Realistic or Modern Empire City: The Irish Mob - Bonus Scenes (Closed)

[Melanin-Gxdess]

Aliana Cartwright-Sullivan

Ali glanced at Conor, seeing if he were going to speak first and when he did she simply listened. She wanted to hear his reasoning, why he thought they were coming here together. His words weren't new to her, but hearing him say it all brought back. They had gone through a lot, even from the very beginning. At one point, she truly thought they were going to no longer exist when his ex entered his life again. It was something she had accepted as she wasn't going to get in the way of whatever happened. But life had other plans and instead, they ended up together, married, struggling. She didn't regret her decision and she was never going to regret her decision. Aliana Cartwright loved Conor Sullivan with every ounce of her being, but sometimes it was hard being with him and she didn't know if it was because she was still holding on to something or if something was missing. Louise was going to help them get to the bottom of it, for sure.

Even though she had her own thoughts, she was still actively listening to her husband speak and did her best not to break down in tears. Their marriage and the things leading up to their issues would always be a sore and sensitive subject for her until dealt with. Getting everything out there and on the table to be dissected was going to be rough, but worth it in the long run. It wasn't until his final words were said and he looked at her that it stung and she glanced down. He didn't believe her when she told him she thought he could redeem himself? He had never said that to her before and it stung to hear. She took a deep breath and sunk into the couch, getting comfortable as she raised her index finger to her mouth rubbing her lip. Now her mind was racing and she didn't have anything to say until Louise did.​

Dr. Louise Summers

Louise took note of the reactions from both parties, the sound of the husband's voice and the wife's response. It was interesting, to say the least, especially the look on Ali's face once her husband was done talking and she wrote this down. It wasn't anger, she wasn't angry with him for saying any of that. More like shock? Disappointment for sure, but the doctor couldn't tell if the disappointment from Ali was because of herself or her husband. She crossed her legs and nodded her head to Conor, also taking note of his body language. "Well, this is a lot to unpack for sure. Now, Aliana, before you respond to what your husband says, why do you think the two of you are here? In your own words and stance on your situation?" Her patient seemed to have a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were paying attention but she really wasn't. It was quiet for a few moments, which she wrote down, before Aliana cleared her throat and started speaking.

"Well, we moved. From Dublin to... Here. I thought things would be different; I thought things would be better. Conor has always been a hothead, and I understood that and it didn't worry me as much until Leo was born and we got married. When we moved, things were supposed to be better in terms of him getting a handle on his anger and it seemed to have just made it worse... He went to prison and things kept going downhill from there..." Her voice broke off there, leaving an incomplete thought before she got a hold on herself. "Anyway, I couldn't deal with the broken promises so I just... Broke off from him. My mom took Leo to him in prison, I would never keep him from his son... The one time I did try to visit, we argued." That was a memory she didn't want to remember. "...I do believe he's changed and for the better and think that he can do this it's just-..." Ali took a pause, one that was longer than the others had been. "Go ahead and say it. There's no holding back in here." At the mention of no holding back, Ali felt like she could say what she needed. "I feel like because of everything that's happened I'm afraid of being let down again."

Pen to paper, Louise wrote this down as she nodded and took a deep breath. "Well I'll tell you what, we're going to be here for a couple of sessions, don't you think? It sounds to me that you two aren't on the same page." Placing her pen down for a second, she used her hands to help get her point across. "There's obviously a disconnect between the two of you and you're not communicating properly, because you're afraid of hurting the other persons feelings. To be quite frank, that's not healthy. Sure, we always want to protect the other's feelings but that's not always a good thing especially in your case. So for today, I don't want either one of you to spare feelings and just share things you haven't or otherwise would never because you care about the other person's feelings. Conor, we'll start with you."
​

 

[Misty Gray]

Conor Sullivan
~ Wednesday 15th September 1971 ~
~ Marriage Counselling ~
​

As the counsellor took her notes and Aliana sat quietly, Conor felt uncomfortable in that moment. He felt like he was being judged by both of them. Somehow, it was always easier talking to Dr.Parker, even when the man challenged him to talk about his deepest fears and the memories he'd tried to lock away. This was harder, but he could only assume it was because he was sat with his wife who could hold what was said against him and would take it personally.

Louise directed the questions to Aliana next, asking for her thoughts on why their were attending the session. Conor looked to his wife, noticing how she was staring off into the distance. This caused him to awkwardly look down to the floor until Aliana cleared her throat to speak. Conor lifted his head, but this time he was the one looking out ahead rather than to either of the two women. Hearing himself being referred to as a hothead was nothing new and he couldn't deny it. She mentioned how moving to New York seemed to have made his anger worse, which caused him to cover his mouth his his hand to prevent himself from interrupting her. He nodded his head when Aliana pointed out that even when he was in jail, she wouldn't have kept Leo away from him. Remembering the time Aliana did visit and how they argued, Conor closed his eyes for a brief moment, frustrated at how that visit had played out. At the end, Aliana said she was afraid of being let down again, prompting Conor to move his hand away from his mouth and turn to look at her. "I wish it wasn't so hard for you to believe in me." He looked towards Louise. "I don't know what else I can do to convince her I'm trying."

With mention of them not wanting to hurt each others' feelings and not communicating properly as a result, Conor subtly shook his head. He knew straight away of something he was always holding back. The counsellor was encouraging them not to hold back and to share what was on their minds without sparing each others' feelings. It was directed to him to speak up first. Conor shrugged his shoulders, trying to think of something to say that wasn't what he needed to say. He ran his hand through his hair before sitting back and looking straight towards the opposite window. He couldn't get out of expressing his true thoughts. "I feel like it's always going to be hard to prove myself and for Ali to have faith in me, because right before we got together properly there was... There was Tommy. A fucking top guy - one of the best blokes you could know. It feels real shitty to hold even the tiniest bit of resentment towards him, like I'm disrespecting his memory. But Tommy was perfect - he would never have let Ali down like I did. That's what makes me feel like I can't get her to trust me again, because she likely thinks Tommy would never have broken his promises and they would have had a perfect life together. It really hurts to carry this in the back of my mind. To know that I should have been the one who died in his place and if I had, Ali would now be with a man far more decent than I am." Conor flung his head back against the sofa and gazed towards the ceiling to mask any tears that threatened to surface. "Fuck sake..." he muttered, convincing himself his words would upset Aliana more.

 

[Melanin-Gxdess]

Aliana Cartwright-Sullivan

Conor turning to her made her nervous, the feeling made evident by her playing with her fingers. She was looking at him as if she were going to lose him because of all the feelings they both had built up. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then she remembered the words Louise was saying, that nothing good was going to come out of this if they weren't honest with each other right now. But this was Conor's time to talk and she was going to let him do just that. There was clearly a lot of issues in their marriage, maybe even stemming from the beginning of their relationship. But again, that's why they were here right? The only fear Ali had was what was going to happen AFTER they got home from this first session? Louise seemed promising but Conor and Ali were known to hold grudges sometimes. The point of their counseling was to get better and not hold grudges but could the two of them do it? She was optimistic when they first came here so maybe she should keep that same energy.

There was something Conor was trying to get out and he seemed to struggle with it. Ali noticed it and she was sure their therapist did too. To show him support, she placed her hand on his knee. Even though she didn't feel like it, she gave him a small encouraging smile to help him out. She wanted him to be honest with her about everything that was going on in his life even if it was good or bad or ugly. She was his partner in crime and she wanted him to know that. But at the mention of Tommy, he smile faltered and she slowly removed her hand and placed them on her lap. Her brow twitched in confusion at why they were talking about Tommy as she felt herself growing anxious. If one were to be honest, Ali never really dealt with his death the same way she never dealt with Leo's. She cried and buried him, yes, but she never mourned properly. The night the news was broken to her, she had decided she was going to try things on with Tommy. In her own opinion, the story she started with Conor was over once Alex and Michelle re-entered his life. That was drama she didn't want to deal with and Tommy came without baggage. Tommy opened a new door for her, one that made her face the feelings she was having and understand why she felt so angry with Conor. But to hear him actually say it all hurt more than she could express. While he was looking up, she was looking down, her knuckles pressed against her mouth trying not to cry. Sniffling, she swallowed and let out a slight dry chuckle. "Huh... You felt that all these years?" It was rhetorical as she wasn't expecting a response and didn't really want one.
​

Dr. Louise Summers

The interaction between her patients was interesting, to say the least. She wanted more of a discussion to take place before she was able to really get a hold on how she was going to help them. However seeing Ali try and comfort Conor despite what came next was a good thing. It brought a slight smile to her face when she saw her rub his knee regardless of how she was feeling. It was a good sign that there was more than enough hope for this couple to fix things. Things took a turn when a new character, Tommy, was introduced. You would have to be incredibly dense not to see the color drain from Aliana's face when this man was mentioned. It was noteworthy as she wrote Tommy and starred it before looking up again. It bothered the wife, clearly so and by the tenses Conor was using this man was dead. She later deduced that there was a love triangle of sorts involved and that perhaps death made it easier to choose. What really stood out from this revelation was Conor's clear exhale from getting this off his chest. It was good that this was out as she would be able to help them get through something that had years to fester.

Ali had retorted, but not finished saying anything and probably needed the help. "Ali? I know that probably hurt to hear, but it's necessary so we can get to the root of the issues you two have. That goes for both of you, okay." She said turning to Conor. "You see, you guys have what I like to call an iceberg relationship. You might hear this iceberg thing with Freud or Hemingway and it all has the same meaning. You're dealing with, in your day to day the surface level stuff. Bills, jobs, kids et cetera. Then deeper down, the stuff that needs to be addressed aren't. Your feelings from the beginning of your relationship, your reservations about Tommy, the more meaningful things. Not addressing these things can lead to situation like what you find yourselves in today. So, if you need to just take a weekend and get everything about then so be it, but don't let it sit and fester." Her final sentence was more directed towards Ali as Conor had said his piece. Ali took a deep breath before finishing. "I do believe in you, I just have reservations. Every time I think something looks promising it- it gets taken away from me. It- it dies; they die!" Taking a pause to calm down, she looked at him. "Tommy... I chose Tommy because I didn't want to get in the way of you and Michelle and Alex.. I figured our chapter was done, that we were done and I wanted to give it a try and then he died. I never took that as you were the backup or what I got stuck with, I took it as fate that we were supposed to be together."​

 

[Misty Gray]

Conor Sullivan
~ Wednesday 15th September 1971 ~
~ Marriage Counselling ~
​

Conor listened as the counsellor spoke of an 'iceberg relationship'. He knew there were a lot of things deep down that affected their relationship, some of which were parts of each other's pasts that shaped them into the people they were even before they met each over. All of the unresolved events Dr. Parker had been working through with Conor for months. There was also the drama and trauma the married couple experienced as part of their mob ties - things they would never be able to discuss with the counsellor. Mob business was not to be discussed, no matter how confidential a counsellor might claim their sessions to be. At least Tommy was an issue they could openly talk about.

