."
(That was actually true. In my second life, I had never made a promise that I knew I couldn't keep.
(Until then.))
She looked me in the eyes, and seemed to believe it. She squeezed my hand, "Promise?"
"Promise," I said, putting the bills on her hand. "
Please, take the money. You've done a lot for me."
She hesitated, then closed her fingers around them. "Sure, fuck it. I'm probably out of a job, so-"
She froze when I took her hand and laid a kiss on the back of it. I looked her in the eye, smiled, and managed not to laugh at the way her ears got red, "
Gracias por todo, hermosa. Te debo mi vida."
"U-Uh, yeah, no problemo," she stuttered.
"And you ruined it," I said, smirking to show I was kiddin'. "See you around,
rubia."
"W-Wait!" she stopped me. She seemed determined as she grabbed my shoulders, "Do you have a phone?"
"Uh, sure?" I said. I took it over and unlocked it. "Why?"
"I'm putting in my contact," she said, taking the phone out of my hands and quickly tapping away at it. "If you live past your...
errand, send me a text."
I blinked, astonished, "Oh my god.
Abuelo was right, Spanish
is the sexiest language in the world!"
"Not for
that, dumbass," she said, a little red-faced. "I just... I just want to make sure you're alright."
"I..." I stopped, thought it over, and decided that there wouldn't be much harm from it. I smiled at her, "Okay. I'll send a text if I make it."
I looked at the contact name she put in and snorted, "'Sexy Nurse (Alice)', huh?"
"It helps remind you who I am. Plus, it's true, isn't it?" she smiled.
I laughed, thanked her again, and walked out, feeling mildly optimistic about the future as I broke into a car, hotwired it and drove off.
About half a year later, Alice and I would start dating. We'd break up amicably a little before my seventeenth birthday, and we'd remain friends for the rest of my life. That girl became, with no competition, one of the most important people in my life. All because she chose to help me.
Sometimes helping people feels like moving a lake with a thimble.
And then some random fucking stranger helps you out and you wonder how much of a difference you made, and all that It's A Wonderul Life shit.
{[X]}
I looked at the house. It was a nice place, white picket fence, red tiled roof, doghouse on the front yard and it was at the end of one of those dead-end streets that pop up in US suburbia.
Directly in front of the street leading into it, straight in front of me, was the stash house I was tasked with breaking into. I counted two guards at the front, visible when I saw someone come in and they helped him with his coat. Plus some at least three armed figures fucking around the attic, if the shadows made by a TV were any indication. Through a window, I could see that there were plenty of people around a table and that people were cooking.
Some kind of dinner party at the stash house. Hah.
I looked at the place, thought long and hard on it, then looked out the window and saw that the house next to where the car was had one of those ugly fucking gnomes next to the front door.
A stupid, borderline-suicidal plan ocurred to me.
... okay, I decided, getting out of the car and grabbing the gnome, before going back into the car, putting the gnome on shotgun and starting to reverse back up the street.
If this works, I'm gettin' a new job. If it fails, I'm dead and it doesn't matter. Either way, I'm never doing something this fucking stupid again.
(I would, in fact, do a lot of things much stupider in the future.)
Once I was a good distance from the house, I opened the door, forced the trunk open and inspected the contents. Bunch of camping shit... I could use it.
I grabbed an excessively camo-painted bowie knife to a tent, cutting three long strips of the plastic weave. I then closed the trunk, went back into the front seat. tilted back the shotgun seat as far as it went, extended the driver seat's headrest so it was as out as possible, and wrapped two of the long strips to each side of the steering wheel, then the last one to the parking brake.
Once that was done, I closed the door and started accelerating. Once the pedal was to the metal, I quickly dropped the gnome down there, climbed into the back seat over the shotgun seat, put on the seatbelt, and started steering the car with the strips of plastics.
It was extremely awkward, but since it was mostly driving in a straight line it didn't require much precision. Unfortunately, the car made enough noise heading down for the muscle at the stash house to notice. The attic windows and front door opened up, letting out people with weapons that didn't take long to fire upon me. But they couldn't see too well through the windows, so they just fired on the front seat. Most bullets either missed outright, or pinged off a different part of the car.
