Fantasy The Queensway Gang

[queendilettante]

Mary stood outside the pub, impatiently waiting for her sister's arrival with the others. The disagreement between the two Irishmen had been placated, at least for the time being, and the gang stood at the street corner as inconspicuously as possible for ruffians to do after sundown. It was quiet among them, and Mary - uncharacteristically - did nothing to disturb that. The simple walk to a trainyard and back with Conor earlier that evening had ran her nearly ragged and, in the grand scheme of their plans, that was merely the night's prologue. She shot a pained glance to Brucie, who ignorantly scanned the streets for signs of the carriage, leaning lackadaisically against the pub's outer wall. Their first member, an hour or two from being beaten within an inch of his life for trying to save Mary's own... Still, his handling of the situation nearly cost all of them their -

She squeezed her fist hard to cut her spiral short, nails digging well into her palm. All dogs need training.

An obnoxiously loud whistle cut through the remainder of Mary's fog, who looked up to see Helena and Benjamin arriving with the carriage. The American, silent as ever, was handling the reigns. As the horses slowed to a halt, Mary called up to her sister. "Heavens, Lena, need you announce our presence so overtly?"

"Eh, piss off." She dismissively waved back, smirking up at Benjamin.

Following her sister's gaze, Mary barked an order up to Benjamin. "Stay there, Yank. We'll have you drive us to the docks as well, considering your clear aptitude for this job."

Benjamin’s brow rises. This is why you never agree to do anything outside your job description - now he’s responsible for every time they need a driver. “Sure thing, miss. Just don’t keep me waiting, hate being bored.”

Mary shot him a smirk identical to the one Lena just had. "I suppose that'll be up to these sods," she joked, turning to the rest of the gang. "You heard him, loves, let's not offend his American sensibilities any further." She gave Bennet a pat on the back and gestured for him to start grabbing the goods from inside. "You all load us and then let's be off, shall we?"

Clambering up the carriage, Mary joined Benjamin in the front seat and gingerly folded her bad leg over her good one. The gang quickly loaded the goods onto the back behind them and took their places on and around the carriage for the trek over. "Do take care dear," she muttered to Benjamin with a wink, "precious cargo on board!"

----

A little less than an hour later, the gang arrived at the docks. Mary's insistence that the American drive them was, thankfully, not a mistake. He proved as useful as could have been expected of him and Mary made a mental note to have him drive the carriage from then on. He seemed far more skilled at the task than Brucie, who had a habit of slamming the wheels into every knick on the road.

The docks were an unfriendly place that Mary knew better than to frequent alone. The (mostly) men here had lives far too long that were filled with far too much stress for a single person. Most couldn't be bothered to move a trampled child out of the road, much less check to see if they were alive. Any weakness would be exploited here.

It was the perfect place for their exchange.

She swung her legs off the side of her wooden seat and lowered herself to the ground cane first as the gang finished taking everything out of the back of the carriage. "Gather round, loves!" She called out, gesturing everyone over with her free arm. "We don't want to make a scene here, remember where we are, alright?" She specifically locked eyes with Brucie, Astrid, and Bennet, who had proved the most dramatic of recent weeks. "Lena and I will lead the deal with Benjamin and Brucie behind us to look intimidating and keep the man from trying to take undue advantage." She spat on the ground, disgusted with the taste of needing two tall men to keep her and her sister safe here.

"Bennet, Conor," she continued, "you both stay here with the carriage and keep an eye out for trouble." She paused. "Prove you've made up after your fight, yes?" She smiled, but glared at them to make the weight of this perfectly clear. "Eleanor and Astrid, there's an alley that connect to the meeting place around that block there," she pointed eastward down the road past a rundown fishery. "Both of you observe from the shadows and make sure our friend isn't planning to get the jump on us. And," she stopped, pensive of the implications of what she was going to say next. "And, please keep line of sight with Lena and me, just in case."

She took one last long around to the rest of the gang. Straightening her spectacles, Mary cleared her throat and finished her preparatory speech. "Lastly, at the first sign of violence, make sure to run in and defend us, dears."

 

[Pipsqueak]

--Potential trigger warning mayhaps??--

A low growl sounded in Conor’s throat as Mary gave out her orders. He didn’t object to being forced into guard duty with Benny, of course — but he didn’t meet her glare either. Hopefully this deal went off without a pig’s bite and they could all load back into the carriage before Benny started telling another one of his stories.

Conor folded his arms and leaned against the vehicle, his right hand tucked inside his vest where his pistol hid, trying his best to look casual. It wasn’t just the chance of a setup or over-curious cops that made his shoulders tense and his gaze flit from shadowy alley to dark window. He felt a heavy tension lingering in the air — almost as palpable as the scent of seawater — between him and his younger colleague. Their little spat might have ended at Mary’s command, but the taste of Conor’s biting words still remained on his own lips.

Benny and Conor had fought and argued plenty of times before, of course. Ever since the two had met, the teen had seemed to find a particular delight in tormenting the other Irishman — intentionally or not. Sure, Conor could understand, even enjoy, a touch of excitement and excitability. But Bennet seemed entirely incapable of treating things with the gravity they warranted.

That was, unless that thing was a piercing comment leveled at him. Conor had noticed it a handful of times before, the way Benny’s smile would wilt at a harsh word from Mary, or how an off-handed comment about his youth would send him into a competitive frenzy. As much as Conor hated to admit it, even to himself, Benny’s behavior in those instances was not entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps that was why it bothered him so much.

Conor shook his head. He needed to keep alert. If bullets were about to start flying, he had to make sure the rest of the gang got a head’s up. He kept his gaze moving, trying to spot any lights that might betray the presence of a watcher. And trying not to look Benny in the eye.

Benny himself seemed to have missed the memo that the two of them were not supposed to be looking at one another. Settling cross-legged on the cobbled path just a few feet away from Conor, the younger thief had taken to staring daggers at the redhead as if that would spark the argument he hadn’t gotten to finish. How the older man kept finding distractions in the darkness was beyond him, the silence between the gang members only making him fidgety. With an intentionally loud sigh, Benny drew his knife- still laced with the blood of Henry’s parents- and picked at the ground absentmindedly. What was Conor thinking? Why wasn’t he saying anything? If he had been allowed to bring Alfie along, it might’ve calmed his nerves just a bit.

In between his thoughts he would briefly glance around at their surroundings, taking in the scenery and the occasional passerby. Once Benny thought about snooping around the entryway of the meeting, but the lingering anger at Conor and the fear of getting beaten alongside Bruce glued him to the spot. It wasn’t until two minutes passed that he finally gave in.

“Will you stop that? Bein’ all broody, it isn’t gunna make ‘em go any faster.” He wasn’t exactly sure how one was supposed to respond after a fight, especially where both of the arguers were told to stay in one spot together, but this seemed appropriate.

“Ye know, if it wasn’t fer Mary’s high ‘n mighty attitude ‘bout makin’ us stay here I would be scarin’ the big folks in there with Brucie and Ben. They’d be talkin’ all big, but at least they’d be talkin’.”

Conor grunted, a sound that sounded far more intimidating coming from Bruce than it did him. But it was the only response he could think of. He started a half-dozen replies in his head — “Maybe you should go, Benny. I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.” “I’m not being broody, shut up!” “I think I saw a dog in the water. Why don’t you go swim into the ocean and see if you can find it.” — but his lips stayed closed, like they’d died from underuse. He knew he should say something. Hell, at this point he wanted to say something. But merely thinking of doing so felt like a Herculean effort.

On the other hand, Conor thought as he pretended to inspect the road Benny was sitting on, it was either that or let the lad stare holes into his head.

“I saw you got a dog,” Conor said, the first words that came to his mind staggering out of his mouth like drunkards from a bar. “I, uh, do you think that’s a good idea?”

Doing great, you idiot, he thought to himself.

“He’s a fine hound, though,” Conor continued quickly. “And you’ve always been good at taking care of animals. And, uh, doing other stuff.”

Conor pulled his vest tighter to himself, wishing — as he did many nights — he could disappear into it like his mother’s embrace. If Benny wanted something more akin to an apology Conor might consider throwing himself off the dock.

Benny’s mouth hung agape, unsure how to respond to the sudden shift in topic. ‘Ye think I can’t take care a Aflie myself?’ was what he wanted to say, but Conor seemed to be making a particularly hard effort of being nice to him. The thief squinted at him, making his own effort to detect where exactly this was headed, but it didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“Oh. Yea. I know.” Was his only reply for a few moments. Propping his head onto his hand, he finally glanced away. He had plenty of time to think about their exchange in the pub during the trek here, and what had come from the conclusion was anger, but also guilt. Sure, Benny hadn’t meant to push Conor’s buttons so much, but he also didn’t mean to be a hindrance to the gang. Everyone else was so serious he found it hard to connect with them. To Benny, Conor and Benjamin were the most serious of all. He found them boring on occasion, but to the twins they were the most reliable and he found that frustrating.

Picking at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, the younger gang member scooted himself to lean against the carriage. The anger was still there, the insecurity of his own place in the gang lingering, but he hated not talking.

“Want ta see a cool scar I got?” Without waiting for an answer, Benny lifted his tucked shirt to reveal a thin, long stretch of cruelly healed skin on his side.

“My father told me he’d kill me if I ever got a pet. Didn’t exactly know what he meant- thought maybe a dog or a…ye know,” He struggled to think of other household animals before adding, “A small dog. I guess this was before I knew him really ‘cause I found a bird and carried it home. It tried ta peck me, so I don’t think it liked me too much. Anyways my father yelled and yelled, ‘n finally he got his knife ‘n sliced me right open! This is the knife that did it!” He held his own knife up to Conor menacingly, wiggling his fingers to add to the dramatics.

“What’d yer father stab ye for? You got one, don’t ye?”

Conor’s throat felt as dry as if he’d inhaled a puff of coal smoke. He turned his gaze from the long, wicked scar, though doing so somehow felt like a betrayal. He’d figured Benny had grown up in rough sorts, like most or all of them, but this — what kind of hell had the lad gone through?

The man coughed and covered his mouth to hide his shock. He wished more than anything that the other members were here. Ella would know what soothing words to say. Even Bruce would say something, however ill-thought out. But Conor remained paralyzed. How did he find himself in this situation twice in one day?

It was probably a minute before Conor responded. When he did, his voice was strange and dry, but soft. A roughly three-inch spot on his left side pulsed with a familiar ache. “Nah, the scars I got were fer my own doin’. My Pa, ‘e did his best. Not perfect, o’ course, but what pa is?”

Realizing how that sounded, Conor blurred out his next words. “Not that — your pa sounds like a beast of a man. Slashin’ yer kid, it ain’t right. You do realize that, right?”

Benny clicked his tongue and shrugged, blind to the soberness of the conversation.

“I don’t think he meant ta be mean about it, not like what we do here in the gang. He said it was just makin’ me stronger. Think he suspected I’d always join a gang, ‘n that’s why he-” The troublesome cough interrupted his thought. He could taste the bitter, copper taste of blood before it even hit his tongue, but it passed as quickly as it had come.

“‘N- ehm- that’s why he, er, did all that.” With a curious gaze Benny glanced up at Conor, unable to read the expression there. The shadows cleanly obscured the older man’s features, but even then Benny could tell he was tense. After a moment of clearing his throat, he attempted to ease his friend’s nerves.

“So, eh, what’s yer dream Conor? Fer the gang, I mean? I told Ella ‘n Ben that we’re gunna become pirates! Well maybe not Ben, he’s too worried ‘bout the weapons. I’ll be capt’n, o ‘course, ‘n the twins’ll be my right hand women! Bruce’ll be the guy ta pull on the ropes ‘n get the cannons ready. Haven’t figured out much from that, but I suppose we’ll be out there ‘till we die by one of those big squids.”

Conor winced at Benny’s words. He’d seen his own share of woes, of course, but he’d taken Benny’s seeming incapability to take anything seriously as a weakness, a sign of an idle mind. Obviously, he’d made a mistake.

But the turn of the conversation could have given Conor whiplash. Taking the change in topic as a sign Benny didn’t want to continue down that line, Conor tried to pivot too.

“I’ve been on a ship before,” he replied. “The most important thing is the name. It’s gotta be something that means something to you. Like ‘Twelve Dozen Cherry Pies’ or ‘The Animals.’”

Conor felt a thin smile break his otherwise stony expression. Benny had that effect on people, just as often as he made them red in the face.

“How do you do it?” he whispered. His voice was so quiet he wasn’t sure if Benny could hear him. “Continue to laugh and joke despite all of it?”

The younger redhead didn’t miss Conor’s evasion of the question, but he let it go. Instead he let his mind drift to a world where the gang was riding dangerously through rough seas, on a boat named, of course, after Alfie. Alfie didn’t have much of a standing in the group yet, and it seemed only fair. Only when Conor mumbled under his breath did Benny pop back in to listen.

He’d missed the first part, but the question rang uncomfortably clear. ‘I’m not always happy Conor. Can’t tell ye how many times I’ve cried on my own time.’

‘I stay happy ‘cause you all help! Didn’t think I’d ever find a group of people who, fer the most part, didn’t treat me like someone who should be locked up.’

‘I gotta do that ‘cause if I don’t I’d have ta confront everything.’

As potential answers ran through his mind, he stayed uncharacteristically quiet. He’d never been so open with any of them before, and as the fear of that fact settled in a smirk drew on his lips.

“Guess I’m just more fun than you lot.”

 

[Solar Daddy]

Once they've reached their destination, Benjamin drops the reins before plodding around to be in front of the horses while Mary goes over the game plan. His right hand goes to scratch under each of their chins while he coos at them softly, then gives each of their foreheads a little rub with his knuckles to get an itch he's always pretty sure horses must have. While he fawns over them, his left hand pats down the contents of his coat, unbuttoning a sheath and pulling open a holster before sliding his fingers through a set of finely made brass knuckles. He keeps that hand in a pocket, where it won't be noticed, and does a quick check of his gun and knife to make sure he can still do his customary quick draw.

Satisfied that the horses feel rewarded for their efforts, he maneuvers back around the carriage to watch the others finish retrieving the cargo. "Oi, Bruce. You keep an eye on the folk up close, I'll manage any lookouts they've got more'n'a'foot away. What with your aim and all I think its best I take care of anyone further than you can spit." He remarks, a hint of levity in his voice as he gives the Scotsman a light jab in the ribs with his elbow.

Bruce was quiet on the trip, doing little more than wringing his hands as he idly awaited the gang's delivery of their stolen goods. He gave off the air of someone deep in thought, though most would probably assume he'd be too dense or stupid to think about more than when his next meal would be. Instead, the thought of failure ran through his mind over and over again. He would not allow himself to create such a scene ever again as he did this last heist. No, he'd do as he had done for the past years and just follow his orders. Of course, now it begged the question; should he act if Helena or Mary were put in danger again? Would he need to wait for orders? The line blurred between being reactive or proactive. He didn't like the idea of waiting. Someone he cared about could die in that time.

The carriage stopped and he pushed the heavy thoughts from his mind. He stepped off and stretched, positioning himself nearby to the Twins without being in their way as they went over their smaller teams. When told his job, Bruce nodded and stepped a few feet forward, soon joined by Benjamin when he was finished petting the horses. Bruce looked around at their location, trying to keep busy as he waited for the actual deal to go down. Then Ben spoke. Bruce wasn't expecting the light jab, but above anything he was glad the American didn't seem so high strung at the moment.

"That's fair. If anything goes wrong I'll close the distance and cover the Twins. You fire back with your sharpshooter aim, and hopefully we get the leaders out of harm's way quickly. Mary is a particular concern, what with that leg of hers."

 

[Aeris]

“Ye remember when your sweetheart got caught sculkin’ outta yer pa’s study with the last swallow of his prized brandy? That fella you was meant to marry?” Her voice was relaxed, deep and grumbly with all of her father’s tune and none of her mother’s sense. Astrid’s face screwed up with thought as she peered around the corner of the building, craning to keep eyes on the Nevitt Sisters.

“And they forgave ‘im,” She continued, tossing her words over her shoulder. “Because he had good taste and boys will be boys?” Satisfied with their view, she turned back to her counterpart in the alley, rolling to lean back against the brick wall as she did so. A smirk flashed across her bruised face as her eyes met Ella’s before disappearing completely.

“I was hiding under your dear father’s writing desk searching for my knickers and trying to find which way was up,” She announced in her best posh accent, hands clasped neatly and nose pointed delicately in the air. Maybe this was the same as kneeling in front of Helena. Maybe she was yet again, looking for a fight; but all Astrid knew was that she could not stomach one singular moment of idle time before Bruce’s dinner party.

“Hello Astrid, it’s nice to finally talk to you.” Ella ignored the hostility in the young woman’s voice. She remembered that day well without someone needing to bring it up. Her “fiance” has been sneaking around the home during a visit. He was supposed to be getting to know her, but of course, he claimed there was no need for such formalities- that they wouldn’t be talking to each other once their vows were said. Ella had given up trying to talk sense into him and had gone out to the gardens. Only a few minutes had gone by when the maid had caught him in her father's study. If she was being honest, she had hoped her parents would call off the marriage. Why would they want their daughter to marry someone like that? She had been horrified when her father simply laughed the incident away.