"I think a weekend to do that could be manageable..." Conor trailed off, trying to gauge how Aliana was now feeling about it all.

When his wife assured him she believed in him though had reservations, Conor sat forward and turned his head to look directly to her. With mention of 'them' dying, Conor reached out to gently rub the back of her hand reassuringly, knowing she meant both Tommy and her brother. He slowly nodded his head when she mentioned how Michelle and Alex being on the scene had made Tommy an even more appealing choice, which Conor honestly couldn't blame her for. When Alex had returned, Conor thought she had been what was missing in his life back in Dublin, but it turned out what he'd been lacking was their closure. Realising the spark was gone between him and Alex was all the closure he needed for that relationship. Michelle was the only real remaining link between Conor and Alex.

Conor nodded his head, believing that he wasn't the back-up. It didn't stop him from the feeling he was living in the shadow of a saint and that he could never be as good a man as Tommy was, but it did reassure him that he wasn't just with Aliana because she was stuck with him. "I guess Tommy and my brief re-acquaintance with Alex, were just a part of our journey - history - that we were meant to embark on until we were ready to be together properly," he reasoned. Before Tommy and before Alex's return, the relationship between Conor and Aliana had been purely a sexual one. It was a while before they started to open up to each other and explore a proper relationship together. "I just hope hope you can put your reservations aside... in time. I don't think I can ever be perfect, but I will do everything I can not to let you down."

 

[Melanin-Gxdess]

Aliana Cartwright-Sullivan

While it felt nice to get it off her chest, Aliana couldn't help but continue to look at the ground. Had their relationship been built on these hidden feelings and resentments? So many of their issues could have been avoided had they talked about it to begin with. Now, she wondered what else they were feeling towards each other that they weren't vocal about. The lack of communication scared her for their future but she was now aware that this was an issue that the two of them were going to have to work at. Eventually she did look up at Conor, a faltering smile appearing on her face. She wanted to badly to break down in tears, so much of the past working its way out. He was telling her how much he was going to make her proud, and she heard him but she was so focused on trying to contain the tears. She was hoping Louise wasn't picking up on this, but she most definitely was. However, Louise wasn't commenting on it for the time being. Taking a deeper breath to call her nerves, she placed her hand on his knee. "We can get through it. I believe in you and I'll do anything to get you to see that." Her voice broke, but regained its composure after speaking for a few minutes. Ali didn't know what else to say, so she looked to Louise for help, to which the doctor easily picked up on.


Dr. Louise Summers

Louise had long come to the conclusion that Aliana also needed therapy by herself. Conor was seeing one, though it was court mandated. But Aliana? She was going through things and wasn't talking to anyone about them and it was evident that she was doing so. It could definitely cause more issues in their relationship if she didn't let a lot of the things she was holding back go. But looking between the two of them, she had hope for them to get through everything they had gone through. "You guys, this is a great start." Closing her note book and sliding her pen inside, she placed it on the table beside her to talk directly with her patients. "We may not have gotten to the bottom of every single issue there is, but we've started to and that's what matters, right? So, until our next meeting, I recommend the two of you make a list you dislike about each other; whether it be something small like snoring or something big like making accusations, it doesn't matter write it down. On the flip side, do the opposite and when you come back we'll go over them. In the mean time, I would like the two of you to continue working on your open line of communication. Talk it all out okay?" She gave them a friendly smile and leaned back in her seat. "Anything else that was on the topic of what we discussed today?" She asked, looking between the two of them. Ali shook her head then looked to Conor. If she were being honest, she was suddenly tired and emotionally drained from the memories being dredged up that she really didn't want to talk anymore. "I think I'm good..."
​

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter and Conor Sullivan
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

It had been seven months since the Porters had fully settled into Dublin. With everything that had been going on in Chicago over the recent years, business in Ireland had been somewhat neglected, especially as the war between the Sullivans and Romanos intensified in America. Having left Chicago behind, James was tasked with getting business back into line in Dublin whilst Jack Sullivan continued to run things in New York. It had been hard work putting some of the rival gangs back in their places and in some cases it was an ongoing challenge, but one James felt equipped to deal with. His presence was known and unless people had been living under a rock for the last few months, they would know there was a new boss in town. The whisperings of his reputation following the assassination of the Romano Family in Chicago over a year ago certainly helped to cement James' power over the activities in Ireland.

The Sullivan Pub was busy, as always for a Friday evening. In the far corner of the room, James and two of his bodyguards were seated in the reserved booth with three other local men seated opposite him. Thankfully, the casual meeting was coming to an end as things in the pub were gradually becoming louder and more excitable. All of the men got up from their seats, with one of the men James had been doing business with approaching him and holding his hand out to shake the mob boss' hand. "Thank you, Mr. Porter. We appreciate the loan," Richard Duncan told him before glancing to his two his two cousins. His hand hovered, with James having not yet accepted the offer for a handshake.

"It's not official yet," James flatly informed him, his neutral expression and intimidating posture commanding the other man's respect. "We'll finalise the terms of the contract when I pay you a visit on Monday. Though you seem like a smart man and I am keen to see what you can do with The Archers," he said, knowing the business Richard wished to buy could prove profitable to him and not just the Duncans. James took a step closer to Richard and lowered his voice. "Just make sure you keep Vernon in line. I've already heard enough about the trouble he's been causing around here. Deal with him," he quietly ordered. He then stepped back and finally accepted Richard's handshake with a firm grip. Once he released Richard's hand, the three members of the Duncan Family left the pub. He wouldn't publicly admit to it, but it had been Richard's sob story about wanting to support his two kids that had helped James decide to loan him the money he needed.

James asked his two bodyguards to take a break, partly wishing for some breathing space but mostly because of the sensitivity of the next matter at hand. James approached the bar, stopping next to the opening that would give him access to head into the back office and cellar if needed. For now, he held back and caught the attention of the young barman, Miles. "Is Conor around?" James asked. Miles' eyes gave him away as they uncontrollably shifted in the direction of the back office. "I don't know. I mean..." The barman knew James had caught on already, but still stumbled over his words. "He is but he's kinda busy. Private business, he said," the man was quick to add. Miles was clearly in an awkward position, stuck between covering for his boss and not getting on the wrong side of the boss.

Knowing Miles couldn't help the situation, James permitted himself entry to the staff side of the bar, marching towards the door to the office. James knocked on the door, then slowly reached for the handle but it swung open before he had chance to do it himself. A pretty brunette in her early twenties stepped out, blushing as Conor followed behind her. "We'll finished up later, love. You're definitely on the shortlist," he clearly flirted. Once the busty woman had scurried out of the pub, Conor rolled his eyes at James. "Could have waited a bit, mate. I think I was on a promise there and I haven't even offered her the barmaid job yet."

James let out an exasperated sigh as he shook his head in disbelief. "It's one or the other, Conor. Employ her or fuck her, but not both, else you'll run this place into the ground." James leaned against the door-frame as they remained standing in the office doorway. "I get it, you went through a lot back in Chicago, but I need you to focus for a bit."

Conor chuckled as he reached for the pint he'd left on his desk and downed the rest of the beer. "It's Friday night, mate. All I'm focusing on now is having a good time."

"Can you make sure it doesn't involve the pigs this time? I pulled a lot of strings to get the cops to back off last night." James paused before changing the subject. "Right now, I need you to start pulling your weight more. Come see me at the house tomorrow and we'll discuss it properly," James firmly told his brother-in-law.

Conor looked at his watch before nodding his head in agreement. "I'll try to fit you in. But for now, loosen up a bit, would ya?" Conor patted James on the back before brushing passed him and heading into the main pub to check on how Miles was doing with the customers.

After taking a deep breath, James followed Conor out and hopped onto one of the bar stools on the customer side. "I'll have a Scotch," the mob boss requested from Miles, deciding to give in and have one drink. Maybe if he was patient Conor would relent and be more serious with him. If not, James figured he would at least get time to familiarise himself with the pub's regulars.

Enzyme

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

Jackson's trembling hands clasped against the pub's heavy wooden doors, shoving them open as if they were made of paper mache. A roar of laughter whisked into the club, along with the cool Dublin breeze. Jackson stumbled upon the shoulders of two other men, regulars at the pub. They shared the dying chuckles of a joke told on the way out of the cab, and there drunken wheezing soon led to a parched, raspy throat in desperate need of lubrication. "Oi, let's get that tab goin'. I got lotta' pints to blow through before te' end of the month!" Jackson chuckled, slapping the men on the shoulders. The two men who had accompanied him inside obliged, making their way to the bar.

The low stench of heavy liquor made it evident that the drinking had started long before the sun dipped behind Dublin's skyline, but that didn't discourage Jackson from poisoning himself further, as he was still rather cognitive. His unaltered perception, helped him lock Conor out of the corner of his eye, however, his more inebriated senses failed to recognize James beside him. As he made his way over to the table, a barmaid crossed his path. His leer was less than subtle, and while she gave him little more than a friendly smile, her pace didn't slow down in the slightest. Her quick getaway didn't stop Jackson from pulling a shot of whiskey off the platter she was carrying. Once he saw James at Conor's table, he felt a semblance of relief that he had swiped the glass, and before a second could pass, it was down the hatch.

