100YoP Chapter Twenty-five "Young Billy" (Patreon)

They were six when they met.

But the first time Billy met Sam was not the first time Sam met Billy.

Crime Alley had been different back then. One would be hard-pressed to say it’d gotten better, though in certain aspects it had, but it was definitely less subtle way back then.

Batman had only been around for three years, people barely believed he existed, and rumors of a traffic-light-colored kid following him around where only just starting to surface. The gangs had been pushed a bit further underground from the daylight dealing they’d been doing, but they were still very much the undisputed lords of Gotham.

None of this was a part of Billy’s world back then. At most, it’d been background noise, the kind that goes on for so long that you don’t even process it anymore.

Not that there was much to be said for his life back then.

Billy thought of his life as existing before and after the sentencing and getting sent to Blackgate.

The same was not true for meeting Sam.

There simply wasn’t a life for him before Sam arrived, just a mess of pain and blurry memories. The impression of a hand on the back of his neck. The cold heat of bruises littering his arms. Heavy breathing.

And then, Sam arrived with a quick one-liner and a fist to someone’s balls.

{[X]}

Their neighborhood hadn’t been great.

Well, that was mincing words.

In truth, it was a hellhole. They were all poor, most of the locals were minorities and/or immigrants, and there wasn’t a building that wasn’t mostly populated with soldiers.

In the food chain of his childhood, William Priest had been firmly at the bottom. Poor even by the standards of the place and time, the youngest of the only white family within a couple blocks, small and weak. Besides, even then, it’d been obvious to everyone that there was something deeply wrong with him.

The other kids had been fond of chasing down Will until he couldn’t run anymore, malnourished as he was, whereupon they would hold him down and beat him up. Alternatively, they would take his things, not that he had much to take in the first place, or they would make fun of him and push him around.

It wasn’t great living.

It was in one such instance, where Will had run into a basketball court and two of the older kids—the Pérez twins, second-gen immigrants from Mexico—were throwing him down on the floor and kicking him.

He didn’t give them a reaction, staying stone-faced and quiet the whole time.

In a moment of lucidity, Will’s mom had told him that not giving a reaction to the bullies would make them stop, but he hadn’t been reacting much in the first place and they still seemed pretty willing to kick his shit in.

In any case, Marcos had already taken his shoes, and if the pattern held true, Will would probably be walking home in his underwear again.

Or at least, that’s what he expected.

After getting tossed to the floor, after his head knocked into the concrete floor, after tilting his head to the side and deciding to just give up, Will saw something.

A pair of scuffed-up shoes, calmly walking closer to the twins.

Will thought it was probably someone here to join in the fun.

And then he heard that voice. That shrill, squeaky voice.

“¡Hey, forros! You ever heard of deez?!”

Lucas barely had time to turn around from where he was kneeling next to Will before a tiny, boney fist collided with the side of his jaw, turning him further around and dropping him to the floor.

Marcos blinked, then looked at the kid. Will did the same.

Samuel Andrés Reyes had not always been the huge, muscled soldier he grew into.

Back then, he’d been more like a collection of pointy elbows, wild hair that looked like it hadn’t been cut or brushed once since he’d been born, and a manic look in those green eyes. Only slightly less malnourished than Will, and shorter than even some of the younger kids.

And yet, from the way he was looking at the older kid, fists balled up and held in a loose boxing stance, you could’ve thought he had more fight inside than three world wars.

The fight would be remembered by Will as a glourious thing in the coming years.

The twins had ganged up on Sam, since Will had cravenly decided to just lay there and hope they forgot about him, which would always shame him.

But Sam fought them to a standstill.

He punched mouths, kicked groins, bit anything that got close to his mouth, threw elbows, threw knees, spat, scratched, threw loose debris from the court, yelled into ears, and broke both their noses with a headbutt to each.

Eventually, the twins ran away, leaving just Sam and Will there. As soon as they did, Sam collapsed on his ass and sat there, breathing heavily.

The fight hadn’t been easy for him either. He had a black eye, his nose was bleeding, he was dirty and bruised all over, his knuckles were split, and once the twins were out of sight, he turned his head and spat out a baby tooth.

Will looked up at his saviour, now and always, completely uncomprehending. It was no exaggeration or hyperbole to say that Will had never been helped before. The action was totally alien.

For a moment, he tried to think of what to say, before Sam stood up, making him flinch.

Maybe he just wanted all the fun for himself? It was a weird idea, but...

But nothing. Sam walked over, grabbed his shoes from where Marcos had thrown them when the fight started, tossed them closer to Will, then limped off.

That was how Will met Sam.

The next day, he asked one of the kids that didn’t participate in his bullying—nor did anything to stop it, but if he judged because of that he’d only ever talk to Sam—and found out that his saviour was named Sam Reyes.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only person whom Sam had intervened in favor of. For months, the kid had been going around, playing with people, and then if he caught anyone picking on anyone else, he’d fight like the fucking Tazmanian Devil until they stopped.