“You know better than anyone how I felt about dear Edmund,” she continued,”...he loved my parent’s money. Not me.”

Ella was aware of what Astrid was trying to do. The two had known each other once upon a time. She’d been shocked to see her with Mary and Helena- as she was sure Astrid had thought the same thing upon seeing her.

“Funny how we both ended up involved with the Queensway Gang. Wonder what our families would think of us right about now.” The cheeriness had drained completely from her voice as she leaned against the cool brick walls.

Astrid could feel the life seep from her face and pool around her feet as Ella’s words fell on her ears. If she had taken a moment to think, she could’ve guessed that the other woman wouldn’t take her bait. She never did. Not even when they were eight and attending London’s frilliest birthday party, did Ella give rise to Astrid stealing her slice of cake from beneath the table. A flare of anger welled up in Astrid’s chest before Ella’s calm demeanor snuffed it out completely.

“Edmund, right,” She nodded in agreement, swallowing back a bit of shame as she continued, eyes dropping away to avoid Ella’s gaze. “He loved himself overall. Couldn’t keep his eyes off his own bum in the mirror,” Astrid added with a weak laugh. She admired Ella’s level-headedness with a penchant that was somehow too pure to be jealousy. Standing there, once again wishing that she could melt into the Earth and out of a situation she had put herself into, Astrid weighed what kind of apology would suffice for several years of silence while one of her oldest friends suffered alone. The Ella that Astrid knew was dead to the world, and the only decency she could muster was to let her stay that way.

“I-I felt poorly about it” Astrid added in a quieter voice, once again studying the cobblestone at their feet before remembering that she had a perfectly valid excuse to avoid Ella’s eyes. Turning back to the Sisters, she ignored the twisting feeling in her gut to push the sentiment further.

“Ya’know what I’m trying to say, right?” For some reason, admission of guilt was as close as Astrid had ever been to an apology, and she was already toeing the line.

“Mhm,” Ella shifted her gaze upwards to the cloudy sky, “I waited, ya know? I stood outside until the house was nothing but ash.” Her voice caught in her throat as she spoke of that day. “...I was hoping they would run out- no one did. I had tried waking them up before I left…they just kept sleeping.”

“Do you know you’re the only person who knows Eleanor Bennett is alive?” She looked at Astrid with tear-filled eyes. “I’ll tell the others one day. Though I’m afraid they’ll just kick me to the curb.” Once the gang finds out she had come from wealth, they’d drop her. Even if she no longer had anything. She’d still grown up not having to worry about when her next meal would be. They would have no place in the gang for her.

“I wish we had been better friends. I mean, I’m sorry my parents said all those things about you.” Ella had always hated hearing her parents gossip about Astrid and her family. She’d always left the room, or tried to. Of course, there was the one snide remark her father had made. “They were difficult people…I’d say they didn’t mean it but…” She let the sentence hang in the air. Astrid would understand what she meant whether the sentence was finished or not.

For once, O'Malley had nothing to say. Hugging the cold brick in front of her, she leaned into the sensation of heat being sucked from her body as the wheels behind her eyes grinded and buckled. The neurotic little bog lizard at the control panel in her brain had run out of wit. She had nary a thought in her head; try as she might to recall the things she said to the Bennetts in a blind rage. There were several anger-shaped holes carved into her memory over the years, but she could swear this one beat to the tune of, you're just the queen's itchy strumpets, ya useless cocksuckers.

"No one needs to know," Astrid interrupted her own spiral to kill the thick silence. "No one needs to know about Eleanor Bennett anyway. I've met Eleanor, and I can't say you've got much in common. She wouldn't do you much good out here." Astrid's face turned sour at her last remark, causing her to press her eyes shut in a visceral reaction to the lives they were training for at all of their fancy dress parties. The soft and comfortable life that Ella should've had –would've had. Even if it wasn't with Edmund. Astrid's fires had only come by way of burnt bridges - but none with the finality of death. The battling expectations of her Mother, Father, and Grandparents still lurked quietly, beneath the surface. Somehow, she had managed to disappoint each of them - even if not all of them knew it.

There was a certain freedom in loneliness; a line of thought that Astrid bore and smothered in the same breath.

Ella peaked down the path, making sure the twins were still in sight before turning back to face Astrid.

“You’re right. It’s for the best.” Eleanor Bennett was almost like a memory from a dream the longer time went by. Some days, she was scared she’d dreamt the past up. If the others happened to find out though, she wouldn’t be mad. She’d leave herself before the twins had the chance to decide her fate.

“Is your family getting on well? If I wasn’t a ghost I’d send them my regards.” She hoped the attempt at a topic change wasn’t too noticeable. But the question itself was from the heart. She’d only met Astrid's family at the parties the two attended. Both their parents thought it’d be for the best if the two girls befriended each other, though that friendship never expanded-much to both families' disappointment. “You being there always made the parties more bearable, even if our friendship was mostly for show.” Eleanor went on, recalling the times they’d sneak off to read books instead of socializing. Perhaps in another life they truly had been friends and able to live the lives they both desired instead of the one forced upon them.

Now that their past was finally coming to light, Astrid couldn’t help but feel like a leaking dam; ready to burst at any moment. The facts of her family life were the only cards she had truly learned how to keep close, but she felt like she owed the complete story to Ella - being the only one of them with a story to tell. Uncomfortable with the intimacy of it, she had to acknowledge that between the relationship with her grandparents and the whisperings of her parents’ early spiral, Ella knew almost as much about her as Helena did. She had to acknowledge that if the two were to convene about who she was and who she is; they could piece together much of her fragmented life. Caught between wanting her secrets back and wanting to lighten herself of them, she chose to follow Ella’s lead of light avoidance. Ella had seen enough tragedy, anyway.

Instead of spilling her heart onto the dirty alley floor about the Whittocks’ refusal to see her, the last light in her mother’s eyes finally withering away, or the hours she’d spun weaving tales to explain her father’s absence, she only broke her pause with a chuckle.

“Ah, they’re the same as they’ve always been,” She shook her head, turning back to the other woman with a grin. “You know good n’ well how difficult people are.”

spottednewt

 

[Hard Boiled]

Mary is a particular concern, what with that leg of hers.

“He knows we’re right fuckin’ here, eh?” Helena interrupted to her sister as Bruce spoke, beginning towards the dock.
“Come here, you.”

Bruce furrowed his brow, looking back to Benjamin for a moment.
"Yes ma'am." He spoke before walking with Helena whilst Benjamin followed a few feet behind.

“Give me your gun.”

There was but a moment of hesitation from Bruce, who began mouthing the word Why? But quickly stopped himself and barely nodded. He pulled the gun from his waistband and handed it over to his superior. She fruitlessly fiddled with the top-break for a bit before handing it back, unable to work the controls.
“Open it.”
He did, and she picked five of the six rounds from its cylinder.

“There.” She snapped it shut. “You’ve got one round. You pick a fight, the rest will jump you. Eh?”

The oaf wasn't expecting the show Helena had given him, what with taking all of his bullets except one. She was a clever Lassie, far too clever for him. He was just thankful to still have a firearm.
"Thank you, ma'am." He mumbled under his breath in his usual way, finishing it off with a grunt.

“Aye.” Helena snarled back, feeling ever smaller as their approach grew denser with people, workers and otherwise. The convoy swerved onto the walkway to avoid a pack of strays feeding on a horse in the path.

“…And he’s bloody right about you,” she continued to Mary, if only to drown out the racket of the shipyard. “You’re the juiciest target of us all. Keep your pretty little head down, eh?”

Mary recoiled with a performed sense of offense, clutching at her chest in her typical dramatic fashion. "Pardon?!" The hand at her chest rose to her head as Mary mimed feeling feint. "Don't tell me you deem me inadequate for our work, dearest sister?"

"The inadequatest. Now shut your gob and wait here..."

The four came upon the loading bay, cluttered with stevedores; Eastern men, mostly, each from a different Chinese country Helena had never heard of. She scanned the waterline until she locked onto her target, a collection of men lounging on cargo crates. The volume of workers made it difficult to discern where one group ended and the next began, but she only needed to recognize one.

"Ben." Helena gestured with her finger to follow as she began her approach.
Benjamin nods, then spits on the ground. “Aye.”

Mary rolled her eyes at her sister, but didn't object. She knew it was pointless; she was injured, after all, and strength was the game at the docks. Any signs of weakness, be it even just a single twitch of the eye from the pain, and these vultures would smell it.

"Brucie, you'll stand with me," she called to the Scot. "Let's keep this civil, shall we love?"

Helena stuck a cigarette between her lips, crossing her arms and leaning against a wooden post.
"Uh, hello." She attempted to greet the stevedores mid-conversation, who paid the likely prostitute no mind, continuing on in their common language. The migrant workers cared neither for local women nor infection; most pests would usually bugger off for easier prey if ignored. Helena clenched her broken teeth and looked to Benjamin whilst she struck a match. Benjamin coughs and pats Helena’s forearm.

“Pardon, miss.” He grunts, then clears his throat and steps forward. The next words that spill out of his mouth are a fairly well-done Cantonese greeting, followed by a much less formal insinuation that he’d like to do business. He’d picked up a few words guarding work camps along the transcontinental railroad, not that he’d ever expected to use them again. The men glance over, looking nearly as bewildered as Helena.

“Er,” the closest starts while the others stifle laughs. “Office over there. You find work.”

Benjamin has killed men for less. He bites his tongue and smiles instead.

“No- Oi!” Helena snapped her fingers. “We’ve got a delivery for your foreman, Mr. Gao. You was there when we spoke, you know me.” She pointed to the man, whose smirk hadn’t yet wiped from his face. The workers finally turn their attention to the girl, rising from their seats like hyenas.

“…Yes, yes I know you. Look out for little girl with big mouth.”

“Mm, yeah, sounds right…” She dropped back a step as the five men strolled to their flanks, praying her expression wouldn't betray her heart in her throat.
"It's all there. Where's me money?"

The fences snicker again.
"Arrogant, too! You ought to tell your woman to watch how she speaks." He addressed Benjamin. "Unbecoming of a lady."

"I think you’ve got the wrong idea of us." Helena remained facing front, ignoring the penetrating stares upon her back. "We have left the package at the agreed location. I am trying. To conduct. Business. Now please, sir, where's my fuckin' money?"

The representative fence looks to the ground before approaching Helena within a foot.
"You think we did not see you enter? Fools." He scoffed, plastered with the same dumb smile as they squared up. "You and your posse of sewer rats... I hear your old boy back there's a loony!"

"Careful. He might hear you, eh? He's mighty unpredictable these days. Only takes orders from the voices." She took her cigarette from her mouth and inspected it before continuing, speaking slowly. "Never know if he'll, uh, do anything of his own accord."

His smirk finally dropped.
"You're out of your depth, girlie." He nodded to his side. One of the thugs returned to a crate he was sitting on, opened the top, and pulled out a potato sack.
"Here you are. Three-hundred quid, go buy yourself a fucking mansion." The sack was tossed to Benjamin. "Suits you better!" The rest of the men returned to their seats from behind, one brushing against Helena as he did so. Her lips parted to say something, but she shut them.

Benjamin catches the sack and inspects its contents, then gives the sack a lazy swing to check the weight. “Feels a little light.” He remarks to Helena. “Might just be my imagination, but if it isn’t, I’d be happy to come collect the difference. Think I saw a gold tooth or two.”

"...C'mon." She gestured and walked back to Mary and Bruce.

 

[queendilettante]

"My, that was disappointingly uneventful," Mary whined as Lena came back fairly quickly with the money. She clicked her cane on the ground in frustration. "Bastards feel fit to mock us and lack even the base dignity to face us as a group." She sneered in the direction of the dealer, though it was almost assuredly lost in the dark of the docks at night. How scum like back alley dealers and their thugs deem their horses so high as to look down on her and Lena, Mary could not understand. Was the light of their superiority so blinding, so oppressively luminous, that they simply covered their eyes and lashed out in animalistic envy? An unsolvable mystery, it seemed.

"I think this is their group." Helena made fast glances at the countless stevedores as she passed by, avoiding eye contact.

Realizing her idleness in such a despicable place, Mary quickly scampered off to follow her sister and the two brutish men back to the carriage. Their haul was less than deserved, of course - yet another angle to the insolence of those creatures - but cash was far easier to utilize than recently stolen jewelry. A victory was a victory, and the gang had exceeded expectations.

At least, they did in the face of the party's horrid finale.

"Top job, mate. You're a proper bargaining chip." Helena patted Bruce on the back, who hadn't said a word during the entire exchange, whilst Benjamin tossed the potato sack onto the wagon. At a glance, the volume of their earnings appeared laughable compared to the wagonful of precious metals they'd brought, but few of them had seen that much cash in one place to know better anyway. Helena only hoped that she'd survive the next week to enjoy her newfound wealth.

Fighting through the tension that arose in her chest at every recollection of the stampede, Mary pushed through to the carriage and whistled loudly to signal her colleagues on lookout; it was a skill she was unsure of why she had developed, but it had come in handy more than once. Plus, she held no intention of hobbling around the slums after dark in order to attempt a subtle rendezvous.

Shifting focus, Mary bowed to the two Irishmen at the carriage, who seemed to have overcome their squabbling. "It's a pleasure to witness you both absent knives at the other's stomach, truly." Mary knew that she made herself out to be an adversary of sorts with the way she scolded the boys, but it had all worked out cleanly thus far. If the gang could survive what was to be done next, there was nothing that'd sever their ties, she was sure.

As Astrid and Eleanor joined up with the rest of the group, Mary clambered up onto the carriage and motioned for the rest to join her. "Quite the haul tonight, loves, I am overcome with pride at our demonstrated prowess," she smiled, scanning everyone's faces individually. She made knowing eye contact with each of them but Brucie. "And with that sorted, it seems as if it's time for dinner."

Nobody responded besides Bruce, who only reiterated his craving for a hot meal, sending a collective shiver up their spines.

"...Come on. I'm sick of this fucking smell." Helena walked ahead of the carriage to lead it onto the streets. Not like the smell was any better elsewhere in London.

The ride back to the pub was as uneventful as the ride over, but the swell of tension in Mary's chest was far beyond the normal extent of her tremors. The moment was nearly at hand to cross a line she hadn't ever before. It was one thing to lash out under the tidal wave of fresh anger, but choosing to remain in that place, waterlogged and drowning, to enact punishment... Well, it was another matter entirely. A dreadful silence clung to all of them like factory smoke, and Mary was herself half convinced that Brucie'd notice the tension and act before she did.

For better or for worse, he didn't.

Check.

"Stop here, Benjamin," she muttered to the American with the reins. She turned around in the carriage to face her sister, wordless, and nodded.

The gang filed out of the wagon and crowded around for a debrief.

"Thank youUGH.." Helena thanked Conor as he hopped up and tossed her the sack of bank notes, which nearly knocked her over.

"Ben, why don't you go give the nice man his horse back?" She promptly handed the sack to Bruce before reaching inside, taking a single bank note, and slipping it into the nearest saddlebag. She helped Mary down and continued towards the glow of the pub through the smog, only two blocks away. Just as they crossed the very same alley she'd gotten the piss kicked out of her in earlier, Helena spoke up again.

"Mm, before I forget," She retrieved five loose .45 cartridges from her pocket, speaking to Bruce while they walked. "You did good today. Kept your head on. Hold still." With him holding the bag, she slipped her hand into his coat, patting around his side before finding his revolver. This time, she didn't need his help to open the break. Or to remove the final loaded round.

Checkmate, Brucie.

Jogging through the pain to quickly close the distance between them, Mary came to a halt right behind the man and held her cane to her side. "Bruce!"

As he turned, Mary swung at him with all her might. The spiked bottom of the cane hit Bruce squarely in the jaw and caused him to stumble. With a fluid motion, Mary flipped the cane and swung back toward his leg from the other direction. As the side slammed into his shin, Mary heard a crack and briefly tasted bile.

Unable to stop now, she yanked the cane, hooked behind Bruce's knee, toward her. His leg swung forward and he toppled backward like the stupid, destructive giant he was. All dogs need training, she tried to remind herself. He needs this.

I need this.

Mary limped forward and pressed the cane down hard into Bruce's abdomen. She twisted the spiked bottom, tearing through his shirt and burrowing into his skin.

She couldn't meet his gaze.

"Conor, Bennet," she started, trying to hide the quiver in her voice, "You both are up."

 

[kaito9049]

Oh.

Conor hesitated for a moment. But it was only a moment. Then he sprang forward, his legs feeling like they were made of lead as he strode toward his target. Later, when Conor was in bed and the memory of Bruce's mangled body kept even the nightmares from shielding him from this world, he'd wonder why he reacted so quickly. Maybe he really believed, as he'd told himself earlier, that Bruce deserved what was coming to him. Maybe he just wanted to get it over with. Maybe, seeing the haunted look in Benny's eyes and remembering their earlier conversation, he was trying to give the lad more time before his turn came.