"Oi! Conor mi' boy," Jackson chuckled, walking over to the table. Jackson nearly tripped over his own feet, quickly recovering on a support beam beside the stools. He naturally recovered, his smile returning instantaneously. "I hope you haven't started wit' out me, lad," Jackson joked, leaning over the bar. "James," Jackson acknowledged his current boss with a steady nod. While a solid interaction had yet to be made, he had heard stories - war stories rather. They resembled everything war stories were: stern, heroic, and so very generic. James appeared to ooze seriousness and looked incredibly lethal to the vibe Jackson was riding.

Rather than moving on, Jackson felt responsible to finally make conversation with James. With Conor there, it seemed that this would be as good a time as any. "How're we doin' then? I hope I haven't walked in on anythin' too serious," Jackson smiled.

"Some fuckin' pub this joint turned out to be inn'it?" Jackson asked, looking around at the patrons chattering and indulging themselves on the bottomless tap. "I hope you haven't gone and shagged the whole staff yet," Jackson muttered to Conor, looking to the waiting staff around the pub. "The bartender seems like he's got a little too much hair on his chest for ya' anyway."

Misty Gray

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter and Conor Sullivan
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

After helping himself to another pint, Conor left the area behind the bar and motioned the the nearby empty table for James to join him at. The customers had known to leave it empty, but even if they hadn't, a polite word in their ear from Conor or a simple glance from James would have got them to vacate the table without any fuss. James had been about to make another attempt at getting Conor to discuss business with him, but the pub doors opened as a few more familiar men entered the building. The Mob boss rested his eyes on Jackson for a short time before averting them towards his glass of whisky. Before the Porters left Chicago to run things in Dublin, Jackson had been managing the exports for the Sullivans. But beyond that, he'd been a good friend of Conor's for some time. Observing the man in that moment, it was easy for James to see why his brother-in-law got along so well with Jackson. "Evening, Jackson," James replied in a neutral tone. He could see the man had clearly been drinking already and expected that would do nothing to help him get a serious conversation out of Conor.

"Ahhh, Jackson. Am I glad to see you." Conor patted the tabletop with his open hand. "You get yourself a drink and sit your arse down at this table. It's Friday night and I won't be going home until someone has to carry me there."

"You live upstairs!" Miles called out from behind the bar.

"Yeah and you'll be helping me up them, you silly bastard!" Conor shouted back, chuckling along as he shook his head with amusement. Conor looked back to Jackson as his friend asked how he and James were doing. "Serious? Nah, nothing serious here, mate," Conor assured him. However, James' humourless expression seemed to contradict him. Any uncomfortable atmosphere didn't get chance to manifest itself as Conor laughed at his friend's comments about sleeping with the staff. "Nah, Miles isn't my type, but you're welcome to him. And I ain't had blondie over there - you know I don't really go for blondes. I interviewed a gorgeous brunette just before you got here, mind you. Jimbo here reckons I can't give her the job if I've got the hots for her."

James opted to ignore the conversation about the barmaids and sexual conquests. After taking a sip of Scotch, he cleared his throat and looked across to Jackson, remaining stern-faced as he did. "How has work been, Jackson? Anything I should be concerned about?" he asked the man. Shifting from managing exports to carrying out hits, Jackson's role within the mob was a significant one and so James figured it would be worthwhile getting a better handle on the man. He may have been Conor's friend for some time, but James wanted to form his own opinion of the man. So far he'd seen clearly why Jackson got along so well with Conor, but James wanted to know he took the business and his role seriously. "I've been here since the start of the year, but I imagine there's still a fair bit I need to discover about Dublin. How about you Jackson? I imagine you know the city like the back of your hand. Am I right?" he enquired.

Conor meanwhile took a long drink of his beer, if only to hide the grin from his face. James was in business-mode and Conor figured it would be harmful to publicly mock him for that. If the Boss wanted to talk business, then that's what would have to happen.

Enzyme

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

Conor didn't need to tell Jackson twice, as he immediately bobbed his finger up to Miles for a single pint. He slid his way down to the table beside the two, accompanied by a toothy smile. Before he could finish his inebriated chuckle, the pint was placed in front of him. His hands instinctively wrapped around the handle of the glass and he wasted no time in bringing the rim to his chapped lips. He let out a hearty laugh at Conor's offering of Miles, shaking his head and wiping the foam from his mouth in a drunken haze. "Blondes for me, lad. I thought you'd know that by now."

Conor mentioned James' disapproval of the attractive brunette, to which Jackson raised a curious brow. "Aw, what's the sense in that?" Jackson sat up in his chair, leaning into the table. "If you give her the job, you might just get one back ya' self," Jackson raised the pint to the innuendo, before slamming it down the hatch.

James wrung in the conversation like a cattleman before the table's atmosphere could get too rowdy, as if he understood that if he lost them now, there'd be no getting them back tonight. The question felt loaded enough for Jackson to rest the pint back down on the coaster. He rubbed his open palms together, pressing the tips of his finger to the hair growing below his lip. "It's been good," Jackson said confidently, reinforced by a firm nod. He assumed James was more interested in how the hit on Ricky Brennan turned out; the ex-porter bookie turned Jacksonville Crew horserace-fixer. The last Jackson remembered, Ricky was at the wrong end of Jackson's sawed-off double-barrel, laying in the middle of his office amidst strewn papers and his brains.

"Ol' Ricky Brennan on the other hand-." Jackson was cut off by the pub doors being thrown in. The perpetrator stood in the doorway, his teeth bared, and his cheeks stained red. "McCarthy!" Micah boomed, his stiff finger shooting out to Jackson across the pub. Jackson smiled over his shoulder softly, shifting out of his chair. "Micah, they let you off the track already?" Micah started towards Jackson, his pace quick and ruthless. "You did it, didn't you?" Micah stopped right before Jackson, towering over him at an astonishing 6'1. "He had you do it, didn't he? The Yankee fuck!" Micah shoved his finger accusingly towards James, bitter hatred in his eyes. Unbeknownst to Micah, the pub was full of Porter soldiers, who were beginning to stand up from their respective booths.

It didn't take a second glance to tell that Jackson was well on his way to becoming heavily intoxicated. While it could be observed by the way his feet held his weight or by the liquor lingering in his breath, most would assume by the time in the day. The sympathy in Jackson was switched off for the night, and all he held was a patronizing smile. "Aw, you Brennans sure like to dig your own graves, don't ye'?"

Micah's harsh expression broke, and it looked as if the waterworks were about to explode. "It was you then. You shot him in the back, Jack. You didn't even give him a fightin' chance." Micah's voice was laced with grief and disgust, looking at Jackson as if he were looking at the devil himself, or at least one of his many hands. "How'd you figure that? Put his head back together like a bloody puzzle?" Jackson smile cracked wide. With that, Micah's hand suddenly shot towards the inside of his coat pocket. Without hesitation, the soldiers pounced up from their seats and wrapped their arms around Micah. Jackson moved for his pint on the table and splashed the ice-cold lager in Micah's face. "Atta' boy!" Jackson roared.

The Porter soldier on Micah's left side removed the revolver Micah had tried to reach for, tossing it on James's table. "You were gonna' do me in, were ya? In front of all my mates?" Before Micah could respond, Jackson's knuckles smashed against the side of his jaw. The force sent Micah spiraling from the hold of the soldiers. He collapsed on the dirty floor, blood instantly running drown from the side of his mouth. Jackson brought the same fury down on Micah that the kid had dreamed of doing to the hitman. With his knees dug into Micah's side, hit after hit further broke the kid's face, to where even his own mother would have to squint just to recognize him. It was another fight in the ring for Jackson, with the crowd screaming, "Finish him, Casur! Fuckin' finish him!"

By the time Jackson relented, the only motion coming from Micah was a distinct twitch in his left leg. Jackson stood to his feet with blood dripping from his fingertips and a heavy chest recovering from the exertion. The Porter soldiers scooped Micah off the floor by his limp arms. "Go and tell your sister I was thinkin' about her again!" Jackson called after the poor kid, before the soldiers tossed him out the pub doors, onto the wet pavement outside. "Another round for everyone!" Jackson ordered, spinning his finger in the air. His request was met with a cheer from the crowd, breaking the prolonged silence.

Jackson slunk back into the booth with Conor and James, still struggling to catch his breath. He nodded as a waitress brought him a wet rag timidly. Jackson sweetly accepted the rag and wiped them around his knuckles. "I know this city like the back of my hand, alright," Jackson said, picking up the conversation where it left off as if nothing had happened. He showed the back of his hand, riddled with markings. "The scars probably match the streets too, I reckon," he chuckled.

Misty Gray

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter and Conor Sullivan
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

All of the talk about blondes had James thinking about his wife, Lucy, albeit in a more respectful way than how the others we discussing women. It had been almost 18 months since his wedding and even though there was still the dull, lingering pain in his hip from being shot that day, the ceremony felt like it was much longer ago. Everything had changed so much for James over the last two years. Now he had a wife, four adopted children, an actual family, and a new home in Dublin. As the Boss of the Irish Mob and the head of his family, James knew it was vital to make the right impression from the start; to show enemies and allies alike that he was in charge; a power not to be reckoned with. That also meant he couldn't let himself get dragged into the same drunken antics Conor and Jackson seemed to enjoy so much. Putting a downer on their enjoyment wasn't something he liked to do, but he had no choice but to show he was serious at all times.

"Ahh, she's getting it alright," Conor spoke of the woman he'd interviewed. Catching the glare James shot him, Conor grinned. "Getting the barmaid job, is what I meant! Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter," he teased his brother-in-law. James slowly shook his head, holding back from telling Jackson not to encourage Conor and preferring to change the subject instead.


Jackson took the hint and steered the conversation to the topic at hand - the hit on Ricky Brennan. James was about to express his appreciation for the task being carried out successfully when someone stormed into the pub. From the corner of his eyes, James could see a couple of his bodyguards rush out of their seats, but they stayed back as the newcomer addressed Jackson. James still struggled at times to let his soldiers step in on his behalf and as tempting as it was to fight back. However, he knew he had to ride it out to send out a message of power and he certainly couldn't do anything to incriminate himself - he wouldn't be able to run the business from behind bars. It soon came to light that it was Micah Brennan, the younger brother of the now dead Ricky. James remained in his seat, his eyes fixed on Micah but not breaking his gaze or flinching even when the man pointed at him and called him a 'Yankee fuck'. "You might want to walk out of here whilst you still can," James calmly suggested to Micah.