Will halfway expected that he’d be surrounded by friends, but apparently people thought he was crazy too.

He was just sitting there, reading a book.

So, Will did the math in his head. If this kid was going around protecting perfect strangers, then how far would he go for a friend?

It was worth a shot.

Will walked over.

{[X]}

“Hi!”

“Mm? Oh, hi.”

“My name’s Will.”

“... Sam.”

“What’cha reading?”

“... Good Omens.”

“What’s it about?”

“The Apocalypse— look, can I help you?”

“Oh, uh... I was just wondering if you wanted to be friends?”

“...”

“...”

“... pfft. Yeah, okay.”

“W-Where are you going?”

“C’mon, let’s go play.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You any good at basketball, Billy?”

“Not really.”

“Good, ‘cause I suck at it.”

That was how Sam met Billy.

{[X]}

They were nine when they actually became friends.

Or at least, that was when Will became loyal to Sam.

It started midway through summer, during the biggest heat wave of the year. Sam had been working for the Blackgaters for a year, and he’d done a hit for them for the first time the previous Saturday.

In a way, Will was almost jealous. Ever since working the corner under Namond, accompanied by the Pérez twins and Little Big Kevin, he’d been slowly earning respect around their neighborhood. But after word got out that Sam had actually performed a bonafide hit for Russ?

People crossed the street when Sam got near. Kids twice their age lowered their heads when Sam walked around.

Will heard them talking. He heard them whisper about how Sam hadn’t even flinched after his first kill. How he’d been prepared, with gloves, a hoodie and a mask. How they never saw him coming.

Will stuck close to Sam, hoping that he would start to provide more than just the protection he’d been enjoying for three years. If people started respecting him for being Sam’s friend, life would get a lot more comfortable.

Instead, it seemed to make people respect Sam less for letting him hang around. It was unfortunate, but not enough to make Will want to stop using Sam as a metaphorical umbrella.

In any case, there they were. Namond, sitting on a stoop under the shade and sipping at a 40, looking around for cops.

Sam had said that it was a sign that Namond was a good leader, since most saw shouting ‘5-0’ as undignified and a menial job.

(And while it was true that most preferred watching the stash or handing out the vials, Will was fairly sure that Namond just liked to have the easiest job that didn’t require math, fighting or walking.)

Lucas was standing against a stop sign, while Marcos was munching on a bag of chips a few steps under Namond. Both were wearing caps and making small talk with Namond.

Young Little Big Kevin—who earned his nickname when people realized he was much younger than OG Kevin, fat like Little Kevin, and short like Big Kevin, which had inspired Sam—was carefully sitting in the stoop’s shadow, in front of the few vials that they’d pulled from the stash inside the vacant they were lounging around.

Sam was standing, back against the wall, inhaling through a cigarette. He’d bought his first pack after getting the orders that he would have to carry out a hit, though only Will seemed to have made that connection.

Speaking of which, Will was sitting next to Sam’s feet, in the shade his body made, quietly putting a can of beer that Sam had given him to his bruised eye.

(It had been his own fault, really. He’d gotten used to Sam’s protection, and had tried fighting back.

As planned, Sam had reacted angrily at being told that when he asked where he’d gotten his bruise. With a few more years of work, maybe less, Sam would be invested enough to pick a fight with Will’s target.)

Removing the can to open it and take a sip, Will tuned back into the conversation.

“... I’m saying, I heard midgets have the best pussy,” Young Little Big Kevin said.

He immediately regretted it.

The twins were fourteen, Namond was sixteen, and Young Little Big Kevin was twelve. Since puberty, they’d all been unbearably monothematic. A part of Will was worried he’d be like that when he got older.

“Motherfucker, what?” asked Namond, laughing. “I know you ain’t get no pussy, so who the fuck do you know that goes around fucking midget bitches?”

Young Little Big Kevin shrugged, “I dunno, people.”

“Whatpeople?” pressed Namond.

“Midget-Fuckers, I dunno.”

Namond laughed, shaking his head.

“Nah, fool. Latinas are the best,” said Marcos. “Trust. We got it easy.”

“I’ve heard good things about half-asian,” Lucas disagreed, before turning to look at Sam. “What’d you think, Sammy?”

There was a beat of silence.

Eventually, Sam broke it by giving Lucas a flat look and deadpaning, “Motherfucker, I am nine years old.”

Everyone laughed at Lucas.

“Shit, by your age I was already gettin’ my dick wet,” Lucas scoffed. “I’ve been fucking since kindergarten.”

(The can crumpled slightly in Will’s hand. Sam’s eyes flicked to it) before turning his full attention to Lucas and saying, “Just ‘cause your dick is kindergarten-sized doesn’t mean you’ve been fucking since kindergarten, fool.”

Namond snorted, making Lucas’ face go red. He took a step towards Sam, which he returned by walking closer and tilting his chin up, looking Lucas in the eye.

After a moment, Lucas backed down, muttering under his breath, “... fuckin’ freak.”

Sam ignored it, going back to the shade.