Or maybe Conor was nothing but a dog, following his mistresses' every word. Even when they were telling him to make his friend suffer.

But Conor didn't think about later as he picked up momentum, grounding himself on his left leg and swinging his right foot into Bruce's side. It'd hurt a bit, even for someone as large as Bruce. Conor knew that from experience.

Keep focused, he told himself. Don't look at his face, look at his side. Don't look at his face.

Conor just wanted to be gone, to be anywhere but there. Heaven's Queen, he felt like he was going to be sick. He'd long dreamed of pushing someone into the dirt like that, but never one of his mates. But as much as his gut screamed at him to stop, to beg for forgiveness, his mind reminded him that he couldn't dare. Not with everyone watching. And they were always watching.

Conor kicked Bruce again. And again. And once more, until he felt something give in slightly against his shoe. That would be satisfactory, Conor figured, at least for his part. They weren't trying to kill the man, after all. At least he wasn't. Astrid would be another story. Would Mary and Helena keep her from — anyway, it wasn't his business. He turned to walk away, then paused again, feeling his heart pound against his chest like it was trying to break his ribs from the inside.

Then he did something he knew he shouldn't. He looked Bruce in the eye. This time, he knew why he was doing what he was doing. There was nothing worse than being beaten by someone who hadn't the decency to at least treat you like a man instead of an animal, even if they were thrashing you. Bruce deserved that much.

Bruce's body instinctively recoiled with each kick, trying to shield itself from the pain even if the mind connected to the body couldn't care less. He knew he deserved it, and he knew there was no escaping it. He wouldn't raise a finger against the Twins, and he wouldn't defy a beatdown if they thought it was needed. Bruce needed to endure this pain like all the things that made him numb before. More. More. More.

Bruce couldn't stop a groan escaping his lips when he felt the sharp pain in his side one Conor's last hit. Shit. He knew right away what had just given, and he was none too happy about it. But what could he do? When the kicking stopped, Bruce, looked at his current assailant with drooped eyelids and a slightly parted lips. His eyes locked with Conor, the man currently making him feel everything he gave to Astrid. His intention wasn't to make the poor lad feel bad for what he was ordered to do; but Bruce had been on the receiving end of a glare such as this. It was hard to shake.

Conor flinched, as if Bruce was the one who'd struck him, and stepped back. He nodded once toward the other man's crumpled form, then turned about-face and walked away, fighting with each step the urge to run down the street. He didn't meet the Sisters' eyes.

As he passed Benny, he placed a hand on the younger member's shoulder, half-comforting, half-prodding him toward the target. "You don't need t' do much," Conor said in a low voice, as if he himself wasn't struggling to keep it from shaking. "It'll be over soon."

 

[Pipsqueak]

**Hopefully the last potential TW maybe???**

It wasn’t that Benny had forgotten about the beating, he had just been so hysterical after flipping the old sods off that his laughter had temporarily shielded him from the somber attitude in the carriage. It wasn’t until everyone had gotten off and Mary had given that split second of warning that he had caught up, perhaps a bit too late. The gang watched in varying degrees of anguished silence as Bruce fell to his knees, their gang leader not letting up in her blows.

The sight made Benny sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. Out of fear or morbid intrigue he wasn’t sure. No, he didn’t want to watch Bruce get beaten down gang member by gang member, but the sight was like looking at himself and his father through a passerby's gaze. Logically, of course, it wasn’t himself or his father. Mary and Bruce. Conor and Bruce. He didn’t deserve that… Every instinct told him to run, make a joke, laugh it off, get the others to laugh and let their anger go… It wouldn’t work though, would it? Astrid wouldn’t let anyone out of this. Benny was vaguely aware of Conor’s hushed words. The young gang member shrugged his hand off, suddenly angry too. Why would Mary let this happen? Why did she say those things to him at the party? Why did Conor feel the need to rub that in his face? Why hadn’t his father just stopped hitting him?

With no hesitation left to stop him, Benny walked up to Bruce with clenched fists, tunnel visioned. Tears trailed down his flushed cheeks, the only evidence left to show he might feel some guilt.

“Ye need ta keep yer hands of me ‘n me mum ye bastard!” Maybe the talk with Conor hadn’t been such a good thing. Benny had never had to deal with his anger. He’d never been good at those big feelings, it was always too much. This day in particular had knocked down his wall, maybe some of his sanity if one could argue he had any, just for a moment. The redhead had pinned Bruce to the ground- not that he’d have been able to hold the man if Bruce had decided to fight back- but continued to wail on him without relent. The tears fell harder, but he couldn’t hear his sobs behind the rush in his head.

“Yer a coward, ye hear?!” It all went so fast. A crack was heard somewhere in the middle, whether he or his father- No, Bruce- had gotten something broken he wasn’t sure.

Ella had kept her eyes firmly glued to the ground as the beatings ensued. It was Benny’s shouts that finally drew her attention upwards. Bruce was already a bloody mess by this point- a couple bones have definitely snapped from the looks of it. Eleanor held her breath, anxiously waiting for Benny to stop, it’d been long enough- Benny could stop now. Except he didn’t. The young man simply kept on shouting, each blow seeming to hit harder than the last.

Ella waited only a couple more seconds before moving forwards. She reached out, catching Benny by the wrist before he could land another blow.

“That’s enough Bennet,” She spoke loud enough for just him to hear, “You’ve done enough.”

“It wadn’t my fault Ella! Tell ‘em it wadn’t my fault!” His eyes briefly flickered towards the bloodied Bruce, to the twins, to Conor, back to Bruce.

“I didn’t mean ta do it!” Whatever his brain was trying to let go of was in that sentence. He wasn’t sure what it meant.

“I-I…” Finally he turned to Ella, her cold gaze breaking his tantrum. His hands shook, and looking down he noted the blood. It was a lot. It was Bruce’s. Standing up with an unsteady balance, Benny tried for a smile.

“You’d think I was a criminal.” The voice he heard was small. Definitely not his. Shoving his thumbs in his pockets awkwardly, he shambled back next to Conor, head bowed. He wanted to explain himself, opened his mouth to do so, before the sound of tapping claws on stone broke his fragile concentration. Alfie's fluffy white head came into view, investigating the commotion he must have heard from the pub. The pup sniffed at Bruce for just a moment before trotting lazily up to Benny. The boy sat himself next to his dog and buried his sweaty face in his scruff.

"Good boy."

 

[Hard Boiled]

“You’ve done enough.”

"You fucking what?" Helena stomped onto Bruce's gushing leg, storming over to Ella and firmly grabbing the back of her neck.
"You're gonna hit him, and you're gonna hit him hard, yeah?" She held Ella's ear uncomfortably close to her mouth whilst she dragged her. "Or it's you next."

Helena threw Ella off of her towards Bruce, staring directly down at his eyes for a full five seconds before strolling away to find Benjamin.
"...And get that fucking dog out of here before I shoot it!"

"Lena," Mary shot to her sister. She glanced between Lena, Bennet, and the mutt. "Shoo the thing off, but let's focus on one problem at a time, yes?"

Helena replied with two V-shaped fingers over her shoulder as she turned the corner.

Still unable to look at Brucie's bloody face, Mary quickly turned her eyes to Eleanor; the foolish girl should have known better than to interfere like that. "You heard her, dearie," she lamented.

 

[Aeris]

Eleanor had always thought Helena acted a bit like her father used to, especially when he had been drinking. Now however, as Helena dragged Ella across the way towards Bruce’s bloody body, they could have been the same person. She wanted to speak up about how wrong this was. She agreed Bruce deserved some form of punishment, as he did nearly kill Astrid. But did they all really have to have a go at him? Eleanor was going to be surprised if he was alive after they had all had their turn.

But speaking out against this would only put her in a similar position to Bruce. A position she was fairly certain she would not be surviving. The best Ella could do was keep her mouth quiet and do as she was told, just as she had done in her past life.

Eleanor staggered forwards before stopping right in front of Bruce. She had tried her best to not look at him, even when she had pulled Benny away just a couple of minutes ago. If Ella so much as looked him in the eye, she would not be able to do what the twins wanted.

“I’m sorry love…” Eleanor looked just past Bruce’s face,”...I don’t have much of a choice I’m afraid. I hope you know none of us mean it…” Was Bruce even conscious anymore? Was she just talking in hopes he could hear her? Or was she trying to buy herself just a little bit more time? Eleanor closed her eyes, muttering a small prayer under her breath.

Then she kicked.

She was ten when her father decided he’d had enough of her treating their staff with respect. He’d caught her helping one of the maids clean up a mess her brother had made. Maybe it had been a bad day at work, or maybe he had had a bit too much to drink, she couldn’t remember anymore.

What she did remember was being dragged into his study, a room she tried countless times to avoid. He had called the maid in as well, who was equally as scared as Ella- if not more. And she had every right to be.

Eleanor had watched in horror as her father struck the maid across the face over and over. She was even more horrified when he had told her to do the very same thing. Ella had pleaded with her father- it wasn’t right. But her words fell on deaf ears. He’d never cared what she had to say, why would he now?

All she could do was raise her hand, as shaky as it was, and do as she was told, just as she’d always done.

Ella was back in the present. Back in the same position, she had been in thirteen years earlier. Feeling the same way she had felt back then, if not worse. Had she kicked Bruce already? She hoped she did, but one kick wouldn’t be enough for Helena, not after what she had done.

Ella released a shaky breath as she struck Bruce a second and third time. Each kick felt heavier than the last. She was grateful her kicks weren’t strong enough to break any more bones, though the splattering of blood each kick brought didn’t ease the dread in her stomach.

“I’m sorry Bruce…” Ella muttered when all was said and done. She still couldn’t look him in the eye, though, now she was certain she’d never be able to look at him again. Not after what they had done to him. “It’s wishful thinking, but I do hope you forgive us…” A few more tears ran down her face. Ella knew tonight, when she could finally be alone, even more, would fall.

After Benny’s emotional contribution, Bruce’s face was little more than a swash of blood and dead eyes. Even though Benny was a small lad, the punches he threw were solid and left the enforcer finding it much harder to breathe, see, and speak. In between Benny and Ella’s turns, he stared up at the sky, trying to ignore all the pain and just inhale. Exhale. On repeat, hoping he’d still be able to get air in when the rest were done. The worst of them all was yet to come, too. Astrid and Ben would no doubt go all in, and they were the most serious threats of them all. After what’s already happened to him, Bruce wasn’t sure he’d survive. And maybe that was for the best.

When he saw Helena’s grip on Ella’s neck, Bruce was almost about to plead for Helena to let her go. They all knew she wasn’t the kind of person to do these things willingly. She didn’t need to stoop down to everyone else’s level just to get a message across. He then almost laughed at the idea of the victim trying to help out one of his aggressors, which only caused a sharp pain in his side, and a wince on his face. The battered brute was happy to see Ella complied, though. The last thing he wanted was to be one of many in this situation.

He tried his best to keep from looking up at Ella. He didn’t want her feeling responsible for this, even as she kicked him repeatedly, same as Conor had done. With each hit, Bruce tried and failed to contain a gasp. Again, the body could not sit idle as it was getting battered, even if Bruce himself wanted to just let them all have their go at him and be done with it. He just hoped he lived long enough to get a shot or one of Helena’s cigarettes, assuming they didn’t leave him here after they were done.

After all, was said and done, Eleanor wordlessly made her way toward Conor and Bennet.

"I told him none of us meant it..." She pressed her forehead into Conor's back and closed her eyes, praying the night ended soon.

 

[Vudukudu]

Benjamin plods off to return the horses as instructed, even stopping to have a quaint bit of small talk with the man before handing over his due compensation, tipping his hat, and bidding the fellow a pleasant rest of the evening before turning on his heel and departing. Coming back in the direction of the gang, he slows as he sees Helena approach, stopping short to make her close the rest of the gap. “That time, then?” He asks, one eyebrow arched, his face otherwise stony and cold.

Only after Helena had made it well past the pub and up the road did the bustle of Queen's Way drown out Bruce's unholy groans. Not to worry, she assured herself, they'll be hearing him in the Highlands soon enough. No divine intervention would spare him from their righteous justice today. "Well past, mate." Helena strolled until they met, about-facing on her heels.

Benjamin's ears prick up when he catches the sound of one of Bruce's groans on the wind, and he clucks his tongue at Helena like a disapproving school teacher. "Now, letting him wail like that is downright irresponsible. Might bite his tongue off, drown in his own crimson 'fore I get to get my knocks in." He chides. "Or at least he'll wish he did."

Benjamin stalks around the corner to the place of Bruce's discipline, his dark silhouette looming just within the penumbra of the shadows cast off the buildings. He passes the others wordlessly as Ella leans up against Conor, then steps into the light and unbuttons his brocade vest before peeling it off and shoving it into Conor's hands. "Hold that, if you don't so much mind." He says. He doesn't seem all that enthused about the prospect of what he's about to do, but it seems to be more about boredom than mercy or sympathy.

"Damnatio ad bestia, Bruce." He says dryly, reaching down and grabbing one of Bruce's feet by the ankle. He hoists it up, then squats down and drives his free fist into the exposed underside of his thigh before rising back up and stomping on his hip, pushing his boot downward and pulling Bruce's foot upward, looking to strain and ruin every tendon connecting hip to leg before he releases it. "Latin, for condemnation to beasts. An old Roman practice of taking criminals, slaves, and Christians, and feeding them to lions. Popular in the amphitheaters around the time of festivals." He goes on, releasing Bruce's ankle before gesturing around the alley. "Not much of a theater, and certainly not much of an audience, and with no further offense, well, the beasts haven't been much either. Romans liked half-starved lions, the twins like little'uns with gangly arms and chicken legs."

He steps over Bruce's stomach, digging his booted toe into his abs before stepping over and throwing a heel back into his side before turning. "Except for you and me, o'course. We're a bit more like proper lions. The sort that can put on a really good show if you're hoping for a bit of blood sport." The lecture goes on, interrupted occasionally by a grunt as he stomps down on the nearest available bit of thick tissue, looking to avoid breaking anything in the long-term or cause any internal bleeding. Its not his work to finish, after all.

"Problem is, sometimes when you feed lions enough human flesh, they develop a taste. That's another way you and I aren't so different from lions, but our taste is killing and not so much flesh." Benjamin pauses for a moment, then stoops down and grabs Bruce by the hair before dragging him along the cobblestone and turning him over onto his stomach. "Romans had to kill their lions sometimes, for getting too eager in the pits. Not useful to anyone for entertainment if they finish it too quickly."

Benjamin places one boot between Bruce's shoulder blades to hold him down while he draws the revolver from his belt. "And just like them, you've become a little too murderous to be useful. Ain't good for business, especially after going and hurtin' one of your fellow bipedal gladiators like you did." He goes on, pausing every so often to loudly open the gun's cylinder, and load rounds into each chamber before quietly tucking a bit of his handkerchief inside the hammer mechanism of the pistol. He stoops down, then rubs the cold end of the barrel up and down from the nape of Bruce's neck to the back of his head. He stands still for a moment, trailing it up and down a few more times with the slightest of hand movements before sighing.

He squeezes the trigger and the gun clicks, the hammer stopped by the bit of cloth lodged into it.

"Romans 12:19, Bruce. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for the lord hath said "It is mine to avenge, I will repay." He says, then steps off of Bruce's back. "Funny thing. Don't know much 'bout viking heathenry, but I do know that the name Astrid's got somethin' to do with divine beauty. And if there's anything I know about the Lord, its that all his works have a certain beauty to 'em. Feels appropriate for right now, don't it?"

 

[Solar Daddy]

By the time Ben arrived for his bout of pain, Bruce was aching and sore. His face was bloody and his ribs were on fire. Outside of superficial damage and a few internal breaks, though, Bruce had fared relatively alright for someone getting beaten by multiple people in a row. He was still breathing between his spitting out of blood, he could still feel his limbs (especially the on Helena stepped on), but he knew it was only going to get worse from here. The gorillas had their turn, now it was time for the silverbacks of the bunch. Bruce was lucky he himself was one of the more stout of the group, lest he end up harmed beyond repair by the event. Of course, being stocky didn't mean anything to someone as craven as Benjamin. And while Astrid wasn't necessarily bloodthirsty, this whole event was orchestrated for her revenge. Who knew what she had planned? Maybe they were keeping him alive just so Astrid had her chance to blow his brains all over the cobblestone.

Then Ben showed his ugly mug, and Bruce let out a silent sigh. It was time for the real pain to begin.

Twisted, contorted, mangled. Bruce was little more than a broken sack of flesh by the time Ben was done his righteous antics. Bruce knew the surgical choices of Ben's hits were meant to deliver pain without breaking the goods, something he was surprisingly thankful for. If he was holding back on permanent damage, maybe there was chance yet for his life to return to him.