A few almost hit me, but none stopped me in time for me to drive the car straight through the window facing the dinner party, pulling the parking brake at the last moment and letting the seatbelt keep me from crashing through the driver's seat.
A few of the people eating at the table had wisened up and stood up, but no one got away in time to avoid the car-sized bullet I was riding into the house. I couldn't notice much besides the ringing in my ears and the pain from the seatbelt pulling me back, but when everything settled and I released the seatbelt, I crouched and hid in the back seat like a kid waiting for their parents, except that I had a gun and was planning on multiple homicides.
Maybe GU was right to reject my application, I thought, as I saw a guard inspecting the car cautiously while the other looked back the way the car had comes, expecting more. It was easy to shoot them both with one bullet each, since they were both pretty close. Headshot to the one inspecting the car, and one round through the back of the neck of the one looking away.
Satisfied that I'd gotten as much ambush as one could reasonably expect after crashing through the front wall, I opened the door and used it as cover as I inspected the dining room. It was connected to the kitchen, where I assumed the cook was hiding for the moment. And over there were the stairs, which meant...
I took careful aim at the spot in front of the corner at the top of the stairs, and waited with bated breath until I saw an armed person pop out, at which point I unloaded three shots and landed one, right on the guard's chest. No bulletproof vest, if the burst of blood was any indications.
I heard someone shout 'oh shit' from upstairs, and heard the sound of a body slamming against a wall. I could see the end of a barrel peeking past the corner, but even if I could nail it at a distance it would do no good...
But suburb houses probably had drywall, didn't they?
I aimed carefully and fired three times, one missed completely, another pinged off the end of the barrel and sent it forward, and the last went through the corner and out the side of the other guy's head, making the body slump out of cover and fall of the first guy's corpse, making the latter roll down the stairs.
"Whoever the third guy over there is, I'm really not in the mood!" I shouted. "If you fuck off now, I'll let you live!"
No answer. I closed the door and walked around the car, not peeling my eyes from the stairs.
Which is probably why I didn't notice the big, doughy white guy in a cooking apron rushing towards me. Or rather, I didn't think the cook was a threat until he was tackling me into what was left of the car's front window, and almost through it.
"Guh!" the air pushed out of my lungs by the impact, but I recovered in time to throw an elbow stike down at the back of his neck, making him scream in pain and let go to clutch where I hit. Bad reaction, usually first thing to get trained out by any lifestyle based in combat. The cook was just some guy, big and tough-looking by nature, fighting against the guy that just killed
a lot of people.
I would have been more empathetic if he hadn't just tried to put me through a car, so instead I used our positions to easily knee him in the jaw. When he flinched back, I kicked him in the face to buy some space, then I hopped off the car, stumbled a little because
everything hurt, and punched him in the face.
He was one of those people that are just
born tough, and while that's well and good for a cook, I was someone that learned to be tough, and natural talent never beats a lifetime of dedication. His swipes at me were clumsy, while I wove around his attacks and landed hit after hit on his face.
Still, he could take a beating. I kept pushing him back, until his back was against the kitchen counter, but he just
would. Not. Drop!
At one point, I overextended on a hit on his stomach, and he showed natural prowess by grabbing that arm and dragging me to the side, slamming me against the counter just like that. Then he grabbed my throat and started pressing down as he pushed back, leaving me almost sitting on the counter.
Pressure on front of throat, airflow interrupted, four minutes until brain damage, need to stop remembering morbid trivia-
"Little fucking
shit!" he spat, putting more and more of his considerable weight on his hand. He was trying to break my throat, I realized. "Who the fuck-?!"
While he ranted, my hands stamped around on the counter, desperate for anything. I felt myself grab something made of glass, and moved my eyes to realize I'd grabbed a glass salt shaker. Not wasting time, I slammed the part just under the metal top against the corner of the counter, and once I had half a shaker's worth of salt in a broken bottle, I slammed the sharp end into the cook's cheek, dragging it up into the eye where I pushed it in, spreading sand across every bit of damage.