“You’re really not even a bit curious?” asked Namond, choosing to bring attention back to himself.

“What’ve I got to be curious about?” Sam shrugged, “I got good genes. I’ll fuck when I start wantin’ to fuck.”

“Oh, look at mister confident over here,” said Namond, scoffing. “I bet we’re gonna have to buy you a girl so you can finally become a man.”

“If being a man depended on getting your dick wet, you’d all be wearing dresses, dicknips.”

Namond sucked his teeth and brushed him off, “Don’t know why I talk to your dumb ass. Fuckin’ kid don’t know shit about shit.”

Sam shrugged and leaned his head back, eyes closed. Billy watched him for a moment, before going back to staring forward.

“... what were we talking about?” asked Namond.

“What type of pussy is best,” Young Little Big Keving reminded him.

“Oh yeah,” said Namond. Then, after a moment of consideration, he said, “Russian pussy.”

For some reason, this was met with groans and calls of disapproval from everyone else, except Sam and Will who just traded a look.

Time passed, the sun lowered through the sky, and fiends came and went. Money changed hands,Young Little Big Kevin or Sam had to run around the block to hand off the goods, then came back to keep talking.

The heat of the day transformed into a cool zephyr breeze as twilight approached, and the conversation completely failed to progress beyond the subject of sex.

“... so she opens the door, and I’m like ‘Yo, chill, I ain’t about that drama’, but then she starts running her mouth about me seein’ another girl like she ain’t got another nigga at the crib,” Namond said, shrugging. “And when I pointed that out, she just started going off on me.”

“Bitches’re unreasonable, jefe,” Lucas sighed. “I ever tell you about that time my girl caught me smilin’ at my phone?”

“Only a few hundred times,” said Namond.

“Shit man, my ears still ring from the way she screamed at me.”

Namond nodded sympathetically, “Bitches are crazy.”

“Bitches are crazy,” Lucas agreed.

“Mm,” said Marcos, lips still stuck to the bottle. He pulled back and said, “You know Grace?”

“Grace with the ass?” asked Namond, smiling. “What, she single?”

“She in prison,” Marcos said. Everyone looked at him, surprised. Grace had generally been considered pretty stable. “Stabbed her old boyfriend in the eye with a spoon.”

“With a spoon?” Namond asked.

Marcos nodded, lips pressed tight. “Somethin’ about him sleeping with her sister.”

Sam and Will traded a look. Grace’s sister had been something like sixteen.

Two years younger than Grace and five years younger than Grace’s man.

“Man, datin’ in Gotham is a fucking nightmare,” Namond sucked his teeth. “Every time I meet someone I’m wondering how many weeks ‘till I see ‘em robbin’ a fuckin’ bank.”

“I mean...” said Sam, piping in for the first time in a while. “You could always date girls outside the game, right?”

Namond smirked, “Right, and then get the cops called on my because I’m fucking Richard Nixon’s daughter.”

“Why did your mind immediately go to a dead president’s daughter?”

“I mean, some white-ass dad is gonna find me fuckin’ his daugther and he’s gonna call the Klan on my ass.”

“There’s black women outside the game too.”

“Y’think a bonafide black queen is gonna fuck with some soldier dick when she could be getting her dicking from a guy with a house?” asked Namond.

“... you got me there,” nodded Sam.

“Damn straight,” Namond nodded. “Listen, you’re a smart kid, Sammy. But you’ve only been ‘round these streets for two years, y’know? Namond Little fuckin’ knows what Namond Little talks about, a’ight?”

“So he does,” Sam said, smiling slightly. And then the smile quickly dropped.

But no one besides Billy seemed to notice.

“... and the ones that ain’t crazy are mad spoiled,” Marcos grumbled. “Always wanna be treated like they’re a fuckin’ Wayne.”

“If you can even get one to give you the time of day,” his twin added.

“Are they really that bad?” asked Young Little Big Kevin.

“Had a girl that wanted me to eat her out for hours,” Namond remembered bitterly. “Like I do fuckin’ pilates with my tongue or some shit.”

“Well... I mean, that ain’t that bad,” Lucas risked.

“What?” asked Namond.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s just lickin’ some pussy,” Lucas shrugged. “I mean, I don’t like it, but I already do a bunch of shit to get laid, what’s a little more to not have her whining later?”

“I don’t care what you say, I ain’t licking no pussy,” said Namond resolutely.

“But you want her to suck your dick?” Sam chimed in, sounding genuinely curious.

“Man, that ain’t the same thing at all,” said Namond. “Getting my dick sucked feels good. Women can’t even feel that shit.”

“... uh,” said Sam. “Okay, explain that to me.”

Namond rolled his eyes and put on his most condescending tone, “You’ll get it when you’re older, but basically, only men enjoy sex. Women just do it to keep us happy, they can’t even cum.”

Young Little Big Kevin nodded as if that made sense, while the twins looked at each other before shrugging.

Will looked at Sam.

Sam blinked. Then he blinked again, before shrugging as well, “Sure.”

Ah, so Namond was talking out of his ass.