While using the pain to blot out Benjamin's monolog, he couldn't help but feel the anger build in him. He'd been so sure Ben was out to make amends during their shift together watching over the fencing. Maybe they wouldn't be friends; Bruce never thought they could be. But maybe there'd have been no hard feelings. The overwhelming aura of disapproval emanating from Levin was palpable. Bruce was thinking that, just maybe, he saw Bruce as a fellow tradesmen in filling bodybags. Bruce was, once again, wrong. There was no dinner planned, there was no celebrating a job well done. They all had planned to end his life on this sidewalk, like the filth he was. The gun pressed to the back of his head. Ah, there it is. It seemed Astrid wasn't going to get a chance after all. He'd be killed off by Bruce's replacement. Some self righteous American. Same animal, same breed, different coat, he thought.

For the smallest moment, Bruce imagined the face of Logan, and smiled.

But that moment faded. The click of a gun without a firing, a murder without a victim. The emotion of death came and went, and Bruce was still conscious. The worst possible outcome. Silent weeping came from the brute when he realized his death was prohibited, his exhale kicking up small droplets of water from the stone below him. Anger once again bellowed within him like a forge being lit. He would not act against the gang willingly - he could not. But Benjamin's narcissism, his cruelty, his... similarity to Bruce; it set a light in the dog, enough that through the pain, he cobbled together a response. Turning his head just barely, he mumbled.

"You're going to hell with the rest of us, mate."

 

[Hard Boiled]

Not the slightest utterance escaped Helena's lips before Benjamin performed his act, mingling herself in with the rest of the peanut gallery. She found the start of his display oddly reminiscent of when she would beat up children outside the schools they couldn't attend, and then Mary would lecture them on inequality while they took their belongings. A bit distasteful, but she couldn't rightfully judge anyone herself.

Perhaps it was the respite of her walk, or Bruce's reaction being akin to that of a deflating balloon, but watching others carry out her surrogate wrath felt intensely dissatisfying for something she'd been building up for the better part of a month. Conor had followed orders like a good soldier, to nobody's surprise, however Benny appeared to let out a few demons of his own. Whatever had happened between Bruce and Benny's mum she did not know, she hoped only to never find herself on the wrong side of that boy's shiv.
Helena wasn't present for Ella's turn, but she was confident the message had gotten across.

He steps over Bruce's stomach, digging his booted toe into his abs before stepping over and throwing a heel back into his side before turning.

"Fuckin' Hell..." Helena turned and scratched her eyebrow, preferring her imagination over front-row seats. The more Ben spoke, the more she wished he'd just get on with it and hit the poor bastard like a normal person instead of giving him the Johnny Reb special. Bruce probably wasn't even conscious enough to understand half of it, anyway.

Benjamin pauses for a moment, then stoops down and grabs Bruce by the hair before dragging him along the cobblestone and turning him over onto his stomach.

She turned back, and immediately wished she hadn't.
In front of the writhing red mess that remained of her friend stood a man she had never seen before. One whose goal was no longer justice, but punishment. Whose tone provided no effort to hide the pleasure he derived from inflicting suffering upon another being, a craft honed over many a sleepless night for both predator and prey.
One who she'd ordered loose.

"You're going to Hell with the rest of us, mate."

"Yeah, we'll all be in great company." Helena concluded shakily as she took her place beside Bruce, removing her coat's waistband and blindfolding him with it.
"Keep your mouth shut. Make this easy."

 

[spottednewt]

Everything has a price.

For once in her wretched little life, Astrid was still. As solid and unwavering as the cobblestone beneath their feet as she stepped out of the carriage and onto the dirty city streets. The others moved like flurries of light and far-off sounds as she planted herself in place. The thin soles of her worn boots hugged the curves and imperfections of the ground and she leaned into the sensation; baring down with her toes.

There was a certain kind of anonymity in chaos. Especially the kind that you’d prepared for. At any moment, in the midst of all the fanfare, she could just sink into the ground and not a soul would notice.

The piercing crack of Mary’s cane connecting with Bruce’s jaw felt like the flipping of a switch. Like a disturbed nest of wasps, the others prickled, prepared to sting. Still, like a good little army, they queued up for their licks at Bruce. Rather than the agitation she may have expected to feel at Conor’s quick movement - the way she’d been predisposed to raise the temperature of the air around her instead of weathering it - she found herself consumed by soothing sense of validation. It was like slipping into a steaming bath after weeks of only washcloth and basin. It was like the stroke of her mother’s hand across her back when she was small and ill. The first deliciously-scalding sip of coffee on a cold and rainy morning.

It wasn’t about Bruce. It wasn’t about revenge, or the unwelcome reminder of the imminence of death - but about the looks on each of their faces. The familiarity of the sick and twisted expressions on all points of an emotional spectrum both unnatural and painfully human. They were all sharp senses and blurry thoughts; illogical and primal. Each of them was enveloped in their own fire. A fire that Astrid felt she lived in. A spectrum that she never quite seemed to break completely free from. Flushed, tight-chested, and with the burning muscles of an animal backed into a corner.

They knew those feelings, too.

They were living them.

–And she bathed in their tension –the reassurance of it –the camaraderie of it.

Like art, she couldn't articulate it, but she could feel it in every fiber of her being. Soaking up the warning and quiet resignation of Conor’s firm but reassuring murmurs to Benny. Devouring Benny’s misplaced pain and anguish as the sound of each blow against bruised and spongy flesh fell on her ears. The sick look of inner turmoil on Ella’s far-away expression as her foot landed in Bruce’s gut again and again; lest she be next. Even the self-righteous American - full to the brim with haughty pretension and Shakespearian soliloquy - felt as though he was speaking a language she knew better than her native tongue; transcendent of verbiage and connotation.

Astrid would likely spend the next few months running from those quiet in-between moments, hiding from her reflection and filling every second of every day to forget how comforted she was by their grief. For now, she’d let that grief envelop her - urge her forward like the priestess of this most unholy ritual she had conjured.

"You're going to hell with the rest of us, mate."

"Yeah, we'll all be in great company." Helena concluded shakily as she took her place beside Bruce, removing her coat's waistband and blindfolding him with it.

"Keep your mouth shut. Make this easy."

As Bruce’s tears mixed with the smears of blood on the stone below him, Astrid moved like a warm summer breeze; reaching out a delicate but firm hand to clasp Helena’s arm as she spoke, breaking away to disappear through the rear door of the pub as Bruce was blindfolded.

Inside the meager pub kitchen - among the cast-iron pots and pans bathing in the warm light of the fireplace - Astrid was in another world entirely. A dark stew in the hearth bubbled in a lazy simmer, the smell of onions and meat overpowering even the sickeningly-sweet smell of spilled mead and spoiled dishes in the far corner, the sound of the low boil melding with the chatter of patrons in the other room in a cheerful harmony. Even her feet had been offered a reprieve by the wooden floors, luxuriously soft compared to the stone she’d come from.

–And yet, not one of these small comforts could penetrate the growing screech of white noise in her ears; overpowering her senses and extinguishing the higher functions of her brain. For just a fleeting moment, she stood still in an effort to adjust to the new environment. She clutched the corner of the battered oak table, digging her fingers into the wood, drawing closer to a pile of discarded onion skins; but she couldn’t feel the splinters of wood beneath her fingernails or the sting of the onion in her nostrils.

She should've been in a froth, reeling over her plans; those she'd alluded to, and those she'd held closer; whether or not she'd be earning herself a mile in Bruce's noxious boots. --But all she could manage to think about was the heavy silence that continued outside, in her wake. She could still picture the others; imagining them staring at their feet, listening to the sounds of Bruce’s ragged breaths as he fought for his consciousness. She could picture it, but she couldn’t make it make sense to her. Something else entirely having crept in like the dawn sun had taken her over, she couldn’t make any of the pieces fit together to create that spark in her chest. That fire that she couldn't recognize herself without.

Finally, as she neared the fire and pulled the end of an iron fire poker from the coals, she became aware of her own shakiness. Vying for control, she held the rod close to the flames. Too close. A tingling drew up her arms from her fingertips as she clutched the metal rod with white knuckles, a frigid cold sinking into her bones in juxtaposition to the heat licking up her hands, and a weakness budding in her knees –all culminating in a dizzy high. If she closed her eyes, she could’ve been back on Dr. Blackburn’s table, bleeding to death, or she could’ve been falling through open air and not known the difference.

—-

As the door creaked open and she stepped about out into the alleyway - shrouded in the divine glow of the cooking flames behind her - she took a moment to force her eyes into focus on the back of the kneeling man’s head, matted in dirt and blood. Drawing near, she raised her gaze above the other’s heads, even as she crouched behind him, letting the end of the metal rod scrape the stone beneath them.

As peaceful as dead, she leaned in to rumble into Bruce’s ear, “It’s almost over.” Even as her breaths and smooth like honey, Astrid’s voice was nearly unrecognizable - and a staunch contrast from the red-hot poker she held in her hand, seething in the cool night air.

“Lovey, I’m not the type ‘ta believe in magic. Not the spirits, not the fates, not– any of that. I’m not Benji with his hellfire and damnation. Only Catholic ‘lest I be Protestant,” She paused for a moment.
“But I reckon nature’s got a tune to it.” She stood and circled to face him, back to her accomplices as she loosened the laces under her chin, to expose the angry-purple welt of jagged flesh just adjacent to her collarbone.

Bruce, for the first time in a long while, felt his skin grow cold and his heart skip a beat. He’d seldom call himself fearful or scared of most things, especially worldly threats that could only punish his flesh. But this orchestration, this show of force intended to do nothing but show him pain, had led to Astrid’s repayment and vengeance. More thoroughly now more than any time in recent memory, Bruce truly wondered if he’d be dead before day broke. Benjamin made Bruce weary, like a wolf waiting in the shadows for you to turn your back. Bruce detested his ilk, but he had a strange, backwards respect for the lad.

Astrid, queen of Hell as she was, had Bruce wincing at the sound of each footfall on cobblestone as she neared.

He didn't turn to face the direction of the footsteps, remaining still like a kid hoping he wouldn't be spotted by an ireful parent. He had barely gotten himself onto his knees off the muck of the alley, gained even the slightest semblance of self respect, and it was about to be shattered once more, wholly and completely.

“But you stuck us together and put us out’ta step,” Astrid let the sentence float in the air for just a beat, as though she’d intended to pick it right back up. –As if she’d expected some grand sermon to spring forth from her mouth in the same way that curses and vitriol often did.

Unceremonious and without so much as a breath, her arm shot forward to bury the hot tip of the iron into Bruce’s shoulder, watching as the heat burnt through his shirt and widened the hole in a feverish red ring before extinguishing itself in sweat and blood.

The oaf listened as Astrid spoke, soaking in the words in case they were the last he heard. He couldn’t tell if she was going to allow him to keep his life or not, and at this point, he just prayed the outcome would be decided soon. Living in limbo like this made Bruce feel impossibly anxious. However, she stopped speaking for a moment, and Bruce's head tilted up towards the direction of O'Malley's voice, wondering when she would continue her sermon.

Then the hot iron pressed against his uncouth shirt, and the pain was immediate. The beating was one thing, but a hot iron singing through his shirt and melting his flesh was another. Bruce recoiled at the touch, but Astrid dutifully kept the iron to his skin and pressed on, searing him tender. Bruce’s hand came up to instinctively try and pull the iron away, but his hand gripped the blazing rod and he once again recoiled with a helpless yelp.

As Bruce faltered, Astrid pressed forward, face screwing up as she jerked her wrist to twist the rod. The profane smell of burning flesh and cotton rose through the air and cut right through her; in a recoil of sickeningly-sweet contentment. As quickly as she’d prodded him, Astrid withdrew the rod and let it clatter to the ground by their feet; clammy, shaky hands flooding to claw at her skirts.

“You stuck us t’gether,” She repeated, focus zeroed in on the curdled flesh of his shoulder, watching his chest as he heaved and writhed. The woman fell heavily on her knees as she procured a small, hazy brown bottle - exactly half empty - from the inner workings of her dress. The vessel felt warm against her hands for reasons beyond her; especially as her own skin felt so very cold - a rattling chill in her bones. With a clumsy shuffle forward on her knees, she bit the cork off of the bottle and fought to steady herself as the smell from within hit her; the memory of it causing her stomach to heave and roll. She could practically feel the grit of it in her throat.

Wild, saucer-wide eyes darted back to the others behind her the judge their distance before she lurched forward and grabbed the man’s jaw in a vice grip; wasting no time, lest she be dragged away before she could hold the spout to his lips and tip the bottom upwards, letting the dark liquid splash into his mouth and gurgle empty.

Of all things Bruce was expecting from the she-devil, he wasn’t ready for her to shove a bottle to his lips and have some unknown liquid splash onto his clenched teeth. He let out a muffled sound similar to a yelp as she worked to seemingly poison Bruce with some decoction. If Bruce was a smart, well-put-together person, he may have refused to drink something that, preliminarily, seemed like a terrible idea to swallow. But Bruce was someone who above all else knew wrongs needed to be made right. However O’Malley wanted the score settled, he’d do nothing to stop it. His body resisted his mind’s command for a bit, but ultimately Bruce swallowed hard, the liquid making him wince. He was unfathomably uncomfortable with a punishment like this. The hell was she trying to amend here? He wasn’t even sure what was pouring down his throat, something close to the taste of compost in liquid form. It was vile and gross, but Bruce drank as long as Astrid kept it to his lips.

Astrid let the bottle, too, clatter to the ground as she watched the drips race down either corner of his mouth, enraptured with the way they cut through the grime on his face, only to leave their own, discolored trail.

“Swallow…” She whispered tersely, still digging dirty fingernails into the sides of his face and steeling herself against any action from the others. “Swallow and be absolved of your sins,” She added more gently, with a quick nod.

 

[queendilettante]

For the first time since the ordeal began, Mary looked down at the broken man in front of her; really looked. The fool's eyes were swollen nearly shut in a vile shade of putrid blue. He was soaked to the core in a mix of blood, rain, sweat, tears, and Lord knew what else and hardly moved from his crippled slump on the dirt. It was pathetic. Revolting.

Mary's stomach lurched and a pang of sharp pain radiated up from her leg as she fought to contain her supper. She was just as pathetic, just as revolting. She had started the whole ordeal and there, as Brucie lay dangling by the toe through death's door, she had the gall to feel nauseous.

Had she learned nothing from the ball that tormented her so? The man had been ready to lay his life down at Mary's feet and she responded by beating him. Was this the way to train a rowdy animal? Beat it near-death? Would tightening his leash until his lungs were shriveled and parched for even the smallest drop of tar-filled air right any wrongs? Was this justice? Or was this just vengeance she had been all too eager to enable?

All too eager to enable but far too spineless to see through unwavering. Truly the worst of both worlds in her, the supposed boss of these aimless ruffians.

A leader, though? Hardly. She felt herself nary more than a sniveling child. As if wearing mother's dress on Christmas and dolling her face to look mature somehow made her a woman.

Revolting.

"Well," she murmered to no one in particular, "it appears this mess has been sorted."

“Have the doctor clean up.” Helena snatched her drenched belt from his forehead, cowering in her sister’s shadow from their wicked deeds. A man ought to be looked in the eye when he’s beaten, but she supposed Astrid hadn’t seen it coming either.

Mary was right, dwelling on it wouldn’t help anyone. All that was left was to get fed and get paid.

"Yes," Mary muttered in a half-dazed response to her sister, "I suppose we brought the strange woman to the pub for a reason." She turned to face the rest of the group, but found no eyes looking back. It figured that they'd be hard pressed to gaze toward her; she had assailed Brucie from behind. It was uncouth. Cowardice of such a degree was unbecoming of a leader, no matter how far a cry Mary was from such a title. Perhaps she truly had gotten in over her head.

"Shall we return to the pub, loves?" she asked, shaking free that wicked thought from her mind. "Brucie needs medical attention and dearest Dr. Blackburn has graciously taken temporary residence in a booth." She kicked a pebble from the alley into Queen's Way with her bad foot and winced. "Plus," she added, trying and failing to force a light hearted chuckle, "I could stand to drink myself into a thoughtless stupor."

 

[Solar Daddy]

Bruce had been humiliated. Utterly. Surgically. There was no doubt in his mind that his beating was planned well in advance, and the thought killed him. He had been so ignorant, so stupid, believing they’d let something like Astrid’s wound go unavenged. Anyone with half a brain could’ve seen it coming, and poor old Brucie didn’t seem to have half a brain about him. Just an angry mug and a posture of evil to carry him through life. He was only kept around as a controlled catalyst for turning decent folk into huddled masses of flesh, much like he was now. He was in the shoes of the countless victims he’d beaten senseless over scraps or - hell - even just looking at him wrong. He enjoyed making others feel helpless. But feeling it for himself brought Bruce to a mental state he’d not felt in a long, long time. If he could reach for his gun, his empty brain would be splattered across the cobblestones and the oaf would be no more. No longer a pain to deal with, nor a menace, nor a problem. To himself, or those around him.