As Micah's hand moved towards his coat pocket, the soldiers pounced upon him. Conor also shot out of his seat ready to come to his friend's defence but James calmly held his arm out to stop him from moving forward. "You don't need to get involved, this time," James firmly told his brother-in-law, having already had to deal with cleaning up and falsifying alibis after Conor's last violent altercation, the night before. Micah's gun was removed from his pocket by one of the Porter guards who proceeded to dump the weapon on the table in front of James. The Porter boss looked down to the gun but didn't touch it, instead lifting his head to acknowledge Micah. "You fucking idiot," he hissed before Jackson set about kicking the shit out of the would-be gunman.

James' stern eyes fixed on the scene in front of him as Jackson repeatedly punched Micah in the face. Conor, meanwhile, downed the rest of his pint as he watched and when he removed the glass from in front of his face, he revealed an amused grin at watching his friend's show of strength. "Get the wanker!" Conor egged him on. Given that the man had been apparently intent on shooting Jackson, Conor spared no sympathy for the fool.

Once the violence was over and Micah had been thrown out of the pub, Jackson ordered another round of drinks for everyone. James beckoned the nearest bodyguard towards him and pointed to the revolver on the table in front. "Get rid of this, would you?" he asked, making an sure not to touch the gun at all himself. Conor patted Jackson on the shoulder, sending him a wide, friendly grin of approval of what he'd just done. James remained straight-faced, waiting until both Jackson and Conor were in their seats again.

After more drinks were placed on their table by Miles, James tapped the side of his glass as he sat pensively before speaking up. "Lads, I need you to stay out of trouble tonight," he told them, clearly making a point about them getting drunk. Luckily, Jackson returned the conversation to answering James' earlier question, thus avoiding some kind of lecture. "I would appreciate you sharing some of the knowledge you have of the streets that I might yet to be informed of." James cleared his throat. "So, the Jacksonville Crew. Are there any more of them I should be concerned about? Any other Ricky's that need extinguishing before they can cause trouble or step on my toes?" he asked. "I've been here a few months now and I've identified the main gangs - allies or not. I need to know if there's any others who might have slipped under the radar." He glanced to Conor as the man placed his pint glass down after taking another drink from it. "I'm going to need both of you to take it easy on the piss-ups and on getting your leg over for a while. I need us all to focus."

"Oh, come on, James. Why now? It's Friday night, mate..." Conor protested.

"Alright, but one more thing, if I'm going to have to keep saving your arse..." James told Conor, before turning to look at Jackson. "The pigs, Jackson. Do you know any information about the Gardai here that I might not have access to? With idiots like this one in the family," he began, lightly elbowing Conor's arm, "I can see me needing to have some contacts on the force to help pull some strings."

Enzyme

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy
~ Friday 10th November 1950 ~
~ The Sullivans Pub, Dublin ~​

Jackson shook the remaining blood from his knuckles, before sliding them between the opening of his jacket pocket. "Jacksonville is a bloody joke, they are," Jackson chuckled, removing a pack of Carroll cigarettes. "I tell you what. Put 'em in a ring wit' any of Dublin's top contenders. They wouldn't last a second." Jackson bit down on the butt of a cigarette, moving for the chrome zippo lighter he kept somewhere on his person. Jackson took a much-needed drag as James told them he'd need to know if any others had slipped under the radar. He blew the remaining smoke out of the corner of his mouth, as not to douse the two.

Jackson smiled at Conor as James made sure to lecture them in the importance of keeping out of trouble. As Conor went to protest, Jackson slung his arm over his friend's shoulder. "This lad here is a good Jesus lovin' bloke who has nothin' but the utmost respect for the law. So what if he can't help what happens to him a good six pints down the road? Only time will tell, aye?" Jackson chuckled, resting his raw knuckles on the side of Conor's chest. "Nothin' a few bills in a coppa's coat pocket that can't set the record straight." He slapped Conor on the chest before returning his hand to his drink.

Before the night could commence, James captured their attention once more. The question wasn't one that could be answered casually on the way out the door, so Jackson slumped back towards the backrest of the seat.

"Well, Gardai are a bit more community-driven in Dublin rather than the States, I reckon." Jackson took another drag of his cigarette, squinting in contemplation. "The more you put into the community, fundraisers, parades, the whole walk - the more they'll warm up to ya' and help ya' out." Jackson ashed the cigarette on the table, nodding his head lightly. "As of right now, you lot are a buncha' suited-up, entitled gangstas' from the US," Jackson shrugged, "We still gotta' show em that these suited-up ganstas' are the best they're gonna get." Jackson winked to James with a cheeky smile.

"Try sendin' someone down to the station and have 'em ask around. Last I heard, there was some gooseneck detective wit' an itchen' for some greenbacks. Maybe we can be the first to scratch it." With that, Jackson slapped the chair. "Now, I have a date with the bathroom floor, and if I'm not face down on it in the next..." Jackson checked his watch, "Two hours - the world might just slip out of balance."

Misty Gray

 

[Pyroclast]

Friday 19th November 1971
~ Porter-owned café in Queens ~​

Syd Porter

In the twelve years since Syd had joined the mob, he had been on more jobs than he could remember. Yet at no point in his career had he found himself desensitised to the violence that his life had become about, and while he considered it a necessity, it wasn’t easy to clear from his conscience. There were a few particular missions that had forever stuck in his mind: his very first job, which had gone badly wrong after an ambush resulted in a man dying to save his life; a trap set by Gideon in which he witnessed his father come close to death; now, his most recent mission. The day he had killed Stefano had been so heavy that, in his current mental state, he might have cast the murder to the dark depths of his mind where all his buried traumas lay - had it not been for Roxie’s constant presence. He had her to focus on, and the news of twins to lift his spirits. The problem was, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about what he had done at all. Not to her, nor anyone in the house that she now resided.

Now two weeks since it had happened, it had festered in his mind for so long that he had started to question whether he had really done it. Syd knew he had to talk about it soon, however hard it would be, and so when Jackson asked him for a catch-up, he couldn’t say no. Given that the man had played such an integral part of the rescue mission, the subject of that day was sure to come up in conversation. It would be his first time leaving the house since Roxie had come home, too, so he made sure that someone was free to keep her company before he left.

After his favourite local café had been soured by the memory of his kidnapping, Syd chose the nearest Porter-owned establishment and sat at a table in the corner, where he could have eyes on everyone in the room. Although he knew the staff would be armed, he would still have felt more secure with his own pistol on his belt. Until his parents deemed him stable enough, however, he would have to settle for the protection of the guards. Despite only being seated for a few minutes, the ashtray was beginning to fill up as Syd burned through the pack of cigarettes he had bought on his way to the café. He was on his fourth when Jackson walked through the door. Syd’s face lit up at the sight of him and stood to wave him over. Kicking his chair back, he rounded the table to embrace the man. “Hey, Jackson, it’s good to see you!” he said, trying to hide his relief behind a cheerful tone of voice. Now he could relax. “I’ve never actually come here to eat before, is that crazy? I’m supposed to be showing you around New York - turns out I know shite all about the food we serve in our own establishments. Your guess is as good as mine.” He sat down and took a drag from his cigarette before sliding the pack across the table. “Go on, or I’ll burn through them all without you.”

As Syd watched his Godfather, it struck him that this would be their first opportunity to actually spend some quality time together since Jackson had first arrived in New York. A faint smile crossed Syd’s face. He had missed him deeply. “So what’s going on with you, Jackson? Feels kinda weird to be out the house, right?” Despite his well-intentioned words, Syd forgot that it was only him that hadn’t gone outside in weeks. Still, he looked to the man with expectant eyes, subconsciously seeking reassurance.

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy
​

The sleek, black Toyota surfed through the sea of traffic to the cab stop, cutting off a bright yellow Taxi trying to pull in. The taxi's honks were accompanied by the bitter shouts from the pedestrians at the stop. Despite their hallowing, Jackson stepped out of the back of the Toyota into the rabid pack of angry New Yorkers. The sunglasses over his nose shaded his appearance, accompanied by a passive expression. He looked to the pedestrians with a blank stare, before turning to the driver. "Pull off, I'll walk back." He waved the man off with a tongue-in-cheek smile, before turning to the Cafe. As he moved for the Porter-owned establishment, the pedestrians didn't dare to follow him.

As he entered through the glass doors, his eyes scanned the heads at the tables. If I were Syd... He caught the kid in the corner of the room, opposite the wall with the tall display windows. Now, was that second-sighted instincts or unrelenting paranoia? Jackson walked up to the table with a wide smile, his fingers bending the arms of his sunglasses and tucking it into his heavy coat pocket. He returned Syd's embrace, patting him on the back firmly. "You too, lad. Good to see ya' out an' about." Jackson chuckled. Jackson stepped back, pulling on the edges of Syd's jacket to straighten the leather over his shoulders.

As the men sat, Jackson could see the muscles tense in Syd's pale face and his expression soften. His eyes still looked black and sunken, like they had looked during the sleepless weeks without Roxie. Even with her home, he looked as if he was still being kept up at night. His expression exuded stress, no matter how much his charismatic smile tried to play it off. Jackson raised a curious brow, but his thoughts were sidelined when Syd spoke up. He smiled on as Syd continued, shrugging. "Who'd wanna go to some borin' ol' family protected business on yer' own time? If you're not half-expectin' a gun in your face while you're eatin', then it's just a borin' lunchdate." Jackson chuckled.

He looked to the clear plastic menus on the table. As he scanned the list, a pack of cigarettes intruded on his page. He looked up to Syd, the pack was almost empty. "If you insist." He removed one of the sticks from the pack, clamping it on the brim of his lips. "Not really," he spoke truthfully as he lit the cigarette. "The family and I've been exploring New York quite a bit, actually. Who knows when Natasha will ever get the chance to experience a big American city again? So we're gettin' our money's worth." Jackson paused. "New York is a lot of things, good and bad, but one thing is certain," he took a deep drag of the cigarette, "It's one of a kind."