“In any case,” he continued, “Does anyone need anything done? I’m looking to make some quick cash on the side.”

“Bitch, you just got paid for the hit three days ago,” said Namond. “What are you doin’ with your pay, eating it?”

Sam shrugged and lied, “Mom’s birthday’s coming up. Savin’ up to buy her somethin’ nice.”

“Momma’s boy!” called Young Little Big Kevin while Namond thought.

“Fuck off.”

“... yeah, actually,” said Namond. “My phone ran out of credit, you mind walkin’ to the payphone and callin’ my girl? Tell her I’ll be seein’ her ass at nine o’clock, not eight.”

“Girlfriend, nine not eight. Got it,” Sam nodded. “You got change for the call?”

Namond nodded and reached into his pocket to put change into his hand. “I’ll give you a twenty when you get back.”

“Alright, thanks,” said Sam.

He made to leave after he was recited the number, but Namond interrupted him.

“Hey,” he said, and when Sam turned around, he smiled at him and said, “Try not to sleep anyone else on the way, killer.”

Sam smiled. It looked like how Will practiced in the mirror.

Sam walked out, and Will remained still and silent to better listen in on their conversation.

He was curious if any of them noticed. With all the effort he put into appearing normal, it’d be kind of disappointing if they were all fooled by such an obviously fake smile.

“... man,” said Marcos, watching Sam go. “Not even a twitch. Kid’s a freak.”

Everyone hummed in agreement.

Then he turned back around and asked, “You guys catch the game?”

Everyone groaned. “Man, shut the fuck up.”

“What?” asked Marcos, defensive. “I’m just asking about the game!”

“Yeah, except there wasn’t a game last night, so you must be talking about fuckin’ soccer again.”

“It’s football!”

“Marcos, man,” Lucas said, pained, “Just drop it.”

“Don’t tell me to drop it, fool!” Marcos said. “This is important! It’s the community, man!”

Okay, that was the last straw.

Billy stood up. The others flinched, suddenly remembering he was there, but he didn’t spare them more than a glance before walking off after Sam.

He jaywalked across the street and down to the other corner, where one of the few remaining payphones stood.

Sam was leaning on the pole under the payphone, having had to stand on his tiptoes to put in the coins and dial the number Namond had listed off to him.

“... yeah,” said Sam, nodding. “Yeah, I know...

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it...

“Look, I’m sorry he put the job on me, but you gotta understand it’s like a million degrees out, and he’s sitting in the shade...

“No, I’m not saying you’re not worth heatstroke...

“No, don’t say that...

“I’m sure you’re very beautiful...

“Oh, uh, no, sorry...

“No, I’m not hitting on you...

“Again, I’m sure you’re— oh, that’s just uncalled for, ma’am...”

At seeing Will approach, Sam looked at him, raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, then turned his attention back to the phone.

“What...?

“No...

“No, I’m not gay...

“ Why would that make me gay...?

“That seems like a weird metric—

“... Well, that’s subjective...

“That’s a stereotype...

“That’sjust a bald-faced lie...

“Okay, you might have a point there, but just the one...

“What...?

“I mean, does that really make me...?

“Okay, so two points, but that really is it...

“Oh really...?

“Oh, that’s interesting, I didn’t know that...

“With his foot...?

“Okay! Look, I haven’t hit puberty yet. If it turns out you were right and I am gay, I’ll hit you up and let you know.

“... Yes, I promise...

“Yes! I super-duper promise! Would you like to know my name first?

“... you wouldn’t? Oh, uh, okay. Yeah, bye.”

He hung up, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with irritation. “There’s gotta be something in the water in this city, I swear to God.”

Will considered his friend. Sam had barely grown since they’d met, but he’d filled out a little since his paycheck had been added to his household. A benefit that Will had also seen, since Sam invited him to come over to eat most nights. Mrs. Reyes seemed to like Will well enough, but like her son, she’d noticed his oddities.

Unlike her son, she hadn’t reacted by teaching him how to better fit in whenever he misstepped. Instead, she got these worried looks in her eyes that would only go away whenever Will went out of his way to display affection for Sam.

“What’s up, buddy?” asked Sam, making Will’s head snap up to find him already lighting another cigarette. “You wanna talk about who gave you that black eye?”

Will’s nose wrinkled at the smell of the smoke, and it took him a moment to actually process Sam’s question.

“... not right now.”

“Really? There’s not anyone listening,” Sam pointed out.

“I—” Will considered it, but in the end Billy shook his head and said, “I actually... wanted to ask you something.”

“What’s up?”

“Why... Are you feeling okay? After the hit?”

Sam blinked, before smiling, “Yeah, man. Of course! I’m great. Wasn’t even a—”

“You’re lying.”

The smile dropped real quick from Sam’s face, before he affected a confused look. “What’re you talking about, I’m not—”

“You are,” Billy stood firm. “I can tell you are.”

Again, the expression dropped. And now Sam’s feelings really shone through, completely blank.