O, if Sophs could see me now…

But if the McIntosh boy was anything, it was resilient. Hell, the fact he was still getting air into his lungs, albeit barely, was a testament to how Bruce could take all the punishment lined up for him. At least his flesh could, anyway. His mind was another matter. Face down as to preserve any last shred of dignity he had with one hand holding his seared shoulder, Bruce inhaled sharply before letting out a few pained words. “Leave me be for a time,” He begged softly to no one in particular. “Let me regain my composure. I’ll head in soon, promise. I just need a moment alone.”

Other than this, the McIntosh boy barely moved outside of his labored breaths and the occasional twitch of his fingers. He wished to forget about life and mortality for just a moment. He wanted at least the smallest barrier to separate this moment from future ones with his mates. All he needed was to build his facade up again. Bruce would bounce back from this, he was destined to. He was a McIntosh, and no one could keep them down for long! But by every God that does or doesn’t exist, he just needed a moment to himself.

 

[guac]

Dr. Shelley Blackburn was not partial to waiting. She took pride in holding herself to a strict set of values, the most important among them being thus: No pity for the dead, the stupid, or the tardy. Time was a valuable commodity, one of few that Shelley did not have in excess.

She tapped her foot angrily as she sat in a booth in the Queens Way Pub that was beginning to feel like a second home, and checked her pocket-watch for the sixteenth time. A quarter past ten. They were just shy of three and a half hours late now. Hell, why not make it four! I’m sure they’re watching me from some hiding place, giggling at my foolishness and taking bets on how much longer I’ll sit here waiting for no one.

She threw her head back and finished the last dregs of her pint, slamming the empty glass down on the table next to its two companions. She’d had a few drinks – and why shouldn’t she? A small indulgence in the spirits never hurt anyone, despite what those Temperance harpies might’ve said. Shelley had decided to allow herself the consolation when the twins and their cohorts failed to show their faces after an hour of waiting. Once she finished the first pint, another didn’t seem so improper – and on it went.

“Broken bones and crushed nads, my arse.” She grumbled to herself. And yet, she reflected, she hadn’t left. Still she sat in this pig-sty of a pub, nursing a hope that the bastards might actually show up eventually. “You’re a god-forsaken fool, Blackburn.”

 

[kaito9049]

Eleanor kept her face buried into Conor’s back for she wasn’t sure how long. She didn’t want to see what Benjamin and Astrid had in store for their friend. Whatever it was would make the last few beatings look like childsplay. Whatever they planned she wasn’t sure Bruce was going to survive, especially when Astrid took her turn.

Ella peaked her head out from behind the Irishman long enough to see Benjamin holding a gun up to Bruce’s neck before immediately retreating back behind him. They were all the worst kind of human right now, her included. If her father were alive, he’d love every moment of this. George Bennett never needed a reason to punish someone. His joy came from seeing whoever his victim was that night suffer. They were no better than him right now.

And then Eleanor’s heart melted slightly at the sight of Benny and Alfie. No. Not all of them were terrible people. Bennet was still so young, he didn’t deserve to be here right now, seeing this terrible act play out.

“No Bennet,” she reached out to smooth down his hair, like she used to do to her brother. “You’re not a criminal, it’s okay love.”

Conor winced with each hit Bruce suffered. It was a coward’s reaction, he knew, especially since he’d contributed to the man’s pain himself. He forced himself not to look away, even as the sound of flesh bruising and bones cracking summoned memories bitter as hemlock to his mind.

This was different, Conor tried to remind himself. This was fair. Bruce had hurt Astrid, and he needed to hurt in turn. This bloody revenge was the closest thing to justice they had.

So why did Conor want to squeeze his eyes shut and cover his ears?

If Ella hadn’t been using him as a human barrier, he might have. The feeling of her face against his back was steadying, in an odd way. It gave him another reason to keep still, to be the kind of silent wall he’d been for years. He wondered how many times his older siblings had summoned from this strange source of strength — when they’d put portions of their meager meals on his plate, or when they’d lied and told Pa that he’d been working with them when actually he’d been out catching frogs.

Conor would have given everything at that moment to see them again. But all Conor had was a few shillings in his pocket and the stinging regret that he hadn’t been a better brother.

Maybe he could be different, now.

“I’m sure Bruce knows you didn’t have a choice,” he replied to Ella in a low tone. “None of us did,” he added, sensing Benny move at the edge of his vision. “Thing’s ‘ill be better after this, once everything’s fair and straight.”

Benny plastered his typical grin at Conor and Ella, patting Alfie as if he hadn’t heard Helena’s threat to the dog. She’d have to kill him first to get to Alfie. He knew Ella and Conor were trying to be strong, trying to comfort each other, but the pit in his stomach didn’t go away.

“You dunno that Conor. We all might be dead meat when he gets up ‘n runnin’ again.” Part of him was counting on it. He was rooting for the big man to just get to his feet and start pummeling them all until they were nothing but bone. If Bruce was getting hurt because he shot Astrid, shouldn’t they all be getting some kind of punishment for hurting Bruce? He hadn’t done anything to the rest of them, and yet they were all in on it. By Astrid and Helena’s logic, that’s how it should go.

Stifling another coughing fit, Benny got slowly to his feet, unable to watch the scene any longer.

“If the witch asks, tell her I’m takin’ Alfie away like she wanted.” He informed the two before calling the sheepdog to his side. Alfie sniffed at the ground before trotting ahead of him, blissfully unaware of the going ons. He meant to do just that—walk away from the mess without so much as a glance back. Of course his mind made him hesitate. His fight with Conor was more than past, new feelings of resentment towards the others completely overruling whatever had gone on between the two, and Ella… He couldn’t leave her there. Not after what Helena made her do.

Clearing his throat, Benny turned on his heels to look at the both of them.

“Maybe you guys should come with us? Sometimes Alfie starts runnin’ and my coughin’ won’t let me catch up… Ye know, just in case.” He shrugged apathetically as if whatever their decision would be wouldn’t affect him. Truthfully, being alone right now scared him out of his mind.

Conor let himself look away from the gruesome beatdown long enough to glance at Benny, the chill from the lad’s earlier words still echoing in his bones. “I’m not — maybe you should stay here, Benny. I dunno, maybe your being here will help Bruce feel better once…once this is done.”

He didn’t say what he actually thought, that he was scared for Benny. Helena’s furious words toward Ella still rang in his ears, and he found himself reaching behind his back to pat the girl on the shoulder. Truth be told, the display was infuriating. Everyone knew Ella wasn’t the type to get directly involved in the more violent affairs. She should have been allowed to keep her hands clean.

He was angry enough to hurt, but not enough to do anything about it. That was nothing new. Regardless, he had no desire to see Benny suffer the same dressing down. Sure, the kid was a thorn in his side more days than not, but seeing the way he clung to Alfie like a doll, he’d fight a whole police squad if it meant making sure Benny got to keep his mutt.

But he wouldn’t — couldn’t — fight the sisters. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Their ability to boss around war vets, men-turned-monsters, rebellious street urchins and back-alley doctors, it was almost like something out of a folk tale. You just had to listen to what they said. You wanted them to like you, to respect you. And if you were ever the target of their anger, you’d do anything to get out from under it.

“Get Alfie gone,” Conor murmured, turning his attention back to the beatdown, in case one of the twins saw him looking away. “And come back. Please.”

The urge to follow Benny was strong. Ella would give anything to leave this area and breathe in the smog filled air that wasn’t mingled with the copper smell of blood. But how would the twins react if any of them left? It didn’t matter that they had taken their turns, Bruce’s punishment was yet to be over. And Eleanor had no desire to be the target of Helena’s rage anymore tonight.

“Conor’s right love,” she spoke softly, “...Bruce will need us once this is over. And…” Ella let the sentence drop. She didn’t want to voice the idea of Benny being punished as well. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she was forced to watch that. “...if Helena’s temper is anything like how my father used to be…it’s best we stay, even if we would rather not.”

Eleanor stiffened just slightly at Conor’s touch before relaxing. She’d never been comforted before. Being the eldest, it was her job to make sure Henry was okay. Even her own mother refused to comfort her when Ella had been the target of her father's temper. All Conor did was pat her shoulder, as she had done to him weeks earlier. But it was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes.

“I’m sorry…” she mumbled, ashamed to have gotten tears on the back of Conor’s shirt. Ella wiped the remaining tears with the sleeve of her coat before turning back to Benny.

“Benny, would you like me to come with you to drop Alfie off? We can pick him up once this is over.”

Huffing, the lad cracked his knuckles nervously before finally glancing at Bruce’s limp form. The twins were still caught up with their vengeance, Astrid doing god knew what beside him. Benny rolled his eyes impatiently then before awkwardly shrugging in agreement.

“Yea, okay. Don’t say I made ye though.” The tightness in his chest loosened just a bit. He was grateful for Ella’s kindness more than ever at this moment. She always knew what the gang really wanted, it seemed, even without them vocalizing it.

“We’ll be back I ‘spose,” He called to Conor reassuringly, “Don’t let Astrid look in yer eyes while we’re away, or we’ll come back ta two corpses.” Benny made sure to raise his voice barely over the commotion in hopes that the girl had heard before turning back to catch up with Alfie.

Saddling up next to his dog, he slowed to a comfortable pace with Ella. After a long moment in silence, the tension was finally too much to bear.

“Sorry… ‘Bout what Helena made ye do. I know you and Brucie are like this.” He crossed his index over his middle finger to show Ella the obvious bond the two had, as if she were unaware.

“Ye think Brucie‘ll get mad at us? I mean, I know what Conor said, but what do you think?”

“We’ll be right back,” Ella patted Conor once before falling into step next to Benny.

The silence was too much, though, Ella couldn’t quite think of anything to say right now. Normally she was good at comforting the others, but now? She felt she struggled to say anything remotely important. The ache in her heart only grew when Benny finally spoke up.

“It’s alright,” she lied, “...I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to witness something like this ever again. Though I suppose I was foolish to think otherwise.” Ella reached out to link arms with Benny, a habit she told herself she would break but had failed to do so yet.

“No Bennet, I don’t think he’ll be mad.” She paused for a moment, “...he knows we didn’t have much of a choice. I hope he knows we still love him.” He would forgive them, right? Eleanor wasn’t quite sure she believed her own words. But so long as Benny did that was all that mattered.

Benny nodded his head, thinking suddenly that love was such an odd word to use. Did he love Brucie? He supposed, if that’s what Ella called it. He had convinced himself a long time ago that love was an impossible thing to reach. Benny cared for people, sure, but was that the same? He wasn’t sure, but for now it didn’t seem to matter. Ella’s arm slipped comfortably into his own, and once more he seemed to let go of the tension he held in his muscles. Walking away from the beating, putting distance between himself and the mess Astrid had devised, made him feel much better. He hoped Ella felt the same.

“Did ye beat someone up too? Long time ago?” Directing Alfie and Ella around a corner, he took a glance at his friend curiously, completely dense to the hurt around a question like that.

“What did ye witness? Was it fun? Well ‘course it wasn’t, ye said so yerself. It’s alright though, ‘cause I beat lottsa people up before, so you can tell me.”

“Oh Benny…” Eleanor sighed, “...you could say my father was a tyrant of sorts. He made me participate in quite a few dreadful punishments.” Even though they happened a lifetime ago, Ella still recalled the memories in great detail.

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t like hearing about my past Benny.” Ella wasn’t sure how else to word it. There were a lot of things the group wouldn’t like about her past. And now wasn’t the time to recall such memories. She paused as they rounded another corner. “This spot should be alright. But we best be heading back before our absence is noticed.”

Benny cocked his head toward the girl, surprise written across his face. What exactly was Ella hiding that she couldn’t talk about? It made sense to him that something like that should come from any of the others, but looking at Ella it was hard to imagine she’d gone through anything tragic.

“I think I’d like to hear about it someday anyways. You and me, we’re the closest friends each other’s got, so sharin’ secrets is… Well we just gotta!” As he spoke he made a motion for Alfie to sit, but the dog just stared back at him wide eyed.

“No Alfie ye gotta sit yer ass down er Helena’s gonna find ye and skin ye fer yer fur! ‘Least that’s what I’d imagine. So ye gotta sit, ok?” The boy pushed the sheepdog gently to the ground, handing out broken pieces of hard candy to keep him occupied. Of course, Alfie was less than interested.

“Please sit… Ella he ain’t gonna stay! We gotta… We gotta make him stay put!” As if everything from the last few hours had finally caught up to him, tears began to well in Benny’s puffy, dark eyes. His bloodied hands shook as they gripped desperately onto Alfie’s fur, the mutt curiously licking the running droplets on his cheeks.

“I can’t take ‘em back there. We can’t go back! Let’s just go get Conor and we can all go ta my place. We can lookit the stars ‘nd-'' Once again his lack of composure brought on a series of violent coughs. Blood sprayed from his mouth only to stain his already reddened palms, which made him sob harder.

“We… Gotta… Take Brucie ‘nd… Get ‘em outta there!”

Eleanor managed a weak smile, ignoring the ache Benny’s request brought. She tried not to see Henry in him—she really did. But every now and again Ella realized just how similar the two were, though Benny was older by a few years. If Henry were alive today, Ella had no doubt him and Benny would have been great friends. Just another reason Henry should be here today instead of her.

The feeling of melancholy was quickly replaced by panic the moment Benny began to cry. Eleanor lowered herself until she could be eye level with Benny. She used the sleeves of her coat to wipe the blood from his hands. “It’s okay Benny. You’re okay, see?” Ella spoke softly, showing Benny his blood free palms. “Benny, I’m afraid we have to go back, Conor and Bruce are waiting for us. I’ll make sure Alfie sits, okay?” Ella turned her attention to the sheepdog in question. Alfie continued licking the tears from Benny’s face, completely oblivious to what was being asked of him.

“Alfie,” She said sternly, successfully catching Alfie’s attention, ”Sit, please. We’ll be back for you in a bit, okay?” Much to Ella’s relief, the sheepdog obeyed. She produced a rope from her coat pocket as to loosely tie Alfie up for the time being. “We’ll be right back, stay put please.”

“Benny, love?” Ella turned back to Benny, reaching out to wipe away the remaining tears. “Ready to head back?”

Benny let himself be comforted by Ella for only a few moments before shaking his head to rid the negative emotions. His crying died to a quiet sniffling and he got up, giving the girl a forcibly wide smile.

“Yea let’s go. Don’t tell the gang ‘bout all that, though, thank ye very much. I swear I ain’t scared er nothin’, ‘ts just sometimes Conor’s ugly face really gives me the willies ‘n it makes my eyes all puffy…” With a drawn out sigh he gave Alfie a wave, linked arms with Ella and led her back to the alleyway.

Everything, unfortunately, was just as they left it. Bruce was still spluttering on the ground, the gang still watching in varying degrees of disgust and fascination, but Benny kept a steady gaze on the building behind them until they reached Conor.

“Looks like the man can follow orders! Way ta not look right at her.” He stage whispered over to the older gang member as he and Ella took their spots. Nobody had seemed to notice their absence, or if they did they didn’t care. Either way was just fine with him.

Even Conor didn’t indicate he was aware the two had returned. Astrid had, at last, come to mete out her version of personal justice. Benjamin had seemed to find a sort of self-righteous gratification in punishing Bruce, but Astrid’s steel-cold movements — it’d been something else entirely.

No, Benjamin might have shown Bruce the wrath of God, but Astrid appeared intent on making him a believer in mortal fury. It was fitting, Conor supposed; Bruce was suffering from the same brutal ire he’d unleashed on others. That thought unnerved Conor, for some reason, even more than witnessing the torment did.

But it wasn’t until Astrid plunged the hot poker into Bruce’s shoulder that Conor couldn’t bear witness anymore. It wasn’t the fact that his friend was being tortured that did it, or even the violence itself. It was that, Conor didn’t realize until later, Bruce’s screams of otherworldly pain that went heard but unanswered were too damn familiar.

So he did something that’d keep him awake at night when he managed to push away all the other thoughts. He looked away.

It was only then that he saw Ella and Benny returning. Benny looked like he’d been crying. He was surprised Ella didn’t. She was a stronger spirit than they’d all given her credit for. Poor souls, the two of them. Part of him hoped they wouldn’t come back, that they would stay away — maybe forever. That they would hop on a train and ride away to a place where friends didn’t hurt each other and families were always together and no one was hungry.

But mostly he felt, twinned with a tinge of shame, relief that they’d returned. Conor forced himself to turn his head back toward Bruce, even though his vision rested on the ground some feet away. He paced a few steps toward Benny and Ella, as if his body could keep them from seeing the bloody sight. He wanted to say something to them — anything. But his mouth felt dry as fallow land and his limbs felt as weak as wheat stalks. He hated that feeling, hated how useless it made him. The least he could do was try to put some semblance of separation between the younger ones and the brutal scene before them.

Ella’s body tensed up once again as the pair entered the alleyway. She didn’t want to go back—didn’t want to see Bruce in such a state. But, unfortunately, she didn’t have much of a choice— none of them did. Eleanor kept her eyes trained to the ground, only looking up once to greet Conor.