He started screaming like a man possessed, letting go and grabbing at his face in indescribable agony. I took advantage of the moment to look around, and I found a pot of burning oil with a few breaded fishes next to it. I walked over, grabbed it off the fire since I was hopped up on adrenalie and I still had on the gloves, dragged it back over to the still screaming cook, and threw the oil on his face.
This made the screaming continue, but hitting him in the face with the pot made him fall on his back, making it easier for me to straddle him and start smashing the pot down on his face, raising it over my head and bringing it down over, and over, and
over.
"Just!"
Bam!
"Fucking!"
Bam!
"DIE!"
SPLAT!
I threw away the pot, panting heavily as I stared down at the destroyed face of the cook. Somehow, despite the smell of fried human and the violence, I managed to keep the urge to vomit down at just some burning at the top of my stomach, and after a while, dragged myself to my feet.
The third attic gunman was there, staring at me and aiming an AK at me. Or at least I assume that's who he was, maybe there was another asshole with a gun walking around. The point is that I noticed his hands were shaking, and that he was staring at me with wide, frightened eyes.
Hm. Bluff or death, I guess, I raised an eyebrow at him, nodded towards the cook and said, "He had a gun too."
The gunman looked at what was left of the cook, sniffed the air, and looked at me, "You meant what you said? About letting me go?"
I had, so I nodded.
He dropped the rifle and ran like the devil was behind him.
Once I was sure he was gone, I took a deep breath, sat down on the floor next to the minced cook, and sighed.
Now I just had to load up every drug and bit of cash in the house into the car, burn down the house to erase as much evidence as possible, drive off before the police get here, and somehow make it to a safe place without getting caught.
I briefly considered just curling up into a ball and crying, but finally decided on just doing my stupid job instead.
{[X]}
"I'm telling you, it has to be a trap!"
"And why is that, Artie?"
"Because Reyes is
dead! I saw him drop with my own eyes!"
"Uh-huh, and that's why he called me personally and told him to meet him there," the doors to the garage opened, and Arthur and his cousin, James, walked in while talking. "Oh, look at that, he's here. What a shock."
Arthur looked like he saw a ghost when he laid eyes on me, which made sense. His cousin, who was equally redheaded but at least understood the concept of cultural apropiation, gave me a nod. "Reyes."
"Hey, sir," I said. "How've you been?"
"Busy night for everyone, looks like," he gave a pointed look at the car behind me. "Specially you."
I looked at the car. A few dozen kilos of product and several stacks of cash were in the trunk and at the feet of the backseat, every window was broken, almost every square inch of surface had the paint shot or scratched clean off, and there were bits of my blood from cuts by glass or cop bullets all around and over the driver's seat.
"Your cousin left me without a ride or backup," I commented. "I was forced to improvise."
"H-Hey, that's a lie!" Arthur said.
"Oh?" I asked, "So it
wasn't you that shot me in the back of the
fucking head
, left me for
fucking dead, and fucked off to God-knows-where?!"
I might have been foaming slightly at the mouth by the end there. Arthur certainly looked like he was worried about me biting his throat open.
"For the record," James chimed in, "He came to ask me for a new partner because the last one got shot by some Hellions and only he escaped after heroically avenging your death."
"
No kidding."
"Mm," he said. "In any case, good job, Reyes. Go get some sleep, you earned it. There'll be some more work for you tomorrow."
It actually snapped me out of my rage so I could stare at James like he was out of his fucking mind. Because he
was, apparently.
"What."
"What?" James said. "Oh, yeah, uh... actually, things are winding down... take tomorrow off, man."
I stared at him, and something in my brain either clicked or broke, but it definitely
moved.
It was like a religious revelation. I just saw myself from the outside, torn and beaten to shit, waiting to report so I could go get some medical fucking attention, and all I got was 'good job, take tomorrow off'.