“... respectfully,” he slowly said, “I don’t think the person that asks me to explain my motivation every time I buy him a fuckin’ piece of candy is in any place to tell me when I lie.”

Sam did this when he was getting really angry.

He talked like an older person, like how the Butcher spoke to Will when he caught him trying to sneak in after Sam.

He’d never done it to Will.

Maybe he should’ve backed off.

But something pushed him to keep pressing. A feeling he hadn’t totally understood.

“Sam,” said Billy, “You always tell me everything. Why can’t you talk about this?”

“I dunno, why can’t you talk about whoever gave you that eye?” Sam countered.

It was a deflection. A pretty weak one, all things told. Practically amateurish.

Still... Will saw the logic in it. Sam had explained once that trust begot trust, and that the easiest way to make friends was to just go ahead and extend friendship without expectation.

To Will that last part had seemed contradictory, since if you were doing that you were clearly expecting friendship back.

But in the moment, it ocurred to him that the real important part was that giving something returned something.

So he put the idea to the test.

“It was my dad.”

Sam blinked, taken back.

Then he blinked again and leaned back in, saying, “What?”

“It was my dad,” Billy repeated, “Like I told you. I tried to fight back and he hit me.”

Sam’s face was still shocked, before slowly going blank.

“Fight back against what? He hits you often?”

“Not exactly.”

Will explained the situation.

“Namond, I gotta go,” said Sam, shortly after the last word left Will’s mouth. “I’m taking the gun.”

“What?” he asked. “Nigga, you can’t just—”

Sam took a step onto the stoop and leaned in, “Namond. I gotta go. I’m taking the gun.”

Namond blinked, before leaning back slightly, “Uh, yeah. Sure, Sam.”

“Thanks for understanding,” he said, before looking over to Young Little Big Kevin and saying, “Y-L-B, go get me the bat from inside.”

“What? Why do I gotta?” complained the now-renamed YLB.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

Less than an hour later, Sam stood with his back against the wall next to the front door to Billy’s apartment, holding a fairly dented aluminum bat.

The peeling teal paint left flakes on his head and shoulders, and his knuckles were white from the grip. His breathing was slow and steady, but it still caused chaos on the dust particles that shone under the sunlight that streamed in through the window. His stance was wide and his body was bent so that he’d be able to put the full spin of his body behind the swing of his bat.

The image remained burnt into Billy’s memories for the rest of his life. This was the image of a kid, nine years old like him, about to shatter the kneecap of a forty-year-old ex-convict just because he’d gotten a rough start on life.

Billy had shown trust, and in return he was receiving salvation. This was what Sam kept chattering on about when he talked about putting good into the world.

His eyes were open wide.

The following hours were filled with the sound of bones shattering, starting from the moment John Priest got back from buying booze, and lasted well into the night. A gun was pressed between lips, terms were given and, after some more violence, accepted.

Billy spent that night, and every night for the rest of his childhood, sleeping on what had been Sam’s bed up until he moved in.

Sam slept and snored in an extra mattress a neighbor’d had, on the floor next to Billy’s new bed.

The small bedroom was cramped, uncomfortably hot, and kinda dusty.

Knowing this would be where he slept for the forseeable future made Billy the happiest he’d ever been.

{[X]}

They’d been twelve when Billy realized he’d never be like Sam.

Billy had entered the soldier lifestyle at ten, when he realized that adding to the money in the Reyes household would probably mean more kickback to him when they returned the good.

At first, it was just a simple job working at a bar owned by an acquaintance of Butcher’s, just cleaning tables and looking the other way when people went into the back room and came out with concealed weapons.

As he got older, filled out and got stronger by working out with Sam under Butcher’s suppervision, he also started working a corner on Sundays. He’d usually be waiting there while Sam got back from church with his mom, and then they’d screw around, occassionally running from cops, sometimes playing cards.

After that, they’d switch out with other people, then go screw around. Watch a movie, hang out at the court, practice with their guns—Billy was always a better shot than Sam, which the latter playfully groaned about—help out people around the neighborhood.

Later, it was back to the Reyes household for dinner. Sandra was usually too tired from teaching and then pulling a shift at the diner to cook, so Sam took care of it while Billy and Sandra hung out in the living room.

Later, they’d all sit around and talk as they ate, an old radio playing Sandra’s favourite station.

On Saturdays, he’d hang out with Sam while he worked, then they’d do twice as much fucking around.

In fact, the routine was mostly unchanged around the week, though they both went to school every day, to Billy’s annoyance. It’d gotten a lot less fun since Sam started skipping grades and they stopped being able to pass rude drawings of their teachers around.

But being halfway presentable on the surface was the cost of living with the Reyeses, so he went.

Those years were... borderline idyllic.

Billy had yet to kill someone, but people started respecting him when he started doing work for the Blackgaters, and it was better than he’d had it for years. He was eating better every night than he had all his life. He had people that would do anything for him nearby.

Life was good.

And then the job came. A favour to Namond, after he’d taken the fall for some Russ himself.

“I ain’t fucking doin’ it,” said Sam, immediately after being told the job.