She was going to be fine. She was going to make it through this mess of a punishment as stone faced as she could. That was what Ella had planned anyway, until she made the mistake of looking at Bruce. Eleanor understood why Bruce was in this position, truly she did. But she felt there was a fine line between a punishment and torture. The beatings were enough as they were, yet, Astrid seemed to have other plans. Ella averted her gaze as the hot poker was plunged into Bruce’s back. She was secretly grateful when Conor attempted to block her and Benny’s view of such an awful scene.

“It’s going to be over soon, right?” Ella spoke quietly to no one in particular. She wasn’t sure if she would like the answer anyway. She could only hope it would be over soon, so she could finally go home and sit in the quiet for a while.

Although the question had been rhetorical, Benny shrugged anyways.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if Astrid called down a whole flock o’ birds ta poke his brains out right ‘bout now.” The anger he had pushed onto Bruce and the fear he had let go of in front of Ella seemed to have made him numb again. His eyes trailed mindlessly around the outlines of each gang member, suddenly becoming exhausted with the whole ordeal.

‘C’mon Astrid, hurry it up.’ Benny crossed his arms, suddenly realizing he was a bit hungry. Would they still have dinner? Hell, he’d feed Brucie himself if it meant they could go back in the pub. The big man would be ok eventually. He had to be. That’s why this was all ok. He might be hurt, but he’d shake it off with a bit of rest. He was Bruce, after all.

“‘S’alright mates… Us bein’ scared—Er, well you guys bein’ scared is like another way o’ fearin’ that Brucie won’t make it! He’s gotta, ‘cause we all survive stuff. We’re a gang, and gangs look out for each other. Helena might be the devil, but her n’ Mary aren’t gonna let him go that easy.”

His reasoning had convinced him, but he felt the need to relay it to Conor and Ella. Their sorrow was still apparent, and it was his job to fix them.

Ella remained silent as she listened to Benny. She appreciated what he was trying to do, normally she was the one comforting the others, even if she wasn’t very good at it. Now however, Benny’s words lifted a bit of the weight that had settled on her shoulders in the last couple of hours.

The weight lifted fully once Shelley was mentioned. Eleanor couldn’t help but sigh in relief. Bruce’s punishment was finally over. Granted, the last thing she wanted to do was go to the pub for food, but she also didn’t want Conor and Benny to be alone.

Ella turned her attention to Conor and Bennet. “I guess we should be off as well, hm?”

Conor didn’t say anything, his throat feeling dry as the dirt beneath him. He felt sick, like he was about to vomit on the ground. He wasn’t sure what was worse — the nausea, or the knowledge that despite all his bluster and pride, he was still just as soft as that 19-year-old lad who’d gone off on his own with a kerosene lamp and box of matches.

God, what was he thinking? Joining up in a gang where the most loyal member got treated like a rabid dog on the orders of its leaders? Would every mistake be met with such cold violence?

No, Conor tried to remind himself. It wasn’t a mere mistake that Bruce had committed — it was a nearly lethal act of negligence, paramount to betrayal. Conor would never do something like that.

Not again.

Conor pivoted on his heels, still unable to meet Bruce’s face. Part of him wanted to stay, to crouch beside his friend until he had the strength to stand, but he knew a man ought to be given the dignity of suffering out of sight. Besides…just facing toward Bruce made the nausea worse. Instead, he gently clasped Ella on the right shoulder and nudged her toward the door, nodding almost imperceptibly toward Benny as he did.

Benny, still unable to take in the extent of what had happened, followed the others numbly into the pub. It was just a tad bit warmer than outside, but the heat seemed to thaw his frozen thoughts. He scanned the place once, wondering what Alfie was up to, then did a double take.

“Aw what? What’s she doin’ here?” He nodded over to the slumped form of the good doc Shelley, who until now Benny was convinced he wouldn’t have to face again. With a groan he slipped up to the woman, wrapping an arm good naturedly over her shoulder.

“If ye leave now I’ll give ye a carrot. ‘N this time I mean it, not like the last time I promised that dumb ol’ horse that carrot. I’m not really allergic, ye see, it was just a cover up ‘cause I accidentally lied. Anyhow, I’d think it best if ye just scram now. The twins are in a bit of a difficult mood ye see.”

 

[spottednewt]

"C’mon Astrid, hurry it up."

“Let me regain my composure. I’ll head in soon, promise. I just need a moment alone.”

Still crouched over the crumbling man - gravel still cutting into her knees - Astrid could feel the vibrations of words floating through the air around her and see Bruce’s busted and bloodied lips as they moved to articulate. Not one of their words, however, could penetrate the crescendo of white noise ringing in her ears. The chill of adrenaline in her bones progressed into full blown tremors as she lifted her hands to cup the man’s face and maneuver her thumbs to wipe the mix of blood and elixir from the corners of his mouth.

As Bruce folded into himself in retreat, Astrid grasped at the next warm body to pull herself upward. Scaling Benjamin’s reluctant but steadfast arms, far-off eyes scanned the change in the air as the others shuffled about. She met the man’s eyes briefly - dark and beyond her - before flitting over the others.

Conor, as he grappled with the ghosts of his past and his hand in the event. Ella and Benny as they began along the road of pacifying their own guilt. The twins, however, she couldn’t face. A tangling of emotions tightening her throat as the others pushed past to make their way inside.

Like a ghost, she spun and followed them in; breaking off from the pack in front of the hearth to watch the flames as they licked up the sides of the logs and the waves of heat as they radiated outward to warm the dining room.

A crowd of refugees huddled around the fire, sheltering from Spitalfields’ omnipresent smog. Helena was among them, stewing in her own indignation. She’d stripped her equipment, save for her necklace and the revolver tucked in her waist, lounging in suspended trousers and a plain blouse.
“The Devil…” She snorted into her ale, spiking it with a healthy dose of ether to reduce her purple upper lip, now doubled in size. Singeing her with each sip, relief couldn’t come soon enough.
“I’ve been called worse.”

“Besides, you’re the real witch.” Helena nudged the back of Astrid’s chair with her boot. “Proper evil out there. More biblical than twice that shite Ben sold, eh?”

Her sparring partner returned no parry. Were it not for the depressants, her heart would be racing.
“...Never read that stupid thing, either.”

Astird sat at the very edge of a crude wooden chair, legs splayed as she leaned heavily on her knees to fight the waves of nausea.

“That’s not our fault any more than the sun in the sky or the swill in your cup. We all did what we had to do, didn’t we,” Astrid shot back through a breathy chuckle, shaking her head as grimey fingers whipped upwards to rub her eyes. “It’d be bad for business if we went soft on our own after swindling perfectly innocent strangers into the poorhouses.”

“We chose this, and we keep choosin’ it,” She stood with the declaration, chair shooting backward in recoil as she turned to face one of her dearest friends. It felt like a lifetime since they were hurling fists at each other over she-couldn’t-remember-what, but the blotchy bruises that dappled Helena’s features like watercolor paints had deepened with time and low light.

“That’s what I was going to say next,” she assured Astrid, gesturing up at her with a lazy smile.

Astrid laughed with more conviction, suddenly aware that the aching in her chest was just as much the result of external clash as it was self loathing. The realization did little good for the wild, detached glint in her eyes. Her tongue flicked over her lips as her gaze drifted off to Benny and the Doctor, settled into their familiar antics just moments after a heinous crime was committed.

“Today it was him, tomorrow it’ll be me. –And not a’ one of us will be closer to heaven than the other for it, even if you’ve gotta drag each of us to our turn by the ear.” She felt lighter on her feet, riding the upswing of her disposition like a ship bobs on the sea.

“Amen!” Helena swelled with pride in Astrid’s reignition, raising her mug - only for it to be promptly stolen.

“Jus’ a certain breed now, aren’t we?” Astrid added, helping herself to a sip of Helena’s Ale. The young woman resisted the urge to reach down and hold Helena’s chin in her hand; to search her eyes for each and every drop of encouragement she could sap from the other.

She huffed. Keep it.
“Mm,” Helena grunted in agreement, supplementing her lost liquor with a draw of tincture straight from the vial she’d pocketed in the Doctor’s office.
“A more righteous crew, there never was.”

With a grin, Astrid tipped the glass towards Helena before emptying it completely - down the back of her throat. Whipping at the suds on her upper lip with the back of her hand, she couldn’t seem to keep herself still. Practically skipping to the bar, she strained across to refill the pint and procured herself a chipped mug of dubious cleanliness; all to the barkeep’s dissatisfaction.

The man waved her off with a loud grumble from over his glasses and drying rag from the opposite end, but made no attempt to move. Taking his inaction as an invitation, she only moved more slowly, keeping wide eyes locked onto him as though to keep from alarming a wild animal. By the time the mug was full of coffee and the pint full of ale, she was sure to bite the inside of her cheek and offer him a bloody smile before taking her leave.

“To criminals and bastards, may we never die.” Sliding the fresh pint across the table to Helena, Astrid gave the woman a reverent nod, smile turning sour as the smell of coffee hit her nose and the association with the pain of the gunshot served as an unwelcome surprise.

“You’re not a criminal, Astrid!” Helena sang, folding over into a wobbly snicker.

With that, Astrid was gone.

 

[spottednewt]

Some peace and quiet, just what the doctor ordered. Short of the occasional bird chirp, the hallowed steps of some vagrant far off down the road and – of course – Bruce’s pained breathing, it was serene and almost romantic. Finally having his peace, Bruce had lurched himself over onto his back to stare up into the bleak, cloud filled sky. Of course in a place as dreary and hopeless as London, even the stars couldn’t provide comfort with all their shitty weather. Why the hell had he remained here anyway? Why hadn’t he lumbered back to his homeland, rebuilt his life as an honest and good man, hell bent on keeping the universe from beating him down?

Ah, right, because he was not an honest and good man. He’d never been one. Bruce was on the fringe of societal norms for his entire life, always a few bad decisions away from becoming an outlaw anyway. Then he was jailed, and the Twins set him free not long after. That was why he stayed. He owed them his life. He’d be rotting in that cell for the rest of his days, by now he’d probably have been shanked to death or drunk himself into a stupor and never woke up. He was thankful, all in all, for the second chance he was given. And then here he was, lying about on the cold ground, mucking it all up for everyone. Almost every part of Bruce’s body burned, the pain seeping deep into his flesh. Even with all of it, his leg, his ribs, his back – the pain that stuck out the most for him was the fucking headache. The same red-hot pain in the back of his head that was always there. Some days he could ignore it, others he could seldom think because of it. It seemed now was one of those times where the pain was outright blinding.

Bruce wept. No tears streamed down his face nor wails of agony escaped his lips, but he wept. One hand covered his mouth so as not to announce his pathetic action while his other clutched his burnt shoulder, still wreaking of putrid flesh. He remained like this for minutes, trying to let it all out before having to inevitably face his peers once more. At least this time it would be on his own terms, with no surprises to turn Bruce into a beaten dog once more. At least, as far as he was aware. Maybe they planned to make him feel some anguish of living before just shooting him dead when he arrived at the pub? Nothing was off the table. Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what he could possibly put his mind to, there was always an angle he didn’t consider, a likely outcome that didn’t appear on his horizon. And he got burned for it often.

And to top off the king of shitty nights, Bruce had to go looking for a new home after this. He couldn't put it off for another night, lest Benjamin decide to finish his righteous verse and end McIntosh's life himself. Ben knew where Bruce lived. There was no way he’d risk it. Bruce had to move tonight.

As the white noise screeching in her ears and the shakiness of her hands began to subside, Astrid felt as though she was sobering up. It had been a full three weeks since she’d had a drop to drink; but there - standing in front of the dark wooden door to the alley - she was the most sober she’d been in two decades. This was her second time pretending to admire the gunk-crusted grain. This time, feeling the prickling of the cool breeze that seeped through the cracks and danced along her arms instead of icy adrenaline in her veins. This time, clutching a chipped mug of black coffee as the heat sunk through to her hands, instead of the blazing metal rod.

All her violence had left her; leaked out of each of Bruce’s cuts and scrapes and washed away in the perverse divinity of vengeful bloodshed. The moment she left Helena's side, She felt tired and small and out of control once more; fanfaire fizzled out and her backing of rabid dogs having slunk off into the night.

Still, she pushed forward - light leaking out onto the laneway and flitting off all at once as the door shut behind her. There he laid; a broken and crumpled mass on the ground in the dim light. Astrid gripped the mug tighter, heat biting into her fingertips as she took a moment to study him –to study the blood-blackened cobblestone beneath his body that would retain the memory long after each of them was dead and gone. She could imagine an unseasonably cold wind whipping through the alleyway and whistling between the buildings exactly a year from that moment like the echo of their flirtation with fratricide. The ghost of a moment in time.

Even now - as she made her way to kneel in the muck next to him - she’d never consider Bruce to be powerless. Even with ragged breaths, broken bones, and dubious consciousness, what were the chances that she could get away if he merely reached over and clasped his fingers around her neck?

“Here,” She rumbled, holding the mug out to him.

Bruce only heard the sound of footsteps when Astrid had gotten far too close. His senses weren’t at their height at the moment, and her stealthy approach proved it. As soon as he was aware, Bruce held his breath to keep from making any more pathetic weeping. He looked like an idiot, through and through, like the same kind of loser he’d hit just for being weak. Just for looking weak. He wished to hit himself now more than anything, the dumb oaf he was.

Then Astrid entered his view and he let out a shaky breath from behind his hand. Ah, so she was coming back to finish him off, yeah. Though not long after, his eyes glanced at the mug cradled in her care. The pounding headache made it hard for him to think straight, but the McIntosh lad soon did his best to sit up. It was pained, slow, and he nearly didn’t even pull it off, but the brute managed to prop himself up. His gaze shifted between her and the mug. The fuck was she thinking? How mad had she gone?

“Olive branch so soon after your bout of vengeance?” He spoke low and without a care to his tone or sound, atypical for someone with such care in his appearance to others. “Didn’t paint you to be much of a bleeding heart, O’Malley. I’m disappointed. Thought you might actually have been on Ben and I’s level.” he coughed a few times before he could catch a breath after his sentence, his intake for air raspy when he finally had the chance. “This some charity stunt? Hopin’ the Twins see your benevolence and offer you their coffers for being such a saint?”

Despite his clearly unhoneyed words, Bruce slowly reached out for the cup and embraced its warmth. He took sip after sip, even though it was scalding - the heat burned away the bitter cold of lonely cobblestone and hateful deceit. After savoring the taste, he spoke again. “You’d make a mighty fine bruiser, bitch. Should take you with me for tax collection on one of these rounds.”

“Bold of you to claim to be on Ben’s level.” Her words felt hollow, as hollow as her bones felt; weighed down by flesh and sins that she’d move mountains to escape.

Bruce gave a guttural laugh that flung spittle and coffee. “Oh don’t go playing for Ben now. Give it time, he’s the same dog as me, just hasn’t been starved yet.”

Bruce gave a pause to drink from the mug again. “I wish the bullet didn't hit you, I do.” That sentence was about as close as the Scot could get to an apology. “Y’shoulda just killed me, y’know. Had far too many second chances. This was my one and only, Astrid. I promise that to you and the Twins…"

“I swear, in the,” He chuckled, smiling wide, “In the rant about my dear wee parents, I swear I heard the call o’me ancestors in your voice. I think you and I could’ve been mates, had I not been such a sod. But I think we’re just not the right kind of people for that. We were destined to be enemies from the start.”

The man’s words swirled around in her head, just out of reach. Instead, her eyes fixed to the charred hole in his shirt, barely anything but a wet-black splotch in low light. Instead of speaking, she merely clasped her fingers around Bruce’s - furled around the mug - and lifted it to her mouth for a sip.

For just a blink, she regretted not cutting it with whiskey, –or at this point, something more ambiguous from Helena’s coat pockets.

“If it hadn’t been the bullet, It’d’a been something else,” Astrid declared aloud to the empty pathway, taking another deep breath to push down the despair that accompanied her ebbing and flowing nausea before she continued. “Today it was you, tomorrow it’ll be me. And not a’ one of us will be closer to heaven than the other for it,” She repeated herself from just moments earlier, holding onto the little spark that the thought ignited in her bones. The certainty of their uncertainty was more reassuring than she could hope to articulate.

“But the bullet,” She interrupted herself, leaning back to prop herself up on one arm. “The bullet was as out of your hands as the rod was out of mine; all a part of some wager between God and the Devil,” She chattered on, her intention as cloudy as hazy sky overhead.

“The potion, though, that might’a been overkill.”

Bruce waved his hand dismissively, though the action caused a grunt of pain and a stifled movement back to his rested position. “I’ve long ago realized whatever I get, I tend to deserve. Whatever the fuck was in that vile drink, it sure made for quite the unknown substance. Still wondering if you poisoned me and are just waiting for the effects to take hold.” He paused a moment, almost seeming to wait to just keel over and die from her decoction.

Astrid marinated in the pause, jaw clasped tightly to keep words from spilling out. Not yet.

