Chapter Text
–[Chapter One]–
Soft, deliberate steps padded against the hard cobble streets of 1899 New York City.
Tugging his brimmed cap snugly over his face, a young man crept among the dying candlelight of the midnight hours. His skin was tanned from hard days on the street, clothed in simple, dark rags. Glancing ahead, his grim, bluish-gray eyes flitted back and forth. His face was sharp and held an air of unrest. Though youthful, it retained hints of experience, wisdom that stretched far beyond his years.
The streetlights cast long dark phantoms along the walls. He slipped from shadow to shadow, clutching an object to his ribs, knuckles white with strain. Its metal glinted in the skittish light.
Sprinting the short gap between the buildings, his form disappeared into the darkened opening of the next alley.
—
Jack Kelly’s nose wrinkled as he entered, the wall of stench hitting him like a brick.
His years of experience should have made him resistant to it, but the overwhelming musk of rat filth and rotting food still made his eyes water. Short, anxious breaths pushed through his mouth, but he remained horribly aware of the smell.
The city buzzed persistently, even at night, like a fly in his ear, drowning out his thoughts. If only he could stamp it out just the same.
Gaze flickering about anxiously, he heeded the window-lined walls which stretched high above, looming over the narrow street. As he crept silently toward the yawning mouth of the alleyway.
The hot, humid air of late July summoned slick perspiration from his forehead as his head peered out from between the buildings.
Lines of oil lamps spread far into the dark, foggy horizon on either side. The moon shone dim and resigned behind the grey pollution-stained clouds overhead, and night took most every building on the street into its vast grasp.
Except one.
Directly across from Jack, looming up in the vaporous cloak of the midnight sky, stood a massive Goliath among the minuscule residential buildings bowing at its feet. The Refuge.
His lip instinctively curled in disgust at the sight, but he slinked forward.
He was clad in a black shirt, pants, and the darkest cap he owned, picked specifically for this mission. Like any trip to the Refuge. But this wasn't just any trip to the Refuge.
Wincing, as the memory of Crutchie's blood splotching the pavement seared through his thoughts. His cries as his helpless, writhing body was dragged across the ground by Snyder and his goons.
His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes to steady himself. But the pervasive memory of his friend's voice screamed inside his mind once more.
“JACK, RUN!”
It had echoed in his head ever since he'd heard it, trapped on the rooftop he had idiotically climbed onto.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
His footsteps sped up, pounding the stones beneath his feet. Why couldn't he save him? He was supposed to save him. Jack Kelly couldn't save his best friend– His best friend.
His fingers brushed Crutchie's letter, tucked safely in his front pocket. He was going to save him.
He tightened his grip on the pair of heavy iron cutters in his hand. This was his chance.
Hugging the wall of the neighboring building, he scanned the street for trouble. It would be the midnight shift change, but if he had learned one thing on the streets, it was never to leave anything to chance.
Nearing the fire escape on the side of the building, his hand reached up and unlatched the ladder, letting it slide, but catching it inches from the ground with practiced ease.
As he climbed the rickety steps, he sneered at the irony of it. Snyder would never have installed the escape if the City Safety Codes hadn't forced him to. The man would lock up his own mother if it meant another penny in his pocket.
The metal screeched as it pulled up behind him, before he ascended the first set of stairs.
Coming to the first-level window, he glanced inside. No guards. Knocking softly on the iron bars, the secret pattern every boy in the Refuge knew by heart.
*Knock. Knock. Pause. Knock.*
There was silence for a moment, and Jack considered knocking again.
Then, whispering and scrambling echoed from inside.
A stumbling shuffle of tired feet sounded, approaching the window, then a small nose poked through the bars.
“Jack Kelly?” A quiet voice squeaked.
He sucked a deep breath through his teeth before revealing himself at the window. Staring up at him was a young boy, no more than eight.
The sight of it made his blood run hot then cold as ice, as it reminded him of his mission.
“Hello.”
A smile lit up the boy's face. “Jack! Jack! Do ya’ got any grub fo’ us?”
Jack tried not to recoil from shame. “I'm sorry, I ain't got no food.”
Clear disappointment overtook his face as the boy glanced down at his thin, malnourished frame. He swallowed, then looked back up. “...I unda'stand.”
“I'm lookin' for someone tho’.” Anxiously stepping forward, he peeked inside the cell. “Short, blond hair, walks wit' a limp n' a crutch. We call ’im Crutchie. Haven't seen ’im have ya’?"
The boy thought for a moment before retreating into his cell.
Inside, Jack watched him approach the door, repeating the same code he had used earlier and whispering something out to the hallway. A ripple of whispers echoed it, a cacophony of secrets, a machine of his own creation.