The aroma was off, like a piano just slightly out of tune. Jackson stopped to look at Syd with an inquisitive expression. Before another word could be uttered, a waitress appeared beside them. His forensic mind changed gears and he was wearing a smile once more. "I'll just take a coffee with two cream," Jackson said with a nod. After Syd gave his order, the waitress disappeared behind the counter.

The moment was shared in silence as if a nerve had been struck. Nothing out of the ordinary was said, but there was a silent acknowledgment, at least on Jackson's side. Apart from knowing Syd almost his whole life, Jackson wasn't an idiot. He could tell when Syd was genuinely at peace or just putting on an act. Roxie was home and safe, he was having twins, but there was something else stabbing him. "Ah, thank you," Jackson said to the waitress as she placed his coffee in front of him. "Y'know, I use to always take my coffee black. It was simple, it was easy, and at the end of the day - it did its job," Jackson spoke to Syd as he stirred the mug with the small spoon. "Then I decided I liked life," Jackson laughed softly, taking a sip from the piping coffee.

"What's goin' on in there?" Jackson asked, his eyes still on the coffee cup. "You got everything you could possibly want. You're home, you have your girl, you have two perfect kids on the way, and yet," Jackson's eyes finally flicked to Syd's. "There's something else eating away at you. What is it?" Jackson asked curiously, not pressing too hard in his tone. In the end, he just wanted to help elevate whatever was holding Syd to the ground.

Pyroclast

 

[Pyroclast]

Syd Porter

It was a wonder to Syd how his bond with Jackson had ever got so deep, given that the two men were starkly different. Always being the student, the son, he had never really learned the details of Jackson’s upbringing, or whatever it was that had made him seemingly resistant to the terrors and the violence and the grief that had caused so much damage to Syd. His Godfather had had a tough life, that much he understood, and yet, if there was a limit to how much he could take, he clearly hadn’t reached it. He called their lunch date boring like it was a compliment, and Syd took it as one; most of the time he was concerned that his loud, demanding presence drained the energy of all those that knew him, so the thought of having a simple, uneventful lunch was almost something to be proud of. Syd did his best to mirror the humour in the man’s smile, but in the end his gaze dropped and he picked up the menu instead. “Sometimes boring is good…”

His eyes appeared to browse the menu without properly reading it, only using it as a cover in case he wished to pretend not to have heard something Jackson said. But he didn’t mention the events of that day, only answered his small talk with his observations of the city. “New York was built for adults, man,” he said, keeping his eyes on the menu as he took another drag from his cigarette. “Can’t imagine what it looks like to a kid. I hope she only makes happy memories here.” Aware that his tone had grown slightly dark, Syd looked up to his Godfather with a sweet smile, making sure it reached up to his eyes.

The words on the menu seemed to jumble together and Syd stared blankly at it. He could feel Jackson's eyes on him, and swore he could hear the man form a number of observations in his head, observations that he didn’t want to hear. By the time the waitress came over, Syd gave up on the menu, having no idea what he had just read. “Just get me your biggest burger, with extra fries and a big fuck off lemonade. With plenty of ice.” He handed the menu to the waitress and then added a small, “Thanks.”

Part of him felt an urge to justify himself, but he figured his visible weight loss was enough of an explanation. After several months of self-neglect and deliberate starvation, Syd was desperate to hide the physical evidence of his deterioration. His image had already been sorely affected by his public breakdown and consequent suicide attempt and if there was any chance of repairing it, he needed to look healthy on the outside, too. So he didn’t say anything, and the pair soon fell into silence.

It probably wouldn’t have made him uncomfortable if he had managed to come up with more small talk, but he had bigger things on his mind - things he was reluctant to say aloud. What made it worse was that, from Jackson’s silence, he knew the man was thinking about the same thing. Syd wanted more than anything to come up with something lighter to talk about, but even if he did he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it, not with all the vivid memories swirling about his head. He could feel his anxiety rise into a physical sensation and tried to counteract it by sending a reassuring nod to Jackson - but then he couldn’t set his head still again, and the nodding soon developed into a slight rocking in his seat. The antipsychotics made it hard to keep still sometimes, and even a slight loss of control in movement made the anxiety worse. It was a vicious cycle.

The arrival of Jackson’s coffee was like a blessing and when Jackson started to talk about it Syd let out a small laugh of relief, grateful for the distraction. He wished he could add something to keep it going, but he came up short. And then Jackson finally asked. “In where?” Syd casually responded, but he knew exactly what he had meant. Of course, he wanted Jackson to understand him, and always took comfort in his wisdom and advice. He just wished there was a way of relaying the information without actually having to speak the words. “You always want to play therapist with me,” he muttered, scrambling to light another cigarette as though he had forgotten about the one already wedged between his lips. “Why do you always do that?”

Syd’s focus was stolen for a few seconds when he realised his mistake and took one last long drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. The smoke caught somewhere deep in his chest and made him cough, but he didn’t wait for it to fully pass before drawing from his next one. “I just think about dad, and Warren, and Gwen and Savvy,” he croaked, eyes watering slightly from the burning in his chest. “What Conor’s gonna do now, and - and Roxie, of course. I think about her a lot. Gotta look after her after...a-after what she went through.” Despite his attempt to justify what Jackson had noticed about his behaviour, his eyes were charged with anxiety and almost every detail of his body langauge betrayed him. Syd blew out an uneven exhale of smoke, struggling to relax as he stared at Jackson. “Is - i-isn’t that enough?”

So focused on articulating his sentence convincingly enough, Syd didn’t see the waitress coming and jumped when she placed his food down in front of him. He quietly thanked her, but stayed on his cigarette instead of digging in straight away. The scent of the greasy food made his stomach growl, but his hunger was easy to ignore when there was so much on his mind. His eyes bore into Jackson, part of him hoping to have convinced the man, and another, braver part of him hoping that he would bring up the murders so that he wouldn’t have to. The truth was, he wanted desperately to talk about it. But with every day that passed, it worked its way deeper and deeper into Syd’s mind until it required the strength of more than one man to haul it out and unpack it.

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy​

Syd seemed to hiss at the open question like a cornered stray cat. It was as if he was recoiling back into the dark - an ignorant comfort that was keeping him from spilling over the edge. With the light growing, and seemingly to his dismay, his composure was falling to pieces like rotting flesh. Jackson sipped his coffee with contempt as Syd unraveled his defense mechanism. A routine course of grief. Jackson watched as Syd stuffed his face with cigarettes as if he'd find some solace in the toxic nicotine. The excuses were valid; family members were dropping like flies, and the younger ones were losing their innocence to the cold, unrelenting city. Yet, what gave him away was how he rattled off the events; it was as if not even Syd believed what spewed from his mouth. "Who're you tryna' convince here, Syd? Me or yourself?" Jackson asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

"I play your therapist because that's my job, mate. Why have your parents pay for someone to care, when I'm right here?" Jackson shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "You can go to some shrink in a high-end office, who charges you a tuition an hour, who grew up gettin' everythin' he ever wanted on a silver platter to take care of your problems," Jackson admitted. "You can bleed your heart out for 'em, and they can ramble off some philosophical bullshit, but they can't help you." Jackson set down the coffee cup and clenched his cigarette in his knuckles.

"The reason for that is quite simple. They can't help you cause they've never killed a man."

Jackson nodded his head softly, reinforcing his words with a silent pause. "The eyes always give it away. Windows to the soul, they are. When you take a life, they change - it's only natural." With the attention drawn to the eyes, Jackson's eyes flickered to Syds, reflecting that of a feral dog - a predator. "You got 'em now too." Jackson's voice didn't boast any appraisal for his godson; it was said as a simple fact.

"And here you are," Jackson's raspy voice slowly pulled the blanket off of Syd - with nothing left to hide behind. Jackson's hand reached out and snatched the cigarette out from Syd's lips before he could burn another one down to the filter. "Destroyin' your voicebox tryna' bury a bottomless pain."

Pyroclast

 

[Pyroclast]

Syd Porter

It came as no surprise to hear Jackson question his roundabout answer - the man could read him like a book. Syd didn’t have time to come up with a defence before Jackson went on to explain why he was so attentive to his wellbeing. After his last counsellor had used him to such a devastating extent, forever damaging his trust, he couldn’t help but selfishly wish that Jackson had been there the whole time instead of staying behind in Dublin. Ever conscious of being a burden, Syd of course would never have asked for such attention outright, but if the man meant what he said then maybe having his Godfather around would have helped him enough that he would never have needed to seek counselling from Dr. Parker in the first place. But no amount of wishing or wondering could change what had happened now. Syd already felt indebted to Jackson for saving him from suicide, and ultimately he was glad that little Natasha was able to grow up in the same small Irish city that Syd had called home for so many years.

His train of thought had barely got going before it was brought to a halt by Jackson’s next words. There it was, laid out on the table: Syd had killed a man. Multiple men, in fact. So conflicted by Stefano’s murder in particular, he hadn’t stopped to count the others. The father of the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with; the grandfather of his unborn twins. The justification he had given Jackson before hadn’t quite been a lie, but Stefano was on his mind every minute of every day. All the power he had once boasted instantly drained from his body when Syd had shot him, rendering him nothing but an ordinary man. Just another corpse on the ground like all the rest, their blood collecting into one dark, expanding pool.

The pool kept on expanding, creeping up to the edges of Syd’s peripheral vision - until Jackson’s commanding gaze reclaimed his attention like a magnetic force and he realised his eyes had closed involuntarily. His Godfather had a mind to be straight with people and even though it was hard to be called out sometimes, Syd took it better from Jackson than most others in this life. The man was one of the most rational people he had ever known, and trusted that he would never say anything so serious unless there was a point to be taken from it.

He had the eyes of a killer.