Big Mike frowned, unimpressed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg, bitch, because I ain’t fucking doing this,” Sam immediately replied. “I made this very, very painfully clear. No. Fucking. Civilians.”

Apparently, part of the reason Namond had to take the fall was that a girlfriend of his had a big mouth.

Honestly, one favor to burn and he used it to kill some random bitch. The man lacked perspective, in Billy’s opinion.

Big Mike rolled his eyes, “You’re being childish.”

“No, I’m establishing a boundary and keeping it. That’s an adult thing to do.”

“The boundary is fucking moronic,” Big Mike said. “What? Does paying taxes make this person’s life worth more than all the soldiers you put in the ground?”

“It’s not about the fucking taxes, Mike!” Sam said, slamming his hands on the desk at ‘fucking’. “For fuck’s sake, this person isn’t in the game! Every soldier I cap, that’s one thing. They chose this, and the game is the game. But this is a civilian. They got a real life and a real job.”

Big Mike sneered, “Bitch, you better get used to thinking of this as a realjob.”

“I—” he stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. But you know what I mean, I can’t just put down someone outside the game.”

Big Mike looked at Sam for a moment, before leaning in close. “Do you think there won’t be any consequences of you refusing a job like this? A favor to someone—your old boss, that took the fall for Russ? Because believe me, young blood, you are not half as irreplaceable as you’ve convinced you are.”

Sam’s mouth opened, and in a moment, Billy gained terrible perspective. He knew without a doubt that he was about to say something that would get the Blackgaters against him.

So he stepped forward and said, “I’ll do it.”

They both startled, and Big Mike said, “Jesus, I forgot you were there, White Shadow.”

Oh, great. Butcher’s little nickname had spread.

“Wait,” said Sam. “What did you say?”

“I said I’ll do it,” said Billy, without hesitation. “If Sam won’t do the job, I’ll do it.”

Sam blinked and frowned, surprised, but Big Mike was already moving on, “Well, great. Fuck along now, Trixie will give you the details.”

Billy immediately turned around and walked away while Sam floundered. Eventually, he heard rapid footsteps following him down the stairs leading to Mike’s office, and a hand caught his arm, pulling him back.

He looked at Sam, surprised.

“What—?!” Sam started, before looking down at the main space of the club, where the dancers were getting ready. A few looked up at them, so Sam leaned in and spoke in a harsh whisper, “What the fuck are you doing, Billy?!”

“I’m doin’ you a favor,” Billy explained. “You can’t do the job, but I can. And this way, you don’t get in trouble if the job isn’t pulled.”

Sam blinked, before letting go, “You’re doing this for me?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Oh,” he said, before his eyes softened, “Oh, Billy, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I kinda had to, though,” Billy shrugged.

“Dude, you’ve never killed someone before,” Sam pointed out. “Are you sure you can?”

“I mean... no, but I won’t until I try, right?”

Sam hesitated, before tapping Billy’s shoulder with his fist. “A’ight. I don’t... like that you’re killing a civilian, but... thank you.”

“No problem,” Billy smiled. “What are friends for?”

“That is such a fucked up use of that phrase.”

They laughed and went down the stairs.

That night, Billy walked to the high rises. He tapped the kitchen window, waited for the girl to lean in, pulled the trigger, and walked away.

He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t... anything.

He understood that he was expected to have some sort of negative reaction to having finished a life, but all he got was... a feeling of anti-climax.

So this was it. The final nail in the coffin.

There truly was something wrong with him.

Spending time with the Reyeses had made him... almost feel normal. Like he belonged. But reality had arrived.

He’d never be fully functional.

He discarded the murder weapon, avoided cops, got home, ate dinner, and then laid on the cot since it was Sam’s turn on the bed.

{[X]}

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I... I’m not okay, am I?”

“... you’re different, but I don’t think that makes you worse.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“... I don’t think I can be a good—”

“Fuck that.”

“...”

“No, seriously, fuck that. I don’t care if you don’t empathize or whatever, you’re smart enough to tell right from wrong. If I catch you using this as an excuse to be an asshole, I’m kicking your ass, okay?”

“...”

“I asked you a question.”

“Y-Yeah. Okay.”

“Good.”

“... so no civilians?”

“No more civilians.”

“No... no rape.”

“Not like you were doing it in the first place.”

“... protect hookers. A-And call them ‘sex workers’.”

“Um... sure?”

“No selling to kids, right?”

“Are... are you just basing yourself off of what I don’t do?”

“Is that a problem?”

“... God, that’s so much fuckin’ pressure.”

“I can stop—”

“No! No, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“...”

“...”

“... completely fail to get laid on purpose.”

“Oh, fuck you! I don’t fuck ‘cause I don’t wanna.”

“Keep telling yourself that, buddy.”

{[X]}

They were thirteen when they were separated.

Billy thought of his life as existing before and after the sentencing and getting sent to Blackgate.

It had been... messy. Some kid, Artie or whatever, had gotten caught with a gun in his locker at school, and in his panic he said that he’d seen Billy put it there to incriminate Artie.