His breath quickened as he waited, leaning against the window.
What would he do if they found Crutchie? What would he say? Jack knew, obviously; he'd rehearsed it a thousand times. But what about Crutchie?
Yes, of course. He'd say yes. Right?
Right?
His thoughts were interrupted as the boy returned to the window and shook his head. “No Crutchie ‘ere. Try upstairs, one a'da kids ’round da stairs thought ‘e saw somebody like tha’. But ‘e wasn’t sure.”
Jack sighed, bowing his head. “Thank you, any'how.” The boy turned to leave, and Jack paused. “‘Ey- I'll…bring you something ta' eat soon…I promise.”
He smiled, hope shining in his little eyes, as he turned and skipped excitedly back to his bed, whispering breathlessly to his friends, ecstatic that he had met the famous Jack Kelly.
Jack let out a shuddering sigh, instinctively tugging off his hat and running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. He could feel the black, oily lies sliding from his teeth. Each one a plucked feather from his rotten hide.
His shaking, shame-filled hand clamped onto the railing before he climbed.
He clambered up four more sets of stairs, asking the same questions; they all had the same reply.
No one like that ‘ere. Try upstairs. Try again.
His eyes flickered to the moon, already far too low in the sky for his comfort. Time was not in his favor.
Frustration flipped to anxiety. What would he do if Crutchie wasn't here? Where would he be if not here? What had Snyder done to him?
Metal clanged softly beneath his shoes, the sound echoing out into the street below, as Jack counted the steps up to the final terrace:
18…17…16…
He reflected on the past few weeks– the price hike, the protest, and the strike.
15…14…13…
All starting with that fateful day, watching the sunrise with Crutchie, their fogged breath floating up into the clouds. Feeling the soft brush of the warm rays banish the frost of the morning.
12…11…10…
The fear of watching him almost slip off the roof, hands white around the chilled iron bars of the ladder. How Jack's heart had lurched into his throat.
9…8…7…
How they had fallen back, sprawled over each other, Crutchie’s breath hot on his cheek after Jack had hauled him up.
6…5…4…
Crutchie lying over him, grumbling about not needing help, but not moving, either. As Jack threw his head back cackling, he couldn't help cracking a smile.
3…2…
His face turned up to meet Jack's gaze, his hazel eyes scrunched in mirth, trying but failing to rise as laughter pinned him down. The warmth of his skin pulled Jack from the cold air, if only for a moment.
1.
Jack slowly mounted the final stair to the platform. He swallowed, peeling his clammy, reluctant hand from the railing.
Five shaky steps to the window.
His arm rose, but hesitated.
Maybe this was all a mistake?
He shook his head, furrowing his brow and steeling his resolve.
His hand decided for him, clacking out the code.
Another boy, this time older, maybe fourteen, came to the bars.
Jack swallowed as he realized he recognized him. “‘Ello.”
The boy, a regular at the Refuge, had met Jack many times during his monthly food and clothing runs.
“Hey, Jack.”
His eyes were black as the night, unnerving and accusatory. A crack emerged in the dam of guilt inside Jack, as he realized with a start that he couldn't remember his name.
“I'm– uh– lookin' for a boy-”
“I know.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You weren't exactly quiet getting up ‘ere, and word spread fast that the great Jack Kelly had returned.”
Jack nodded, swallowing, as a knot formed in his throat.
“Well, you're in luck.” He crossed his arms through the bars, gaze never wavering. "He's ‘ere.”
Jack's head snapped up as a trickle of warm hope seeped into him for the first time in what seemed like forever. “Here?”
He nodded, gaze falling to Jack’s hands. “So…What'd ‘e do?”
“What?”
He gestured to the giant clippers in his hand. “‘Must've done somethin' real bad, if you'se gonna use those things on ‘im.”
Jack blinked, as a surprised chuckle almost burst from his throat. “No, I'm not gonna use these on ’im.”
The boy cocked his head, looking Jack up and down.
“I'm gonna-” Jack hesitated. Telling a kid in the Refuge you were about to perform a jailbreak, without them, seemed…unwise. “-help him.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he just nodded and jerked his chin away. "Second window on the right, front side."
As Jack followed his gaze, his heart dropped. “You don't mean-?”
The fire escape sat firmly on the right side of the building and remained frustratingly immovable. The rest of the windows hung freely on the wall.
That meant reaching Crutchie would require edging along half the wall, around the corner, and to his window…all without falling to his untimely demise.
The boy smiled, for real this time, as he withdrew from the window. “Good Luck.“
—[End of Chapter 1]–