Syd felt himself sink into the smoky haze he had cast around him, his hollow gaze piercing through it to fix onto Jackson. His trembling fingers squeezed a kink in his cigarette as he filled his lungs with nicotine like his life depended on it. Unsurprisingly, his Godfather caught onto that too, and Syd choked back a brittle cough when the man tore it from between his lips. Bottomless pain… He had fallen down that hole enough times. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever managed to completely crawl out of it. Still rocking lightly in his chair, Syd’s sombre eyes fell to the plate of food in front of him and he noticed that a small heap of ash had dropped into it where he had neglected to tap his cigarette into the ashtray. Without saying a word, Syd scooped it out with a finger, dabbing at the black smudges until it looked clean enough to ignore.

His thoughts continued to whirr as he began to feed fries into his mouth, no longer meeting Jackson’s eye. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, unsure of what to feel or how to respond. At least the food provided him with something to do while he processed it all over again. It was different now that someone else was in the conversation, rather than just battling through the complexity of it in the lonely, fragile depths of his mind.

“Are you gonna tell me I’m a different person now?” he asked between mouthfuls, his voice low and pensive. His eyes narrowed in thought but he still didn’t look up from his meal. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t know who that person’s supposed to be anymore anyway.” Although he was finally home with Roxie safe and two daughters on the way like Jackson had pointed out, Syd wasn’t quite sure how to repair his sense of self after the series of events that had pulled his mind apart. It was getting harder to tell what part of his true self remained, and what had been overwritten by his psychological illnesses and the medications he was on. “Doesn’t matter what side of this war you’re on - this life commands us to do...complex things. I always wondered when it’d be my turn. Mam and dad have done it, you, Uncle Conor, Uncle Peter. If I just treated my guns like a prop, I wouldn’t have made it this far, right?”

Syd paused to take a drink and finally glanced up to Jackson. For some reason it made his eyes sting. “It saved her,” he uttered, voice falling to a mere whisper. “Killing him saved her, but…” He shifted in his seat and his fingers twitched for a cigarette that he no longer held. “Then why do I feel so weird about it?” Clasping his hands together, he forgot about his food for a moment as he stared at Jackson, his eyes reddening at the edges as he tried to force back the oncoming tears. “Isn’t that enough? I-I saved her - isn’t that enough to p-put it behind me?”

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy​

The dam walls of Syd's mind had cracked and the paper-thin fallacies he'd used as a safeguard seemingly evaporated under the overwhelming pressure of his raw, real existential questions. The predicaments he was facing revolved around the very essence of his being, and who Syd Porter really was. No amount of white lies or red herrings could alleviate the stress brought on by what those inquiries posed. Through the trauma, it was as if he were blindly fumbling in the dark and the way Jackson saw it - if Syd was going to be pulled out of the abyss, he'd need to be forcefully dragged by his collar. It was an unpleasant process that'd undoubtedly leave Jackson's hands and wrists scarred from the defensive clawing, but it was a duty he'd attend to without hesitation.

As Syd's unanswered, near-rhetorical questions spilled out onto the table, Jackson leaned back in his chair, accompanied by the piping cup of coffee in his grasp. Jackson's eye cocked up to Syd as his desperate barks reached his side of the mahogany. In Syd's state, Jackson saw more of his raw self than ever before. Maybe not his grizzled, unaffected ego that appeared in his bathroom mirror more often than not, but instead his teenage years when his first murder kicked off the genesis of what would become a life of espionage and assassinations. The same look of self-reproach could be traced back to his own reflection, the racing thoughts of uncertainty that kept him awake on that cracked factory floor. He hadn't thought back to those repressed memories since his conversation with Conor on the duality of man. Now to return to it with Syd, the sight was all too familiar.

After Syd's final question rang out, Jackson looked up from his stirred cup. "When you pulled the trigger that night, Stefano wasn't the only one who died," Jackson started, taking another sip from his now lukewarm mug. "Taking a man's life is a double-edged sword, and you lost a piece of yourself right then and there, as I had decades ago." The topic was touchy, even for Jackson. Murder had become business, and to put more emphasis on the practice, was nothing more than a hindrance to the mind. Now, however, was a better time than ever to stare it in the face. With Jackson's own catechisms about his life, maybe this exploration would be beneficial to both of them.

"If you start searching for a higher purpose every time you hold your gun out, you'll go mad, Syd." Jackson leaned in on the table as if this ethical point had plagued his mind for centuries. "In this life you were born into, there is no black or white. We live in a very gray fuckin' world, you and I." He pointed to Syd, before his thumb darted back to himself. "There are two purposes for every action we do. It's for ourselves and for our family. Anyone else involved can get fucked. If you put even the slightest thought into it that'll make you hesitate, then your goose is cooked." Jackson jabbed the table with his index finger, solidifying every point with a stabbing motion. "It's not the best life to live, but we don't really get a choice do we?"

After Jackson's tangent, he leaned back in an exhausted manner, his steady fingers finding the hand of the coffee cup. He took an extensive sip, as if he were taking the drag from a cigarette. "You can't be afraid to fight back against those who want you in a shallow ditch. You have too many people in your life who depend on you." Jackson shook his head, his gaze not breaking from Syd's. "You'll be the king of this place one day, and many people will look to you for guidance. I believe in you more than anything, because I see my young, shaky self sitting in your seat right now." He placed the cup back down on the table, his eyeline breaking from Syd momentarily, "and I'm the most capable bloke I know," Jackson said with absolute certainty.

Pyroclast

 

[Pyroclast]

Syd Porter

Bearing the weight of his actions alone had really taken a toll on him. The only reason the internal conflict hadn’t escalated into a breakdown was because he knew that Roxie needed him, and he wanted to be there for her far more than he wanted to address the doubts festering in his mind. But now that he was sitting down with Jackson, a man who actively wanted to help guide him through the emotional aftermath of taking a life, Syd finally felt that he was allowed to let his guard down. His Godfather had, with patience, begun to delicately tease his thoughts and feelings out of him, and now that the door had been opened Syd felt compelled to let him in.

While Jackson’s honest insight into how committing murder changes a person came as no surprise, it still sent a uncomfortable flutter of anxiety through his chest. Syd looked at the man as he listened, taking in the details of his face, the look in his eyes, the way he sat. He had an intimidating aura, that much was unmistakable - but from Syd’s perspective, as somebody who loved him, it only made him look respectable and wise. Maybe he had the eyes of a killer, but it was somebody would kill for him. Somebody with a lifetime of experience on his belt who knew what to do even in the worst of situations. However dangerous he may seem, Syd could never be afraid of that face.

A faint chuckle escaped him when Jackson suggested he would go mad if he took every act of violence to heart. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to have been a joke, but considering his recent admission into hospital, he certainly felt like it was a little too late to warn him against losing his mind. Nevertheless, he did understand where he was coming from, especially when he spoke of the morally grey world that they lived in. It reminded him of a conversation he had recently had with Savannah after finding out that she had also killed somebody that same night. “No, I know, you’re right,” he nodded. “I’d never do anything that’d put our family at risk. No more counsellors.” Another mirthless smile crossed his face. “It’s us against the world. That’s why I didn’t hesitate to kill him.” Casting a quick glance around the room, Syd lowered his voice. “It’s not that I’m afraid to fight back...or, I don’t know, maybe a part of me is...but I have to do it. I have to. I don’t care how it’ll affect me afterwards, all I care about is keeping everyone and everything on our territory safe. I live to protect them. I just don’t know how to deal with the fuckin’...” Guilt? Shame? As he struggled to articulate himself, Syd passed a hand over his eyes briefly before giving up and dropping his shoulders with a sigh. “It’s just traumatic. There’s no other word.”

The look he gave Jackson softened when the man reminded him that there were people who depended on him and that he would someday rule their empire. Syd didn’t know about that, but he hoped that the obstacles he was currently facing wouldn’t still be there in the future. It meant a great deal that his Godfather had such confidence in him, because the days when he believed in himself were exceedingly rare. The conviction with which he spoke even satisfied Syd’s desire to feel needed, though he couldn’t be sure how long it would stay be until his doubts and insecurities crept back to the forefront of his mind.

“I don’t get how you do it, Jackson,” he softly replied, shaking his head. “Don’t you ever get scared that something bad’s about to happen? Isn’t your head full of...images and memories of things you wish you could forget? You said you see yourself in me, but look at yourself. Now look at me.” Syd bit down on his lip and raised his eyes to meet Jackson’s. There was a burning sensation in his throat that he could no longer blame on the cigarettes and tears had started to sting at his eyes. “All this, this constant pain, you know, Savannah’s kidnapping and Gwen’s overdose and Ryan and Warren...everything with Maddox and at the hospital, and then nearly losing Roxie and the twins...”

Syd’s voice fell to a silence and he cleared his throat to try to overcome the emotional reaction he was having. The list was so long and hearing it all against each other only highlighted the extremity of what the family had been through. Since he could no longer speak, his gaze dropped to the table and he began straightening everything in front of him for want of a distraction. It was all still fresh and so overwhelming that he couldn't talk about it without getting upset. He could feel his temperature rising and started to tremble in his seat, a couple of tears spilling over despite his straining to keep them at bay. Although Jackson was making efforts to create a comfortable environment for him to speak in, Syd knew the conversation would be more productive if he didn’t start to spiral so he had to be careful in the way he opened up. Being honest was useful when the listener wanted to help, but given that he spent the past two weeks trying to repress it, he was already at risk of breaking down.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, quickly reaching up to pinch the tears from his eyes. “You are a capable guy, but I can’t imagine being able to deal with all of this like you do. I mean, you don’t just bury it and forget about it, you are aware of it. And you’re not a sociopath, I know you’re conscious of feelings and empathy ‘cause, you know, you’re here right now talking to me. So what’s the secret? How did you get from this fucking mess -” he gestured towards himself. “- to the capable man you are now? Where do you put all your trauma? How do you process it and not let it tear you apart?” Syd leaned back in his seat, his troubled eyes fixed on Jackson as he chewed on his lip. “I have no idea what part of myself I lost that day, but I’m not so sure it’s the same thing you lost.”