The next hour was a blur, and it somehow ended with Billy interrogated by cops and Sam not finding out about the situation until school let out and he wasn’t there waiting to walk to the corner.

In any case, it turned out that Artie was connected to some pretty powerful members of the Blackgaters. So while he was sitting at the interrogation room, afraid and alone, a paid lawyer came up and explained a few things.

He explained the concept of a plea bargain. He explained how gun possession had one of the lowest punishments a serious offense could have. He explained that children were always tried leniently. And he explained all the rewards the lawyer’s ‘employers’ were offering if he just took the fall.

And Billy, thinking of doing solids for Sam and being accepted for them, of giving trust and receiving trust, and all the things he could secure if that was all applied to the Blackgaters themselves, accepted.

What the lawyer failed to explain was how the gun itself was tied to a couple homicide cases. He also failed to explain the meaning of ‘tried as an adult’, that gun posession had four years in prison as punishment.

And he forgot to mention that in that time, not one member of the Blackgaters except Sammy came to visit.

That was the piece that finally recontextualized the situation in Billy’s mind.

It wasn’t that acting like a fucking chump got you good things. It was that Sam was rewarding him for acting like a chump.

This proved that Billy’s instincts were right.

If he’d stuck to them, if he hadn’t softened up under Sam’s shadow like an idiot, Will would’ve been smart enough to look out for his own damn self.

... no.

Blaming Sam felt... wrong. It went against what he’d learned, and not all of it was irrelevant in view of new experiences.

Despite what he’d thought for the first three years of friendship, Sam acted the way he did just because that was how he thought the world worked. Kinda dumb, but not something born from maliciousness.

But even Sam’s idiocy had limits. When Namond had gone to jail, Sam had shut him out of his life with efficiency that even Billy struggled to match. Not even he thought that it was worth the trouble to stay in touch with someone that was in the system.

As he walked to the meeting room for Sam’s first visit, one week full of calls of ‘fresh fish’ and beatings later, he rationalized that this was just Sam’s way to show his respects and be polite after seven years of what Sam had started calling brotherhood.

As he entered the room and was directed to a round metal table where Sam was waiting, Billy mentally prepared himself. He would listen attentively, he would shake Sam’s hand, pull him into a punch, and then get dragged out by the guards after a brief beating.

He sat down and sought Sam’s eyes with his own, calm and collected.

Then Sam leaned in, looked Billy straight in the eye and said, “This is fucked, and I’m sorry, but we’re gonna have to move past that and into how you’re gonna get out of here.”

Billy blinked.

Then he blinked again. “What?”

“We gotta move forward,” said Sam. “Ironically, Blackgaters have been doin’ a little too well lately, so you’re gonna be a bit fucked from that angle in there. There’s few people there, and they’re not keeping a strong front. Russ hasn’t been very nice to his caught soldiers.”

“How do you—?”

“I’ve been asking around this week, doesn’t matter,” Sam waved it off, leaning in. He gestured for Billy to imitate him, and when he did, Sam tapped the metal table, producing a small sound. “Now, in there, your only options for present gangs are either Blackgaters or the Aryan Brotherhood. One’s useless, and you ain’t allowed to join the other.”

“Allow—?!”

“Billy! Focus!” Sam chastised him. “So here’s what I’m thinking, right? I got just about enough pull to sneak in some stuff for you. So—”

“Sam! Sam! Just... just stop,” Billy said, shaking his head. “Look... I-I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re better off cutting me off.”

“... what?”

“Sam, I’m dead weight,” Billy reasoned. “Y’think anyone out there knows my name? The only thing I had going with the Blackgaters was that I was available, and now even that doesn’t apply. They’ll take me back when I get out, and it’s just four years.”

“... what?”

“It’s... it’s like what Namond was talking about before he went, y’know?” Billy reasoned. “You only serve two days, day you come in and day you get out.”

Sam stared at him for almost a minute, before slowly speaking, “Say psyche right. Fucking. Now.”

Billy blinked, “What? No, I’m se—”

“Billy,” Sam interrupted. “I need you to listen to me very closely.”

Billy hesitantly nodded and leaned in.

“I. Am. Never. Leaving.” With every word, Sam tapped his finger on the table. “Alright? Never. Not if you get caught, not if you break something, not if you get your arm cut off, not for nothing. Not for all the money in the world, not for my own gang, not for Wonder Woman giving me a strip tease.”

Finally, the metaphorical dam broke, and a question spilled out. One that had been building up for years, gathering confusion and incomprehension with every kind gesture, with every punch thrown in defense, with every bedcover and meal offered.

“Why?!” asked Billy, almost manic. “Whyme?!”

“Because you’re my brother,” said Sam, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s all the reason I’ve ever needed.”

Billy closed his eyes.

It was an admittance of a flaw. An admision of willingness to sacrifice common sense for friendship. Observed, fake friendship, at that. Billy wasn’t capable of that, he couldn’t reciprocate Sam’s light.