After a few moments, Bruce let out a deep breath. “Help me stand, will’ye? But don’t you dare try and help me walk. I can do that m’sel.” Bruce got himself ready to be hoisted up, the pain seeping back into his body. He hoped his friends would let this all be behind them. Bruce planned to be better, to leave this… incompetent mess behind.

 

[queendilettante]

Mary hardly deigned to acknowledge the uncomfortable Doctor as she entered the pub ahead of the rest of the gang, instead hobbling as fast as her injured leg could carry her toward her room in the back. She stepped through, slammed the misaligned door shut behind her, and threw her splintered cane onto the ground. What the fuck was that pathetic display of self-aggrandized insidiousness? Her stomach lurched for the dozenth time that evening and she choked back putrid, substanceless bile. Damn it all!
Mary grabbed the wooden post of her bed and kicked the wall with as much force as her yet-unhurt leg could manage.

It hurt. Obviously.

Of course it hurt. That's what she'd come to the back room to accomplish, wasn't it? Let her uncontrollable emotions overflow into the only thing she understood - violent outburst - and take it out on her furniture until it hurt too much to move. A sound plan if there ever had been one! Whatever force could lead such an act awry? For even the most forlorn plea of desperation in times of strife needed expression, so too did Mary's emotional dysregulation upon beating her most loyal ally near to death.

It hurt. Obviously. And it didn't help.

She sat down, taking the first moment of the evening to take pressure off her leg. The relief after such an ordeal almost burned in and of itself, though she supposed that was fitting.

--

After Lord-knew how long, Mary stood up with renewed convictions. Her momentary lapse of action, though loud in its own manner, had enabled quiet reflection for the first time in many nights. She handled this evening poorly, that much was immediately evident, and she'd do better. She would have to be better. She'd lead with force, of course - who could do otherwise? - but she'd lead with more care than she'd allowed herself to consider to this point. Trust could be broken, Brucie had learned that lesson, but Mary couldn't keep the group alive for long if fear was all she had at her back. Perhaps it was possible, if only briefly, to be honest.

She slapped her cheeks until they stung and strolled back out into the pub. She'd been out of commission for too long. There was still work to be done.

Mary faced the gang, who had, by now, all found their ways inside. The redness around her eyes almost assuredly betrayed any bravado she was oft wont to portray, though this was, in a sense, putting her renewed insistence at improved leadership into practice. It was honest. It was terrifying.

She took a deep breath, grabbed the nearest mug, and downed the stale beer at the bottom. She hoped it was stale beer, at least, though it tasted a bit more of spit than she'd hoped. No matter. "Good Dr. Blackburn," she began, "would you please attend to our dearest Brucie?" She struggled to make eye contact with anyone, and so closed her eyes in a forced smile. "He desperately needs your assistance at this juncture, Doctor. Please, make him okay."

 

[guac]

With a groan he slipped up to the woman, wrapping an arm good naturedly over her shoulder.

“If ye leave now I’ll give ye a carrot. ‘N this time I mean it, not like the last time I promised that dumb ol’ horse that carrot. I’m not really allergic, ye see, it was just a cover up ‘cause I accidentally lied. Anyhow, I’d think it best if ye just scram now. The twins are in a bit of a difficult mood ye see.”

Shelley jumped at the sudden arm across her shoulders. About time. This nonsensical greeting from the boy was not how she’d imagined the gang’s long awaited arrival, but she supposed it was better than no arrival at all.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are prattling on about.” She brushed Benny off of her as she sat up and straightened the collar of her bodice in an attempt to look more presentable. As she moved, her vision seemed to wobble just a bit before sorting itself out. Perhaps, the doctor reflected, it had not been wise to finish that third pint.

Benny scrambled back at the doc’s insistence, blowing a strand of hair from his eyes to give her a proper glare.

Shelley met the boy’s gaze and felt herself frown. At least the urchin’s presence is oddly sobering.

“Though your offer of a carrot is most tempting, I am here at the twins’ request. I was told there would be some poor sod’s crushed nads to tend to, does that ring any bells?”

“I’ve got no clue. ‘Sides, I learned all there was from ye the day you fixed up Astrid, we don’t need yer assistance. The twins just got a little uneasy, that’s all! They forgot they already got a doctor here.” He shoved a thumb at his chest proudly, thankful Bruce hadn’t made an entrance yet.

Although he shouldn’t have been surprised at the twin’s decision to bring the doctor here, a sudden feeling of anger washed over him at the news. If they had heard what she had said to him that day, they wouldn’t let her anywhere near Bruce! At least, he wouldn’t.

“They payin’ you fer that money ye lost?”

Shelley once again found herself stunned by the young man’s thinly veiled cunning. The money I lost, hm? Just what is he playing at?

Before she had time to formulate a response, Mary emerged from the back of the pub.

Good Dr. Blackburn," she began, "would you please attend to our dearest Brucie?" She struggled to make eye contact with anyone, and so closed her eyes in a forced smile. "He desperately needs your assistance at this juncture, Doctor. Please, make him okay."

Brucie? Shelley could detect the slightest hint of vulnerability slipping through Mary’s smiling facade. Dear God, have they hurt a child? She stifled a groan. Children were so dreadfully difficult to treat, always fidgeting and crying and whatnot.

Shelley gathered up her bag and stood, ignoring the slight unsteadiness as she did so.

“Of course, right away.”

As she stepped out of her booth, she turned to Benny for the final word.

“Let’s call it the cost of doing business, and leave this one to the professional, alright dear?” She smirked and turned on her heel, striding towards the door before he had a chance to retort.

Before Shelley could make her way out the pub, in came the aforementioned brute, hobbling in just barely with the help of Astrid. He stumbled around, nearly launching the two of them into a post had he not been able to correct himself at the last moment. Poor Astrid, despite her best attempts, was mostly just steering his assisted fall until they could make it to a decent spot. Once inside, Bruce and Astrid aimed for a relatively clear table, to which, without a pause, Bruce unceremoniously threw himself on top of, tankards and plates be damned. He let out a deep sigh as his broken body bled all over poor Miles’ nice table. Damn, another thing Bruce would owe the sod.

Shelley remained frozen where she stood, her heart pounding in her chest. She tugged at her bodice, which suddenly felt too tight, like it was pressing something against her stomach, something hard and cold, like the barrel of a gun.

“Fix me,” Bruce said, masking his plea as a command. “And someone get me some damn whisky! M’mouth is drier than Algiers.” He had one hand over his ribs with another idly reaching for his maimed leg, though really everywhere hurt. Even Bruce’s pain tolerance could only do so much to keep the bloodied man from falling into a stupor from the pain. It seemed whatever momentary lull he had when speaking with Astrid was all but dried up, and now the only thing to fix him, in his eyes, was some damn alcohol.

Shelley startled at the brute’s demanding voice, snapping back to reality. She swallowed, hard. Now was hardly the time for wallowing. She forced herself to look at him. Pathetic. The man was hardly in a state to be making demands, he could barely even stand. Was she really going to let her only chance at proving herself be shot down by some oaf with a big mouth?

She whisked away the cold bead of sweat forming at her temple and strode toward the table where the Scotchman had sprawled himself. She dropped her bag of tools by the man’s head with a thud, smirking at the small flinch he tried to stifle. Who’s the helpless one this time, brute?

“So I take you for Brucie, then. Pleasure to make your formal acquaintance – after our previous close encounter I do not believe I caught your name.” She began rolling up her sleeves as she spoke, though she knew from the amount of blood already all over the man’s clothes that attempting to save her dress was a fool’s errand.

“You will address me as Dr. Blackburn, and you will do so politely. I am here by request of the twins, but one wrong step and I’ll leave you to bleed out on this table, do I make myself clear?”

Bruce bit back his immediate response of threats and violence. Sure, he’d be dead without Dr. Blackburn’s help, no doubt, but he had enough conviction to strangle the meager wench should she test his nerves before succumbing to his wounds. He might’ve given up his life for such a cause if he wasn’t set on proving he was a changed man. Bruce cared not for the nurse, but he needed her at this moment and any threats would only further prove he was nothing but a dog.

“Doctor Blackburn, would y’kindly fix m’damn insides, please?” The fact their last encounter was of him clutching his revolver to her stomach was not forgotten by him. He was certain the brooding and mysterious doctor had machinations of letting a scalpel slip, or simply diagnose him as a lost cause. He was at her mercy this time around and Bruce detested every bit of it. Once again biting his tongue to keep from saying anything further, he looked to his friends just across the way. “Anderton, Murphy, someone get me a damn drink ‘fore I die with blood bein’ the last thing I taste.”

Shelley began sorting through her instruments with a sigh. It was going to be a long night.

 

[Aeris]

Ella’s eyes looked to the commotion, unsure where to begin processing. She hadn’t left Conor’s side since entering the pub, not because she was especially scared. But because she wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. At least with Conor next to her, the ex-heiress felt a bit more secure.

Had she had the choice, Ella would have avoided the pub at all costs. She would have gone home where she wouldn’t be forced to look Bruce in the eyes. How would any of them look Bruce in the eyes after the horrible act that had just committed? Would Bruce forgive them? Would he leave the gang?

No. He wouldn’t. Despite what he had just been through, Bruce was loyal to the twins. She couldn’t imagine him leaving their side, even if they had treated him so poorly.
“Conor, is Bruce mad at us?” Eleanor spoke softly as she watched Benny run to up Doctor Blackburn, whose appearance had lightened the weight on her shoulders ever so slightly. “It would be okay if he was mad…what we did was unforgivable.”

Conor gestured to Miles with a wave of his hand, his back protecting him from the room as he sat hunched over the bar. “Ella, I don’t think there’s a thing you could do to make Bruce mad at you,” he said, not looking at the woman sitting next to him. “He…he’s a strong sort. The Doc’ll fix him right up and he’ll be back to his usual self before you know it.”
The words felt strange to Conor’s own ears, like someone else were speaking them. The consonants burned in his throat like whiskey, and left a more bitter taste.
What was he still doing there? They’d all done what they’d come there to do. When could they all just go home?
Conor laughed audibly at the absurdity of the thought. This was their home. They were all like apple cores in a pigpen, as his mom’d say.
“What’s Benny up to?” he asked Ella. He hadn’t looked away from the wall behind the bar, instead nodding to Miles in thanks as the other man handed him a glass bottle filled with amber liquid, plus two cups. “We shouldn’t let him bother the Doc while she’s working.”

For what felt like an eternity, Bruce was being tortured by a wicked witch hell bent on worsening his pain. Even the numb nerves of the mighty Scot writhed and strained with each attempt the nurse made to help the sod. If Bruce was numbed to the pain at one point, he sure wasn’t any longer. He occasionally let out a groan, or a muffled something. But finally, one of the lads had fetched him a proper drink to souse himself with, like rainfall on a dry riverbed.

“Dyin’ is thirsty work, I hear,” said Conor, holding two filled glasses of whiskey with the bottle tucked under his arm. He hoped his voice didn’t betray his discomfort; it was hard to stand next to the other man, to see up close the wounds Conor had inflicted. He’d intended to stick to the bar and stare holes into the wall until the building collapsed on him, but the shame of leaving his friend to suffer under the Doc’s care bit at the heels of his discomfort like a poorly trained dog. Eventually, the shame won out.

Not for the first time that day, he was glad Ella was accompanying him. If he’d been alone, he might have turned tail halfway to Bruce and fled back to the bar. Besides, Conor didn’t think he could put up with Benny’s antics right now.

“ ‘Bout time, Murphy,” Bruce said with equal amounts strain and relief plucking his vocal chords. Then another yelp from the brute. “You’re a right saint, I’ll get you pope-ified if I live this.” His shaky hand outstretched, Bruce fetched the cup and downed the first drink, immediately holding it out for more. “I need t’play catchup on my sobriety levels here man, keep that glass tippin’.”

“I suppose so…” Ella wasn’t quite sure she believed Conor’s words. Bruce had every right to be mad at her, at all of them. She would be surprised to find him back to his normal self so soon after this traumatic event. There wasn’t much they could do now though, just hope and pray Bruce would make a quick recovery.

“You’re right, I’ll get him.” She knew Benny meant well, really he did. But the last thing she needed was him distracting Shelley while she worked. “Benny love, why don’t you come back over here, okay?”

Benny agreed without a fight, the sudden appearance of the large, crumpled man sobering him a bit. As much as he enjoyed picking on the lot of them, this was just too far. Perhaps if he weren’t so stubborn, the guilt would contort his face as it had with the others. Looking at Ella, it was clear she was only halfway present. Whatever conflict she was waging in her mind over this ordeal made her eyes glossy and out of focus. It made Benny uncomfortable.

“If Alfie was here, he’d know how ta make us feel loads better…” Of course the mutt wasn’t here, and once again the young gang member felt the responsibility of comforting Ella as she had him so many times. With awkward movement, he placed a gentle hand on her head and gave her a few pats.

“There there… It’ll be right as rain soon as doc Shelley gets Brucie settled. We’ll all get a good laugh outta this later. Brucie is tough as nails, the toughest outta all of us. He’ll be okay.” He knew his words probably weren’t getting through to her the way he intended, but he hoped it would at least be enough for now.

“How’s the others doin’?”

For the second, maybe third time that day Ella was being comforted. The gesture, while appreciated, brought a sense of guilt to her. It was Ella’s job to be the comforting figure, it always was. She was there on nights Henry had a difficult time getting out of bed, on days her tyrant of a father was too aggressive with the housekeeping. She had been there to make sure everyone was okay. And now? She couldn’t even bring it upon herself to smile, even a forced smile felt like too much effort after tonight.

And Bruce. Eleanor didn’t want to approach him, that was the last thing she wanted to do. But she also couldn’t bring herself to leave Conor’s side right now. The Irish man, as awkward as he could be, was a very comforting person in Ella’s eyes. She positioned herself behind Conor once again, listening silently as the two men spoke.

Just a few more hours. That’s what she had been telling herself. Soon she would be able to go home and avoid the pub for a few days. And when she returned she promised she’d be back to her usual self.

“I’m sure everyone is doing fine love, a bit tired perhaps,” Ella replied at last. It had been a long day, a day Ella wasn’t quite sure she would remember tomorrow. Perhaps that would be for the better.

Conor refilled the glass and handed it back to Bruce. He still couldn’t bring himself to meet the man’s rapidly swelling eyes, but he felt a surprising rush of relief that Bruce hadn’t thrown the drink in his face, or threatened to kill him. Conor and the others couldn’t be blamed for what Bruce had gone through, after all. It was just business.

Just business.

Conor sipped his own drink, feeling the liquid burn his throat on the way down. The sensation was comforting, even though it would be a half hour before the alcohol began to settle his nerves. Maybe it was because the pain was expected — familiar — but mild. Or maybe it was just because it gave him an excuse not to talk to the friend he’d hurt.

Finishing the glass with a sigh, Conor refilled it — the bottle was half-empty, now — and passed it to Benny. “We’re doing fine,” he mumbled, the words tripping out of his mouth. “Just drink this. And share it with Ella.”

Conor wasn’t really sure why he was offering the two a drink; his movements felt automatic as if something had taken control of his body. It just seemed like the proper thing to do at that moment, like taking communion at Mass or, well, drinking whiskey at a wake.

Was that what this was? Ma said all a person’s friends and family would get together after they died to pray, mourn, and celebrate. Back in the old days, she said, the dead guy would suddenly shoot up straight, hop off the table, and join the party — “waking” up. But no one had died. Bruce was a breathing corpse gulping down a drink with his betrayers. By the week’s end, the sisters would probably call everyone in and act like nothing had happened.

No, Conor decided as he turned his gaze back to the wall behind the bar. No one had died, but something — something that was inutterable but burned on his tongue — had been irrevocably lost.

By the time the ward had mostly finished dealing with the most critical injuries, Bruce had been brought down from his wails of pain, thanks mostly to the liquor he was downing at an impressive rate. Murphy and McIntosh took turns getting their cups filled before making the liquid vanish. If Bruce was being frank, he was surprised the smaller lad could keep up. Then he offered the drink to the even smaller of their ilk, Benny and Ella. It almost distracted from the pain, his wondering if they’d accept it and how they’d react.

Bruce could feel the tension in the air even in his inebriated state. With the pain masked by the drink, and his senses even less about him than normal, he turned to face the ragtag trio. “Hey, y’three,” he said, holding his cup out to be filled. “We all had our part to play in all this. Yours was to give me a taste o’ me own medicine. You did it spot on, bloody perfect.” He gave a bellowing laugh, then a wince as the wench prodded at his leg. “Next time we need someone roughed up, we oughta call on you three. I’m obsolete now, eh?” He hoped his attempt at humor was lifting the spirits a bit. He wanted to prove there were no hard feelings, nor was there any doubt in his mind that he deserved every last punch and kick he got.

With his cup filled, he bellowed once more. “Make a cheer with me, ya bunch’a bampots. Yer all awfy crabbit, let’s change that. This is for new beginnings, eh? For me naw bein’ a total asshat no longer. To me!” He raised the now filled glass thanks to the help of whoever possessed the bottle. He poured the contents into his mouth as best he could in his position and bodily state.