 

[Enzyme]

Jackson McCarthy​

Jackson reclined back in the wooden chair as he contemplated Syd's questions. Syd seemed to idolize Jackson's ability to shed the life-altering trauma as if it were a secret someone would try and sell on the editorials. Jackson's hands scanned to the pack of cigarettes to pull one out for himself. He was aware of the point he had made earlier about using the cigarettes as an escape, but now was a time he could use one. He took a moment to think solemnly about how he processed murder these days. He had seen a lot of carnage in his years and known a lot of people who've committed heinous acts. Some dulled their thoughts with pills, most used a bottle - then there were the few who reveled in murder and the ability to overpower another individual and take what was most precious to them. Where Jackson sat was somewhere completely off the spectrum. He went to open his mouth, but no words escaped. His hand soon shut the gaping hole as he stroked his chin in contemplation.

"To be entirely honest with you, mate, it did," Jackson slowly drew out, before sharply nodding his head. "It did for a while." Jackson scratched his chin, looking up to the corner of the ceiling as if it were showing a flashback reel of his old memories. His eyes snapped back down to Syd, his moment of silent fading as suddenly as it had arrived. "I stopped thinking about it the way I did," Jackson admitted.

"Whenever I escaped a gunfight or managed to fire the first shot, I'd spend the rest of the night awake in bed. 'If I hadn't pulled it when I did. Suppose I had just been a second too late. I got lucky. I got lucky. He should still be here, and it could be me instead." Jackson repeated all the haunting words he'd repeatedly torture himself with over and over.

"Truth is, Syd. The world isn't like that," Jackson shook his head, it was a lesson he learned from early on, and it eventually helped him rediscover himself. In that instant, he remembered the words of his late caretaker.

"Syd," Jackson began, trying to recite the same words he had been told decades ago. "Luck... None of this is luck, lad. Luck is whether you scratch the right lottery card or wander out onto the crosswalk when someone's running the light - luck is winning or losing," Jackson said firmly, pointing the cigarette to Syd. "In our world, luck doesn't exist. Out here, you either survive or you surrender, and your strength determines that" Jackson pressed his index finger into Syd's shirt, right where his heart would lie. "Your spirit." Jackson turned his head, allowing his words to sink because that was the absolute truth that he held close to his chest every day.

"In the wild, wolves don't kill unlucky deer, they kill weak ones. Look at you." Jackson steel eyes settled on Syd, looking past the anxious shaking and the stained cheeks, to Syd's eyes resting in their sockets. "You're not even close to a bloody deer."

Pyroclast

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter
~ Sunday 14th November 1971 ~
~ Porter Mansion ~​

It had been nine days since Warren's death and also since James had stepped down from leading the family business. Despite the years of stress and loss he'd experienced whilst running the Irish Mob, it was difficult adapting to his new lifestyle. James hadn't known a life where he wasn't fighting for survival or having so many people depend on him. He knew he needed the rest, but in a time where he was still grieving over Warren's death and dreading the upcoming funeral. James felt like he needed as many distractions as he could get.

Conscious spending more time at home and eating proper, hearty meals was going to render him out of shape, James had forced himself to get out of bed at 5am and proceed to have his usual jog, albeit the jog was around his large garden rather than out onto the streets and around the nearby park. Given the bomb in his office had been intended for him, not Warren, James knew he had to continue to lay low for the time-being. Once his jog was done, he took himself to the gym in the mansion's basement. He was expecting Syd to join him shortly, but in the meantime he set about doing some of his more intense body weight exercises until his son joined him. In the same day he'd lost his brother and handed his critical responsibilities to Conor, there had also been joy to take from the day. Not only did Syd and Roxie make it home safely, but they found out they were expecting twins. James was sure once he'd got used to his calmer and more peaceful life, he'd be kept so busy with things normal families did together that he'd stop looking back on the level of mob life he'd always known.

Hearing the basement door creak open, James hopped down from his elevated position on the climbing frame he'd been using to complete a set of pull-ups. He reached for his towel and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck as he waited for Syd to approach him. James clenched the fist of his right arm a few times, only now feeling the dull ache in his arm. It had been well over a decade since he'd had his arm broken and been hospitalised after his encounter with Gideon Burnell. Every so often, the dormant pain showed itself, but James always chose to exercise through it rather than let the old wound hinder his fitness. For the most part, it remained another scar with a story, to join the library of history that had been unwillingly etched into his body.

"Syd, mate. How's it going?" James asked his son, tossing the towel aside and grabbing his vest so he could put it back on. "I can smell cooking upstairs, so I only assume your mum is in the process of spoiling Roxie. Which is also why you need to be exercising with me down here - your mum will fatten you up, otherwise." James managed to smile and be light with his son, despite the grief still weighing him down.

Pyroclast

 

[Pyroclast]

Sunday 14th November 1971
~ Porter Mansion ~​

Syd Porter

Although he had been looking forward to training with his father again, Syd would be lying if he said it wasn’t hard to summon the energy for it so early in the morning. He had always been a natural early riser, preferring to let the sunlight wake him up at 4 or 5 o’ clock in the morning rather than using alarms. However, with the physical effects of his depression, the drowsy effects of his medications and the night terrors and nightmares interrupting his sleep, the early mornings weren’t so productive as they once had been. Still, after everything that had happened, Syd was keen to bond with James. With one hand on the door handle to the basement, he let out what he hoped would be his last yawn before making his way down the steps.

“Morning, dad,” he smiled. “Mmm, we could just skip training and go and be spoiled, too…” It was good to see his father smile. The emotional impact of Warren’s death was still raw and the weight of it was hard to bear on top of everything else. There was some comfort in going through it as a family, everyone looking out for each other and becoming extra conscious of each other’s wellbeing. It allowed for weakness, and similarly summoned strength. Ultimately that was what made it possible for Syd to laugh at James’ suggestion of him getting fat from Lucy’s cooking. “She says I need it,” he shrugged, as he made a start on his stretches. Over the last four months, Syd had lost a noticeable amount of weight. The emotional distress he had faced had severely affected his appetite, and his refusal to eat what he believed to be poisoned food at the hospital had only weakened him further. It was only now that Roxie was home that he was beginning to ease back into his normal portion sizes and routines. “I’m not nearly the size I used to be,” he went on, almost embarrassed to say it aloud even though he knew everyone was aware of it. “But you’re right - if I’m gonna put the weight back on, I gotta put the muscle back on, too!”

Syd straightened up and relaxed his muscles, feeling limber and ready. “Besides, now that you’re not the big boss anymore, you’ll be wanting more to fill your time with.” He moved over to where James stood and rested his weight against one of the climbing frames. “I want you to make me so big and so strong that I can lift both my daughters over my head at the same time, with just one arm!” As soon as the words left him, Syd tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in wonder, realising that he hadn’t actually considered how that would physically work. “Or...something like that. Mostly, I just wanna spend time with you. We don’t do that so much anymore, do we?” Syd reached out and squeezed James’ shoulder. “I know you prefer to focus on being productive than dwell on all the shite that happens - I wish I could be more like you in that way - but I want you know that I’m ready to help you in any way I can. We’re both grown men, dad. If you wanna talk about him, we can talk about him. If you wanna stay busy, I’ll keep you busy - shit, I’ve got double the baby furniture to build! Gonna need the extra muscle. Just let me know, yeah?” His intention wasn’t just to repair all the damage their relationship had suffered over the summer, but also for the impact that Warren’s death had had. James always preferred to act like he was fine when he wasn’t, so Syd had had to learn for himself how to read between the lines. Even if his father would never admit it, he knew the man needed support and company and so he wanted to put in the effort to at least make the pain of grief more bearable, no matter what it took.

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter
~ Sunday 14th November 1971 ~
~ Porter Mansion ~​

"Well, I guess we have a plan right here ready, don't we? Lucky for you your parents are perfectly balanced. Your mother will feed you up and I'll help you turn it into muscle," James concluded. In seriousness, he was fully aware of how much weight Syd had lost and it felt all too familiar to the times he'd seen Sinead wasting away in her depression. Things for Syd were moving back on track so James was determined to keep him on that path. Granted, it meant he'd prefer Syd and Roxie remained at the mansion until after the babies were born, but he'd cross that bridge if it became an issue where they did want their own space again. "You're skinnier than Thomas, mate. I reckon he'd give you a run for your money right now , so you've best get to work."

Steering the attention from himself hadn't worked out too successfully as Syd finished warming up but continue to speak rather than work out. "Fuckin' hell, Syd. How big's your hand if you're planning on lifting two kids up in it?" he drily remarked. James was about to reach for a pair of dumbbells to force into Syd's hands, but instead he remained on the spot as his son seemed to be pressing for some kind of a heart-to-heart - something James tended to back away from.

It wasn't that James didn't want to spend time with Syd, but he'd found himself being careful not to burden his son with his own worries and risk spoiling the positivity Syd had in his life to focus on. The hand on James' shoulder made it difficult to keep up the barrier. Usually he saved the emotional and deep conversations for Lucy, so he could keep up a strong and confident front for the rest of the family. With his reduced responsibilities in the business, he supposed it was more acceptable to share his feelings. "You're right, we haven't spent much time together over the last few months. I can certainly help you build up the furniture."

James quickly nodded his head, unable to ignore the fact Syd had mentioned "him" in reference to Warren. He sat on the end of the nearest exercise bench, apparently breaking off from his workout for the time-being. He looked to Syd and shook his head. "He was a year younger than you and like you, he still had a whole lifetime left to live. I've lived about 30 years longer than a lot of people - myself included - ever expected. After all of the terrible things I've done and the people I've hurt, it just doesn't feel right that I'm the one still here when Warren is gone. I might have kept the business going for twenty-odd years, but I haven't done so well at preventing the deaths of those we've lost." James leaned forward, folding his arms on his lap as he diverted his eyes to the ground. "I should have done better, Syd. For you, for Warren. Gwen and Eli..." he trailed off. "Your Grandma Rayna and her lot were meant to be coming over for Christmas," he admitted, referring to his mother, stepfather and half-siblings. "Don't think I'll see any of them again now. Warren's dad made that perfectly clear," he trailed off, remembering how angry Ethan* had been during a heated phonecall a few days ago. James lifted his head and looked to Syd. "I fucking hate dwelling, but it's hard not to feel this way when the list of failures towards my loved ones stacks up. I've got a lot more time on my hands now and that means I've got a lot of catching up... making up to do. Starting with you, mate. I'm eternally grateful for what Jackson has done for you since the minute he arrived in New York, but things shouldn't have gone that way and I should have been the one there for you, from the start."