I was nothing more than another gun in the modern gangster's arsenal, and if they couldn't even bothered to run maintenance with me, then they could all go fuck themselves.
"I quit."
They both froze, but James recovered first, "What?"
"I quit," I said, then broke into a smile and laughed, kinda maniacally. "I'm out, I'm callin' quits."
They stared at each other, and Arthur spoke up, "Bro, you-"
"
You don't fucking speak to me ever again, or else I'm gonna slap the shit out of you," I told him, before looking at James. "Man, I ain't got another fucking day like this in me again. I just killed like twelve people in one day,
tortured a motherfucker, almost died 'cause my own help shot without lookin', and now you're talking like I gotta do more of it tomorrow?!"
"I
said you could take tomorrow off-"
"That's not the point, fool!" I said. "I'm
done! Look, y'all been good to me and I'm tryin' to be a gentleman about it, but fact is I can't put up with the fuckin' incompetence here anymo'.
"I'm. Done."
James gave me a cold look, "You need to calm down and think about who the fuck you're talking to with that tone."
I stared at him for a second, then stood up to my full height and looked him dead in the eye.
James was older than me, had probably been in the game longer than me and had more muscle following his every word than I did.
But I had a
hell of a lot more bodies behind me, and I was so far past the point of giving a fuck that I couldn't even see it on the horizon behind me anymore.
I took a step forward. James took two back.
"Your name
do ring out, man," I said. "But you know me. You
know me, and you know who I am."
He swallowed and opened his mouth, but I spoke before he could.
"I'm tryin' to be a gentleman about it for the moment," I said. "No one here to hear me quit but your cousin, and we both know he's gonna tell this story to make me look like a bitch or somethin'. You ain't gonna lose no rep behind this. Just let me walk out, and we can go without me havin' any more bodies to my name."
We stood there for a minute, staring each other down.
"... man, the fuck happened to you?" James asked, "One day you're the coldest motherfucker I know, and now you ain't got no heart?"
I didn't say anything, I just looked at him with a neutral expression.
He sighed, walked over to the car, and tossed a stack of cash at me. "Fine. Call this your final paycheck, so fuck off and if I ever see you again your ass is dead."
I caught the stack, gave him a nod, and walked out.
James and Arthur were both dead by the end of the year. I didn't care enough about either of them to keep track of their lives beyond that.
{[X]}
Gotham taxis are a lot of things: Dirty, expensive, slow, very dirty, unfriendly, threatening to pedestrians, and so incredibly filthy that I'm pretty sure looking at one directly gives you heartburn, diarrhea and Stage Four cancer in your soul.
Still, they are also so incredibly discreet that you can slowly bleed out on tha back of one and the driver will never say anything.
Speaking from experience here.
I sent Alice a text telling her that I was still alive while the rustbucket masquerading as public transportation went to drop me off at Butcher's apartment. I shaved off a couple hundreds off of my severance pay for the cab driver (who told me to go fuck myself after I said he could keep the change, because
Gotham), more or less fell out of the car, and rang the bell for his apartment until he finally woke up and came down the stairs.
"Sam, it's three in the goddamn morning, I really-" he finally rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, saw my state, and rushed over to pick me up, "C'mon, son, c'mon. Let's get you patched up."
"Didn't miss a second," I muttered as he dragged me over to the elevator. "Y'big softy."
"Shut up and walk, dammit."
After a while, he managed to drag me into the bathtub, where a bottle of rum and his well-furnished first aid kit comforted me as he cleaned up the bits of glass on my everything. This wasn't the first time he helped me heal up after a busy night. Might be the last, though.
"Hey, Butchie?"
"Yeah, Sam?" he asked, pincers dragging a bit of glass out of my back from the cook's first tackle.
"I... I quit the Blackgaters today. Before comin' over."
He froze, for a second, then kept working. "That so?"