“No one’s leaving this jobby tavern ‘til I see every last damn one o’ ye smile.”

Benny had been silent as he stood behind Ella, watching the doc closely while desperately trying to keep up with Conor and Bruce’s drinking. He’d near finished his second cup when Bruce declared his toast, and Benny joined in with a beaming smile.

“There’s the Brucie we know! Didn’t take ye fer a cryin’ sod, I knew ye’d be just right!” Suddenly feeling his own tension evaporate thanks to Bruce, he sidled up next to Shelley and put an arm around her.

“Had every faith in ye doc! Thanks fer the fix up ‘n have a good night!” Assuming she’d leave after his goodbyes, the only one that really mattered since she’d know now there was no bad blood, he turned to Bruce.

“Here ye are big guy, have the rest o’ mine. ‘Spose now that everythin’s cleared up, you’ll understand why me n’ Alfie had te touch yer sword.”

She didn’t mean to start crying again, really she didn’t. But seeing Bruce try to cheer them up, especially after what they had just done hurt her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Eleanor waited until Benny had begun talking before slipping away from the group. She slipped into a booth safely tucked in the back of the pub, away from prying eyes. If Ella could help it, no one else would have to see her cry today.

Ella rested her head on the table as she closed her eyes. It had been a long day for the gang, a day she never thought would end. But Bruce was going to be okay- he was joking around best he could. Though she supposed the alcohol helped hide the pain. She would remember to bring him some gifts in the next few days, if he was still in as good of a mood as he currently was. Her ears perked up as Benny’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Bennet!” She glared at Benny from across the pub, “You did not actually take the sword did you?”

“‘Course not! I ain’t a monster.”

Conor groaned inwardly, snatching the glass from Benny’s hand. “You’ve had enough,” he snapped, setting the cup upside-down on an adjacent table, where the lad wouldn’t be able to swipe it back. Ella had stepped away rather than take a sip, Conor noticed, but he decided against calling her out; he wasn’t about to break a teetotaler.

He hoped news of Benny’s little escapade didn’t ruin Bruce’s sudden good humor — or at least, the burst of energy that allowed him to fake it. The Scot’s laughter felt a bit too boisterous, his jokes a little too forced to be entirely genuine.

It was not unlike the drinking parties Conor’s Pa would hold after one of his friends got a piece of bad news. They’d all sit in a circle, passing a bottle around while the poor soul told jokes about his predicament. Everyone would laugh, even if the commentary wasn’t that funny — at least to Conor, who would strain to listen from the kitchen. It wasn’t about the jokes, or the drinks, he realized when he was older. It was about the company, people who didn’t know what to say and were too cynical for platitudes. Laughter was just about the only option they had. It was the sound of a lie being passed around the dinner table — the lie that everyone and everything was alright.

Conor shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Maybe he’d taken that last drink too quick. Besides, Bruce was a stronger sort than most — perhaps his rebound wasn’t all pretend.

He decided to top off Bruce’s cup, just in case.

“See how upset they think ye are Brucie? Show ‘em yer back up ‘n fightin’! Show ‘em ye aren’t gonna let this whole thing get ye down!” Benny threw a fist in the air to what he believed to be an encouraging sentiment, forgetting all about the drink Conor had taken away from him.

“Swear on my mum’s deathbed that yer sword ain’t even scratched!” Beaming, he hoped that was enough to settle any worrying thoughts the brute might be having. His mother was neither dead nor was he actually sure the thing didn’t get damaged in the process of fighting pretend pirates, but Bruce didn’t have to know all of that.

“Don’t you worry Barnington, You’n’me are right pals. I knew well before you were born, your mystical omen would fuck with me sword. I’ve had a long time to prepare for the biggest nyaff this side o’ Hadrian’s wall.” Bruce’s words were expertly slurred, only perceptible to those that knew the oaf well. He hid his inebriation well, considering the amount he’d downed by this point. “If ye like, I can show you what it feels like to get cleaved in two by it next time you’re ‘round my abode.”

After Bruce managed to pry his upper body off the table, he finished his cup and set it beside him. This time loud enough for all the others to hear, he rang out like a organ across the tavern. “Food was promised after me arse kickin’. Where’s the damn gruel? ‘M starving.”

 

[queendilettante]

Mary had spent the night watching the doctor’s movements very carefully from her and Lena’s booth in the back. She of course had no medical training to speak of - unless patching Lena up when they were kids counted.

So her ultimate relief wasn’t a surprise. Mary was more thankful than she could acknowledge that the doctor seemed to coax Brucie away from the light. When the brute started joking and drinking with the Irishmen, a breath Mary hadn’t even known she was holding finally escaped her. She rubbed her eyes and downed the pint she’d been neglecting since the doctor began her work. This whole ordeal had made her rightly silly.

With a glance to her sister, Mary called out to the doctor. “Why, thank you dear. Your services have once again proven invaluable. Would you please–”

“Invaluable, exactly.” Shelley had been in the midst of packing away her instruments when Mary addressed her, but she paused now to look the woman in the eye. “I could not have chosen a better word myself. In fact, I would venture that you can’t afford me.”

It was a bold move, to be sure, but she had played the whole scene out meticulously during her hours of waiting. She was confident that this was her in.

“Afford you?” Helena glanced back at Mary with a doubtful smirk.
“We bought you with a bracelet I found on the floor just last month.” She assured the Doctor. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Mary smirked. Lena was exactly right. Who was this quack doctor to make such a claim in their home?

“Bought me? This bracelet wouldn’t even pay for my dinner.” She flashed the gaudy thing on her wrist, a gesture of goodwill – all part of the dance.

“If you were to buy me, I assure you my price would be much higher – but come now, must we be so transactional? I’d like to propose a more…” She paused and took a cautious step forward, feigning a search for the right word. “...symbiotic relationship.”

Mary snickered. Tonight was quite the odd experience. Of all of the roads she’d expected the evening to trod, being propositioned by the doctor was not one of them.

“If you’re looking for doctoral exclusivity,” Mary began, “I assure you we have other avenues upon which we’d peruse options prior to any official agreements being reached.” She took a swig of her empty glass, pretending to drink anyway so as not to embarrass herself. “I’m sure you understand, dearest Dr. Blackburn.”

Helena, however, did not understand the maze of syllables before her, squinting at Blackburn like far-away writing. The Doctor, with her clean hands and delicate skin, speaking down at them like she owned the place, like every other of her ilk. She reeked of class, a stench best left on the other side of their blades.
“Make your point.” Helena grew impatient.

“What if I were to tell you that there’s more to my skill set than patching up your crushed nads, as you so poetically put it?” Shelley asked, glancing back at the brute named Brucie. “I have capabilities you may put to use, connections you may find interesting.”

“What, they taught you to dance, too? How to speak French?” Helena sprung up, nearly toppling over from the depressants. Her alcoholic breath stained the inches between their faces as she stood over the Doctor.
“You come in here, in your big fuckin’ dress, plug a few holes, and you think you’re in it, eh? Yeah? No wonder we can't afford a toff moppet like you...You think we need you?” Helena lowered to Blackburn’s ear level, watching the same man.
“If it were up to me, I’d have let him bleed.”

Mary stood up, leaning on the booth for the sake of her leg, and put her hand on Lena’s shoulder. Her sister had delved a bit deeper into the bottle than Mary had managed so far, and she found herself worried that things could escalate further than she was comfortable with for the thousandth time that evening. “Lena,” she said gently, doing her best to keep her sister from drunkenly swinging on the woman.

Helena sucked in her cheeks and returned to the booth.

Shelley did her best to remain stoic through the drunken attempt at intimidation. She would not be cowed, no matter the delicious chill running down her spine as the woman stepped away.

“I’ve smuggled goods right past policemen, in plain view. I’ve hidden in the shadows, amongst the brush, as they searched for me in vain.” She paused a moment, relishing the memory of the searchlights and the barking dogs.

“I am a fixture in high society — I treat the bumps and bruises and sniffles of some of the richest families in London — and no one is the wiser. I’ve been in their homes, seen where they keep their precious heirlooms.” The doctor took a deep breath, fixing her gaze on Mary, as the more sober of the two. “I am offering all of this to you. All I ask in return is a chance to run with the lot of you, to howl at the moon, if you will. What do you say?”

“I say you need to watch your bloody tone…”

“Sister dearest,” Mary said, repeating her plea with a firmer tone than before. “Shall we discuss this in private? I do not believe bickering in the face of our subordinates will prompt much aside from further contempt.” Mary opened up her stance and began leading Helena backward toward their rooms.

“Give us but a moment, dearie,” she called back to Shelley, “the doctors will be with you shortly!”

Helena reluctantly followed her sister with crossed arms, glaring at Blackburn the whole way back.

“She revolts you,” Mary said plainly as she shut the door behind them. Lena was not one to mince words even in her kindest moments. The stressors of the day, culminating in the level of inebriation her dear sister readily occupied, certainly did not aid in the lessening of her blows.

“I am a fixture in high society~! Fuck off.” Helena threw two fingers at the door, crashing onto her hay bed.
“Fortunate we didn’t cut her, talking to us like that.” It wouldn’t be the first time Helena left a self-important snob with something to remember her by, though Mary’s expression guided her otherwise.

“What, you’re actually thinking about this?” Helena broke the pause.

Mary sighed. “Have we not suffered the undue effects of our own pride enough this evening?” Mary hobbled over next to Lena and sat down on the bed next to her. “The woman is right in what she could offer. Think how differently the party could have gone had we had a fixture in place inside such vitriol?”

Helena stewed in Mary’s words, softening her gaze. No fixture could account for Bruce.

Mary shifted her weight and turned to face her sister directly, stifling a wince as she did so. “Dear, we’ve extorted and assaulted for weaker and significantly less worthwhile connections. This one is prostrating herself in our home for the chance to be abused by us and you’d like to send her packing?”

Helena looked up at her wiser half, finally catching the sentiment after far too long. Bloody Mary, always able to think of the future in a way she never could. Still, there would be no illusion regarding the Doctor’s position within their ranks.
“...If she’s staying, she needs to know her place. I’ll have none of that invaluable shite.”

“And her cut is minimal. We don’t take from the rich to give back to the rich.”

Mary smiled and placed her hand gently on her inebriated sister’s forearm. “Of course, darling. We’re exploiting a resource, not running a bloody charity.” Mary pushed herself up from the bed, pulling the cane that she’d left on the floor up with her. “This doctor will be the first of many affluent fools to pay their due respect to the Nevitts.”

"Stay here, dearie, I can handle this." Mary bowed to her sister and walked back into the bar, alone.

The gang were drinking together, Brucie included, as Mary reintroduced herself. “Ahem,” she announced, pulling the revelers’ attention toward her in the back doorway. “I’m quite pleased to see mostly everyone getting along after tonight’s, uh, festivities.” She grabbed a half drunk glass from the table nearest the back door and raised it.

“A toast,” she said, smiling at the crew, “to Brucie’s health.” Mary pretended to drink from the half-rotten glass and placed it back where it came from. Still smiling, she turned back to the group. “And thank you, dearest Doctor Blackburn, for your assistance in that manner.”

“In fact,” Mary continued, keeping her eyes locked on Shelley, “the good doctor has requested entry into our tight knit band of comradery. Gracious as we are, Lena and I have decided to welcome her, so long as she remembers the place upon this totem pole in which her rung lies.” Mary mimed another toast. “To you as well, Michelle Blackburn.” She smirked.

“I shall contact you all within a month. I aim to allow my leg time to heal and I’d prefer we keep a low profile for the time being.”

Mary spun on her heels. “Ta ta!”

 

[Solar Daddy]

When the festivities ended, Bruce gathered up what was left of his body and hobbled out of the pub. Even with the lightheartedness of the last chapter of the night, he just wanted to be done with socialization. Before he had left, Bruce had instructed Benny to stall Benjamin for as long as the little shit could.

He needed the next month to reflect on himself and what had happened that caused such reprimand. It wasn't difficult to detect the glare he received from Helena all night. Could she not see he acted in defense of her sister? That those rich, no-good partier's worth paled in comparison to Mary Nevitt? Or did she prioritize their lives over hers? Maybe she had gotten too chummy with Astrid, and she'd choose the bitch over her own sister should it come down to it. Bruce wasn't certain, and his simple mind sure wasn't going to discover the truth just thinking about it. He pushed the heavy thoughts from his mind. He wished to rest.

But he would not. There was still much to do tonight. The fact he was weak and broken meant his objective was even more paramount. Bruce held his side as he stumbled through London's streets, but hidden beneath his grasp was a knife held reverse should he encounter trouble on his way back. The threats he expected to face were dangerous, self-important, and American. The Union boy, if there be any smarts left in that whisky addled brain, would realize this was the best night to decommission Bruce for good. He was clever enough to mask the murder as a strange accident, or maybe Bruce simply died of his wounds in the night. Benjamin knew where he lived, and Bruce would not stand for that.

upon reaching his shack, Bruce shoved the knife into his waistband and dug into the floorboards hastily. He withdrew all the contents of his stash, which amounted to little more than his rifle, his sword, and a knapsack of crumpled bank notes. The brute looked over his shoulder often, not out of fear, but out of determination. He would not be the victim of a death without a fight.

Bruce used his rifle to hang the knapsack over his shoulder while balancing his sword on the other. His revolver and knife remained in the hem of his pants, making the grim enforcer almost cartoonishly vagrant-looking. He then walked due West, and wouldn't stop until he found a suitable replacement. The thought wasn't lost on Bruce that someone could simply be tailing him, but Bruce could do nothing to stop that. He just had to hope no one was following him.

There was hope in him yet that he could regain the status he once had in the Gang. He was still the Nevitt Sister's most devoted follower, one of the longest serving, and quite simply the biggest thing they could throw in the way of their direct problems. Hell, he doubted anyone else would jump in front of a gun for them, despite all the adoration they receive. Conor, Benny and Ella would probably shake in their boots at the decision. Astrid might take a shot for Helena, but he didn't quite have the bitch dialed in yet. The American wouldn't flinch. He was after a paycheck, he only had loyalty to money. He wouldn't be able to spend it if he died for the Sisters.

No, that left just Bruce. And I was beat within an inch of my life for it.

Bruce was pained with every step he took. His whole body ached now that the alcohol waned and the frigid air of the night set into his skin. But Bruce had no choice, it was either search or die. It had taken near an hour of walking to stumble upon something worth inspecting. Looking up at the row home, complete with smashed windows and a broken façade, Bruce let out a hefty sigh. Lights flickered inside, but only on the first floor.

The brute stepped into the house through the front door, which swung open with loud creaks. The lights down the hall grew brighter, voices peaked now that the sounds of the street had faded, and shadows danced across the walls. The interior of the building was rotted, waterlogged, damaged beyond repair. A hive for the homeless seeking shelter. Much like what Bruce was doing.

Upon entering the main room of the first floor, Bruce was met with three vagabonds warming their hands on a blazing fire resting in the fireplace. Two had continued their conversation, either not noticing Bruce or not caring, while the third frowned up at him. "Can we help you?" The third asked, a look on his face similar to disgust.

"Quiet Tom. All are welcome to warm themselves on our fire. Not like it steals heat from you, does it?" The middle of the three spoke, not looking up from the fire. "Take a seat, stranger. We've no food to offer but this fire is just as much yours as it is ours."

Bruce didn't move. His feet remained planted where they were, like roots stayed his legs. Instead, Bruce set the sword up against a nearby wall, as well as the knapsack. He gripped the rifle in both hands pointed at the ground. "Out. Find a new place to stay." Bruce's words were soft spoken and somber. The three didn't move. Neither did Bruce. Only the sound of the fire permeated the room.

The second spoke. "We can share-"

"I'm not sharing. And I won't ask again." In case there was any doubt in what he held, Bruce turned the lever of his rifle and a bullet was loaded into the chamber. "I'll gun you down by your precious fire and I'll leave your bodies to rot. I don't mind the smell. It'll keep more of you from showing up." Despite his threat, Bruce didn't rush them. No one spoke as the three kept taking in their warmth. Then, without a sound, they gathered their few belongings and left the home the way Bruce had entered. The brute didn't watch them leave. See? I know mercy. I don't need to kill everything to get what I want. I have charisma too.

Once the sounds of footsteps dissipated, Bruce let the rifle fall from his grip, clattering against the ground. He let out a single pained groan while his shoulders slumped and his head drooped. Bruce stepped towards the fire and simply collapsed in front of it. He would secure the perimeter tomorrow. For now he just needed to pass out and put some distance between him and the events of the day.

My story isn't done yet, I will not die from these wounds. The Gang would preach McIntosh as their savior when he was finally put down. They'd build a statue in the pub and drink to his honor nightly. They will. He wasn't dying until he had that status.

And hey, he just scored a sweet new home. No more broken down shack for him, Bruce had an honest-to-God house! Three stories, and probably an in-tact roof! Things were looking up.