*Ethan Taylor. Not the nasty butcher fella.

 

[Pyroclast]

Sunday 14th November 1971
~ Porter Mansion ~​

Syd Porter

If he was being honest with himself, Syd hadn’t been expecting his father to want to open up to him about Warren. At least not straight away. Not only was it rare for him to let anything interrupt his focus while working out, but he also tended to keep his deeper feelings to himself. Being a more sensitive type, Syd wore his heart on his sleeve and was therefore used to sharing his feelings - but even he found the confrontational aspect uncomfortable a lot of the time. Although it was usually Lucy or one of his aunts that he went to for emotional support, James had been there for Syd plenty of times when he had needed him and so when he sat down on the bench it felt like a role reversal. Still, in this rare personal moment, Syd was determined to take his chance at giving back the support that his father had given him.

Leaning against the climbing frame, he studied his father’s body language as he spoke. Despite seeing the energy he exerted in the gym, it was clear that Warren’s death was weighing heavily on him. The lacklustre tone of voice concerned Syd. It wasn’t surprising, but it still wasn’t easy to see his father so down - or hear his regret for being alive when so many others weren’t. “Survivor’s guilt,” Syd nodded. “I get that, too. One of my counsellors explained it to me once. You’re choosing to feel guilty because it’s like a way to explain the helplessness - only, it’s not guilt, because you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re not a coward, you’re not selfish, and you’d never force anyone to put themselves in harm’s way. Just because you were the boss for all those years, doesn’t make you responsible for what happened to everyone. You never forced anyone into this life, dad. We all know the risks of this business and we’re here because we want to be. The only ones who deserve to feel guilty are the bastards who did this to him.”

When James leaned down and gazed at the ground between his feet, Syd pushed himself off the climbing frame and came to sit beside him. It saddened him to hear that he felt responsible for what had happened to him, Warren, Gwen and Eli. It was a feeling that was very familiar to Syd, after the danger he had left his family in when he wound up in hospital. Several times he wanted to interrupt his father, but in the end he thought it best to let him get everything off his chest.

“Dad…” He let out a soft sigh, James’ melancholic expression mirrored by his own. “Look, I know I don’t really remember much from that time, but I do know I didn’t make it easy for you. Even when I think back to it now, I still don’t know what would’ve helped me. Maybe there was nothing you could have done. Besides, I pretty much antagonised you - nearly killed you with a stone dog, remember?” He gave James a light nudge with his knee, finding it hard to believe that he would ever have tried to hurt his biggest hero.

“Same for Eli...It pains me to say it, ‘cause I know what it’s like to be locked up, but...I don’t think he ever belonged out here, dad. Maybe you can accommodate a person’s illness, but only to an extent. I hated it in that hospital, both times, more than anything, but...you know, I couldn’t cope in the real world. It wasn’t safe for me to have access to normal things. I know it’s not the same thing with him, but...I mean, in some ways, it is.” Syd cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the floor ahead of them so that he could concentrate on what he wanted to say. “The point I’m trying to make here, dad, is that it’s not your fault if you can’t fix everyone’s problems. Some things are just out of our hands. We’re left to spend the rest of our lives wondering if there’s anything we could have done differently, feeling guilty about how things turned out. But you are not the kind of man who gives up on people. If something goes wrong, it’s not for a lack of effort on your part. You’re the best dad I could have ever hoped for, and nothing that ever happened to me is your fault. Eli and Warren were lucky to call you their brother, as is Gwen. And it's not too late to help her - there’s still more you can do, and I know you’re gonna do it.”

Syd looked up at his father and placed a hand on his back. “Dad, if loss has taught me anything, it’s that death doesn’t discriminate. I really think we’ve gotta let go of this concept of deserving to be alive, you know? We’re just alive because circumstances allowed it. At this point, haven’t we all cheated death at least once? You, me, mam, Sinead, Savvy, Peter...I could list pretty much everyone in the mob. So many times we could have died, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still belong here.” There was a slight pause as Syd tried to gauge whether or not his words were having an effect on his father. “Dad...It’s not your fault he’s gone.”

 

[Misty Gray]

James Porter
~ Sunday 14th November 1971 ~
~ Porter Mansion ~​

James shook his head when Syd suggested what he was feeling was survivor's guilty, but that motion soon turned into nodding as he knew he couldn't deny what his son was saying made sense. It was true that he hadn't forced anyone into the criminal lifestyle and that he'd tried to be a fair leader to his employees. "Yeah, that makes sense and I know you're right. I didn't force anyone to do this, but I just wish I could still have done more to ensure their safety... Warren wanted to do this and I tried to talk him out of it enough times, but in the end, he was a grown man and pretty much the same age I was when I took over the business," he began to reason. "I guess it's just knowing how it really was meant to be me and how his dad will never see reason on this."

James faintly smiled at mention of Syd throwing the ornament at him during their argument a few months back. "Ah, yeah. That was a bit close for comfort, that one," he lightly told him, showing there was no resentment for what had happened. "You're right, though. Eli is out of my hands now, but I can still try help Gwen, especially now I have more time to focus on the family rather than the business."

As Syd spoke of how death didn't discriminate, James closed his eyes, thinking of those in their family had cheated death in the past. "Yeah, I know, mate. I know it's not my fault. I think I'm just... I think once we've had the funeral, I'll be able to clear my head. I guess normally I have so much to distract me but now I just have too much time to think," he admitted. He looked Syd in the eyes. "But you are right. It's not my fault."

James sat up straight and let out a heavy breath. "How are you holding up? Are you and Roxie good?" he asked, considering what had happened to Stefano. "Are you feeling ready for those two little babies to come along? I mean, you had some practice looking out for Thomas, but that wasn't full time and you're getting double the trouble," he teased Syd, hoping to lighten the mood.

 

[Pyroclast]

Sunday 14th November 1971
~ Porter Mansion ~​

Syd Porter

The idea of having to live with the knowledge that Warren had died in his place was deeply upsetting. The only experience Syd had to compare it to was when James’ old friend Alan had thrown himself over him to protect him from a shower of bullets and giving his life in the process. It had been a life-changing moment for him, especially since it had happened on his first job, and had left him with an unresolved case of survivor's guilt - but he didn’t believe it was in the same league as what his father was now experiencing. Warren hadn’t died a heroic death; the enemy hadn’t even wanted to kill him. On top of that, now James’ family back in Italy apparently didn’t want anything to do with him. Syd didn’t know them all that well, especially not Warren’s dad, but he hoped that Rayna would come around eventually, if no one else.

At least James accepted that it wasn’t his fault. Despite the heavy conversation, Syd sent his father a warm smile. “We’ll throw him a big goodbye party,” he agreed. “Give him the best send off he could’ve hoped for. He was a great guy, there’s a lot about him that we can celebrate. After that, yeah...We’ll focus on other things.” Talking about grief always made Syd conscious of how seriously other people would take his advice after he had taken Skye’s death so hard. He was no good example of how to get over a significant loss - the wedding ring had stayed on his finger ever since and until meeting Roxie he had never even come close to dating anyone. Unlike with Warren, Skye’s death had been expected and natural, and yet had triggered such emotional distress that Syd wasn’t sure he would ever be able to live without medication again. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for James to move on from Warren’s misdirected murder.

Considering how strong James had been for Syd for the past few months, he was relieved that he had managed to get him to open up and be so honest about how he was doing. Syd had always hated emotional conversations when he was younger, finding them awkward, embarrassing and difficult to navigate, but over the years he had lost almost all of his inhibitions. Now it was him having to make the effort to get others to lose theirs. Satisfied that he had successfully got through to his father, he was happy to move on when asked about how things were going with Roxie.

“Yeah, we’re alright,” he smiled. “I mean, we’re just trying to look ahead, I think. We haven’t talked much about it, but I guess she wants it that way. At least for now.” Syd gave a small shrug and bit down on his lip for a moment. He and Roxie hadn’t spoken about Stefano, but it had been on his mind almost constantly since, and he was sure it had been on hers, too. It was tense, but he just wanted to do everything he could to make her feel settled at his parents’ house. “Thanks for letting us both stay with you. Just say if you want us gone, and I’ll move us back to my place.” Syd knew his parents had been very firm on not letting him go since he was still on suicide watch - but he hoped that with everything that Roxie was going through, they would have turned their concern over to her and become more lenient about his own recovery. Besides, he wasn’t sure if they both needed some space to grieve.

“Almost!” he smiled, getting to his feet and stretching his arms up above his head. Syd started looking around the room, wondering where to begin with training. His eyes lingered on the rack of dumbbells, but in the end he was too softened by imagining life with his newborn daughters to want to start lifting anything just yet. “I was working on the nursery before everything, but I haven’t gone back to it yet. I’ve read some books on parenting, but I don’t know if it’s all gone in. I’m not good at remembering a lot of stuff right now…” He paused. “I’m a bit, uh...you know, because of how I’ve been, I’m a bit...worried that they’ll see stuff. That I won’t be able to protect them from myself, if I get bad again, I mean. I think I’m getting better now, but you never know how long I’ll stay that way.” His smile had faded and he came back to sit on the bench again, for now giving up on the idea of training. “And, uh…you know I still have to lock myself in my room at night because of the night terrors, so I don’t know if that’s gonna affect them, like…I keep having these recurring nightmares where they scream when they see me, or I find out I’ve hurt them, o-or worse. Is that...is that normal for a parent to dream that shit about their kids? I just really don’t want to mess them up, you know?” He looked anxiously towards his father, his surfacing doubt bringing with it a million questions to ask. Throughout all his anxiety, however, imagining their perfect tiny faces always warmed his heart. “I just want them to be here already, dad...I think about them all day…” He gave a heavy sigh, though it was hard to tell whether it was from love or nerves. “With them on the way, the future really looks good now. Babies have gotta make everything better, right? What sort of parent do you think I’ll be? Do you think I’m ready?”