"I was- I just-" I cleared my thoat. "Look, I got the head wound from the guy I was working with and you said it yourself, they've been running me really hard. I get that you must be disappointed with me, but-"
"You can't possibly make me disappointed, Sam," he said. "And you don't have to lawyer up. You're close enough to a man as I've ever seen someone your age be, and you made a choice. If you felt it was time to quit, then it was quittin' time."
I choked, but managed to say, "Thanks."
"Mm."
Once my chest was wrapped up, I crawled out of the tub and onto his couch. Butchie ran the shower to clean off the blood before it could dry, then joined me on the couch.
"I got an open spot in my kitchen," he mentioned. "It's gonna be a decrease from your usual paycheck, but I'm thinkin' you could start making an honest livin'."
"... won't mom-?"
"Your mother's a strong woman, and she's doin' well enough," he said. "You've done more than your part, Sam. You're still young. It's fine if you don't take care of everyone."
"... I don't feel young."
"Yeah, well," Butcher shrugged, a little sad. "Maybe you should try to?"
"Maybe I should." I stared up at his ceiling, and he sat next to me, sipping at the bottle of rum. "... met a girl today."
"She the one that patched up your head?"
I nodded.
"Sounds like a keeper."
"Might be. Haven't really talked, but she seemed nice."
"Easy on the eyes?"
"Don't be a pig," I said.
"Okay, but was she fine or not?"
"I mean,
yeah." I thought about it, "She was crazy fine, actually. Blonde, nice legs..."
"Nice. Got her number?"
"Yup."
"Attaboy."
I smiled at him.
We made conversation for a while, he sent a text to mom telling her that I'd gotten caught up in a shootout but made it through with only a few scrapes, and he drove me home.
"Y'wanna come in?" I asked him, once we were parked in front of my building. "I think Mom would like to see you, after getting a scare."
"... nah," he decided. "Nah, I shouldn't. You should spend time with her."
"Right," I thought it over, then took half of my severance stack and handed it over. "Y'know Big Mike's place?"
"Candy Cane Club?" he said, immediately, then grinned, "Yeah, I'm
well acquainted."
I gave him a flat look. "You know shit like that's why I don't like you talking to my mom, right?"
"Yeah," he said, with a little shrug.
"... right," I said. "Give half of this to Trixie, tell her we won't be meetin' for a while but I'm still taking her calls. Then I want you to find a stripper called Stacy and give her the other half, tell her she should get out while she still can."
He gave me a look.
"I'm not fucking either of them!" I said. "It's just... they're people that need help. I'm helpin'."
He rolled his eyes and muttered something, but took the money and gave me a nod.
I clapped him on the shoulder as a goodbye, tried to smile at him, and went home.
I dragged my sorry ass up the stairs, unlocked the door after three tries, and immediately got wrapped in a hug by my mom, making me hiss in pain.
"O-Oh, sorry," she let go. "Are you alright?"
"Been better," I said. "You?"
"Scared, but I'll get over it," she dragged me in and locked the door behind us. "C'mon,
mi sol. I'm guessing you haven't eaten all day?"
Shit, I hadn't, had I?
"Grabbed some snacks between shifts," I lied. "Still, I could have some dinner. What's for eatin'?"
"Got leftover stew from yesterday, and I can make some rice if you'd like? Make it more filling?"
I nodded, and she went into the kitchen to do that.
While she was working, I went over to the table and sat down, thoroughly exhausted.
Okay, I thought.
Just gotta tell her that money is gonna get a bit tighter over dinner, then I can go the fuck to-
I paused, recognizing the symbol of Metropolis University on an open letter that mom must have been reading before I came in.
I grabbed it and gave it a look. Then I actually gave it a careful read.
"It's a crime to read another person's mail, y'know?"
I looked up to find mom holding a plate and a glass of orange juice, giving me a sad little smile as she set them down in front of me.
"You sent your resumé to MU?"
"I did," she said. "I figured if they were dumb enough to reject you as a student, they should be dumb enough to hire me as a teacher. And they were."
I smiled, and said, "Proud of you. You starting next year, right?"
"I'm not starting at all," she said. "Eat, it's getting cold."
