Chapter Text
Seamus Walsh keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets on the path to O’Keeley’s pub.
Silently, he passes civilians of Sina’s almost red light district streets. His signature cabbie cap blocking the majority of his face for anybody walking by or staring him down with the suspicious look ever new comer receives.
The cobblestone is wet and his shoes hit the flooring in an almost ricochet pattern, the echo vibrating off the brick structures and eventually fading out the closer he gets to the store lit centre of town.
Approaching the hard oak wood door, his hand pushes, light breaking through, and spilling onto the streets with the voices of men and women alike; indulging in conversation, and ale. Obvious signs of drink and time have passed as slurred words and heavy eyelids adorn the customers.
Seamus heads to the bar. Forearms propping him up on the long wooden counter as he waits for the bartender to approach him. He pulls his hat from his head, he runs a hand through his hair and looks up to Patrick; bartender and long time friend. But ignores friendly tradition, instead following the strict procedure; keep it short, you’re strangers.
“What can I get you?” Patrick asks. Wiping a new glass for the next order.
Seamus takes a breath and gives his hand a shake to reject the question. “I’d like to rent the attic room”
“Ah, unfortunately we don’t have one in the attic, but there’s one in the back”
Moderately, he moves from behind the counter and waves him over “this way” he prompts, leading Seamus to the back cellar. The two are cautious, no matter the fact that everyone in the pub is completely incoherent.
It’s to be the second meeting that Seamus has been to. Knit-tight gatherings for the new socialist reform party. The new movement.
Seamus makes his way down the cellar ladder, Patrick waiting until the moment his feet touch the ground to close the hatch. And it closes with a small creak, the sound of the rug being placed over hatch, and the barrel over the rug.
Seamus makes his way over to the crowd of people. All quite young, and poor.
The room is a little crowded, with people surrounding a wooden platform; mostly men, and a few women talking amongst themselves.
Little time passes before the event finally begins.
The same 5 men step out onto the ‘stage’. One of them, Derek Falk, comes forward to speak.
“Let’s get things started, huh? No one’s here for tea and biscuits” he begins. Voices of agreement and jeering respond to Derek’s straightforward approach. He likes that, it's got something to it, maybe he’ll use it next time.
“We’ve got some problems, in this space here between the walls that are supposed to keep us oh so safe” he chuckles. “Look how well they’re doing”, he pauses. “We’ve got problems, and there’s only one cause and one solution. King Fritz and getting rid of King Fritz”
Derek looks to the crowd, nods of approval and faces of curiosity are held within.
“We’re poor, we’re hungry, and when the shit hits the fan. When it really hits the fan, who’s gonna be the first to go? Who’s gonna be the first to die? Who’s going to be outside in the streets left to die when the wall breaks again? And who’s going to be safe within the heart of every wall? Think about it for a minute.”
He waits but only briefly.
“It’s going to be you and me, and then it’s not going to be you, and it’s not going to be me. Every and any aristocrat you can think of is going to cower behind the walls they especially built for themselves, nevermind that, the walls we built. And I can tell you right now they only time we will ever cross their minds is when they need another servant, or when they need more cooks.”
-
Alfred grabs a pair of blue boxing gloves from a hook on the change room walls. “Hurry it up guys, the first game is about to start”
“Come on get your asses out of here!”
“Calm down big man”
The voice comes from Alfred’s right, and is followed by a low chuckle. Look down at the sitting figure he eyes the swift hand wrapping. The more than standard tight wrapping along the forearm to the slender fingertips.
“I mean it you spoiled little impudent brat”
“Yeah, yeah I know, cheer for me out there will you?”
He scoffs in response “Over my dead body. Now stop wasting my time get your stupid ass out of here”
Another chuckle. “Alright, alright”
-
“Military Police, you’re under arrest, stay where you are!” cries a voice from the cellar hatch.
Seamus’ heart drops to the pit of his stomach. His face flushes a deadly white, and he feels the blood drain from his lips, and a sweat begin to break out.
For a moment everyone stands frozen; the voice had come out of nowhere. There were no footsteps, not a sound - nothing. The first officer drops, a loud thud echoes from the weight of his mass onto the concrete floor. “For treason against King Fritz himself, and the cooperation of socialist scum you are all under arrest and to be charged” the officer states, his squad dropping behind him.
Derrick Falk is the first to move. Grabbing a top barrel of ale and pushing it to the floor, causing the crowd to break into panic.
Seamus Walsh is the first to be grabbed by an officer. He watches as the spokesmen follow Derrick. They jump from the stage and push through the crowd, heading to the back. ‘Where are they going?’ he wonders briefly, before he is pulled back and slammed onto a wooden table. Cold metal securing the two of his hands together.
-
“And again” Albert says, rolling his eyes and letting an elongated sigh out “Sparrow is our winner!”
Cries of amusement and approval fill the small, rundown stadium. Chatter and the exchange of money replace the cries of demands and encouragement. Whiskey and cigarettes adorn the hands of the audience.
The fight stops, money is owed and soon after people file out.
“Nice one -hopefully you’ll lose the next one” Alfred calls to the showers, his back against the tile siding. Feet crossed, avoiding the water flowing to the rusty drain.
“Yeah, you keep praying”
“Every night”
The faucet turns off, a sigh of refreshment trails outwards to Alfred. “You were always right, cold showers really are the best”
“Took you five years”
Lilith’s hand grips Alfred’s shoulder. “What are you always so damn sour about?” she asks, smile praising her delicate face. Alfred ‘humphs’ “Why don’t you take a guess?”. Her face scrunches into playful confusion, her index finger touches her bottom lip “I can’t seem to conjure even a thought, old age maybe?”
“You goddamn fuc-”
“Sir!” Roman, a young front desk boy rushes into the room. Cap covering his eyes. “S-sir, it’s urgent y-you need to, you need to”
“Spit it out already”
His eye pops out from cover, praying that Lilith isn’t still isn’t in the shower. She’s not thankfully.
“There’s some people here for you”. Alfred groans and rubs his neck “What are they stupid? The match is over tell them to come back tomorrow”
“No can do sir”
Lilith’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. A small snort escapes her, and she smacks a hand over her mouth. “Why you little..” “Alright, alright. Let’s go take a look, maybe it’s some serious cash”
“No I don’t think it-”
Lilith smiles at Roman. “Thanks kid, try not to get killed when I’m not around”
Alfred approaches the door to his office. Inhaling largely and puffing his chest out, no body comes to see him so late at night, definitely not after a match. Lilith’s hand hits his back - urging him to hurry up and open the door. He does and upon so stops dead in his tracks. Lilith can’t see past his height or built width. “Djel? What in the hell do you want?” he asks. Finally stepping to the side and pulling out a cigarette.
“Alfred, it’s good to see you”
His response is met with a grunt as Alfred places the stick between his teeth. Zippo lighter clicking as he uncaps it. Lilith stands in the doorway, leaning on the right of the frame
“Lilith Taisa Romanov”
Alfred flicks the flint wheel.
“You’re under arrest”
And doesn’t get to taking a drag.