"What?"
"That's what food does when you don't-"
"No, I- Mom," I said. "Why wouldn't you go?"
"I'd have to move to Metropolis," she said. "You hate Metropolis."
"Well,
yeah," I said. "But you've been trying to teach at a college pretty much since you got your diploma. Why would you throw away the opportunity?"
"Because you'd be unhappy there," she said. "Poor Billy's getting out soon, too. Are you going to miss that?"
"Never. But still-"
"No buts," she said. "I sent to see if they'd take it, not to actually get a job. I'll just keep trying in Gotham until it works."
I stared at her, before pushing the plate away and saying, "No fucking way."
"Hey, don't talk to me like-"
"Mom, I'm being serious," I said. "No fucking way am I letting you throw this away for me."
"Oh, sweetie, it's no big deal-"
"It
is a big deal!" I said. "Mom, c'mon,
this is what you studied for. You're wasted in a high school."
"But I'm not wasted taking care of you," she said. "For God's sake, Sam, you got shot today!"
"I got
shot at," I corrected. "I never actually got hit."
She gave a pointed look at the bandages around my head.
"Okay, so I got shot
a little," I said, making her roll her eyes.
"It's just not happening, Sam. End of story," she tapped the paper with a hand. "Even if I took it, the apartments down at Metropolis are too expensive and they want me living there for at least three months before they hire me, so I'd have to come up with money out of nowhere-"
"I'll help you," I said. "I have a lot stashed away from odd jobs over the years, and some people owe me."
"I'm not taking
my son's money, Sam!" she said, smacking the table. "Bad enough I rely on you for groceries and fixing this piece-of-shit apartment! I still have my fucking dignity, I'm not going to be indebted to my own son! I'm supposed to be your
mother!"
"It'd only be until you get the job and can afford it on your own!" I said. "And you told me a million times that there's no debt if it's family!"
"I told you that, because you were seven years old and refused to let me buy you new shoes!" she shouted back. "It's different!"
"How?!"
"
I'm your mother!"
"
And I'm your son! And if it's titles we're comparing, we both got ours the same day!"
"Don't you quote Mafalda at me, young man!"
"I-" I stopped myself, this was getting dumb. "Mom, listen. Can you really look me in the eye and say you don't want this job?"
She looked me in the eye, paused, then looked away.
"There," I said. "Look-"
She stopped me with a gesture, seeming at war with herself, "Just stop, Sam. Let's... let's table this for tonight, huh?"
"...
fine," I said, "But we're talking about it tomorrow."
She sighed, nodded, and we made small, awkward talk as I ate dinner. After that, she went to bed, and I did the same once I brushed my teeth.
Gonna need to come up with lots of money fast if I want to help mom, I thought, once I was in bed and kept from sleep by worries and pain.
And I just fucking quit the Blackgaters... because of course
as soon as I worry about myself something comes up that I need to deal with.
... didn't Billy's last mail say he befriended some henchmen?
{[X]}
Author's Note: I've had the idea for some time to do a Wire Prequels kind of thing, like with
Young Proposition Joe and
Young Omar. Figured I might as well do it since we finished the introductory arc.
Before a few people come at me about Sam being inconsistent in his levels of Violence VS Diplomacy, I wanted to clear up that he's not a totally reliable narrator in this. Keep in mind that being a henchman and having Billy near are extremely positive influences on his state of mind, compared to what he went through in seven years of being a gangbanger.
As this happens, he's grappling with what's left of his previous life's mindset (a pretty polite and educated person, completely normal) and the life he has to lead now, with the involved mindset (a lifestyle of being known as reliable and cold enough to be sent to kill people one after another).
The typical gangster has probably been in it from a young age and had time to be indoctrinated, to build the rationalizations one needs to lead a violent life. Sam went into it with a full, peaceful life in his head and still had to adapt, despite being mature enough to know that all the rationalizations in the world won't change the fact that he is ending lives, permanently taking people and all their potential out of the world.
Anyways, this is my longest chapter so far. Go me!