... so why did he want nothing more that to be just the slightest bit more like his brother?

...

...

...

Billy opened his eyes.

“Alright,” he nodded. “What’s the plan?”

Sam blinked, “... uh... Okay, um...”

“Is something wrong?”

“I mean, I expected more of a reaction?” said Sam. “You kinda just blinked really slow and accepted it.”

Words failed Billy. He settled on, “Don’t worry about it.”

Sam looked at him, shrugged, and moved on. “Okay, so my idea is that I get you some stuff, and you start moving it inside Blackgate.”

“Gangs already got a guy for that,” Billy said. “There’s like... three or four guys here that the gangs share.”

“How’s that work?” asked Sam, frowning.

“They’re just some guys that aren’t connected to any specific gang but still have resources. If like, Gang 1 and Gang 2 get along well enough with the one guy, and they ain’t got a problem with each other, then the guy sells stuff to both.”

“And in exchange, they get protection, favors, all that shit, right?” Sam said, rubbing his chin.

“Well... yeah?”

“... you said there’s people in there separated from the gangs?”

“Yeah, leftovers,” Billy pointed out, getting an idea of where Sam was going. “Weirdos that no one wants with them, paedophiles, henchmen.”

“... okay,” Sam nodded slowly, “Okay, how’s this? The weirdos, you unionize. I don’t care if a guy got locked up for skinning a cat and sewing the fur onto a nun, you give that guy smokes and whatever he asks for, and you talk him into working to protect anyone else that buys from you.”

Billy slowly nodded, “Okay... okay, that has legs. And the others?”

“The minions... you sell to them, but keep ‘em distant,” said Sam, eyes flicking around as he thought. “No need to make enemies with people that regularly get handed military tech, dirty bombs and fucking freeze rays.”

“And the chomos?”

They looked at each other in silence for a second.

“Fuck ‘em?”

“Fuck em.”

They nodded and moved on, hashing out the details as much as possible.

Unfortunately, Sam’s visiting time was limited. With only two hours allowed in twenty-eight days, Sam had decided to break his time into four visits of thirty minutes, spread one per week. Smaller details would be hashed out over phone calls, and the next visit, some crooked guards would look the other way around as cartons and tiny bottles were handed out.

When the thirty minutes of that first visit were through, they both stood up and Sam offered a fistbump.

Billy grabbed his outstretched and pulled him in, grabbing him in a hug.

Sam was surprised for a moment, but quickly returned it.

“Thank you,” said Billy, feeling a tad ridiculous. “For... for everything. You’re a good friend.”

There was a small amused exhale over Billy’s shoulder, then Sam patted his back and said, “Anytime.”

{[X]}

Days blurred together inside Blackgate.

He woke up. Guards calling out, batons slammed on cell bars. The grumbling from the cages around him.

He walked around the yard. Found the outliers, found what type of outlier they were, and found what they wanted or needed. Got them to agree to help each other out in exchange for smokes and the ocassional tiny bottle of liquor. Got them to move around.

He exercised, determined not to need Sam to fight for him any more. Played basketball with the prisoners that weren’t aggro or planning to fuck him. Spotted others to establish himself as a reliable person.

He washed up. Ocassionally fucked up someone that got ideas. That wasn’t happening again. Not ever again.

He went to sleep. Cell doors slamming shut. Snoring. Crying from the fresh fish. Praying. Calls for people to shut up. More snoring. Catcalls for the fresh fish. The buzzing of insects in summer.

Rinse. Repeat.

For a while there, it was like he was watching his own body from the outside. Unplugged. Disconnected.

An object moving in space. A collection of organs, tendons, bones, muscle, and a fairly pathetic brain moving through a programmed routine.

Sometimes he stepped too close to a guard for their liking and took a beating. He didn’t fight back.

Good behaviour, like Sam asked.

Sometimes people bothered him, spat on him. If a guard was watching, no fighting back. If not, then he fought like a six-year-old Sam, putting his whole body into breaking the other’s. Couldn’t be disrespected.

These were little distractions in the greater routine. Breathe in, breathe out. Eat, shit, sleep. Take whatever is given and give as little back as possible.

Rinse. Repeat.

The closest times he had to feeling human again were Sam’s visits, where he became something more than a prisoner. Little thirty-minute windows where he believed in a horizon again, just for a while.

And then it was back to four walls, iron bars and violence in the yard.

Slowly, bit by bit, his little network of outcasts became something like a gang. Out of necessity, Billy re-entered his own body, being forced to see problems as more than irrelevant disturbances in the monotony of his routine.

A few fight put his record of good behavior at risk, but he never got caught for anything. That and a few favors to the guards left him remembered as a model prisoner. A promising kid that got caught with the wrong crowd.

What a joke.

This false perception of him carried him all the way through two years and only one parole hearing.

By then he’d made quite a few connections, even inside the other gangs, and even with a few henchmen. Especially at Sam’s later direction, where a sudden need for alternative ways to win money in Gotham were required.

He became the guy to see for certain goods. The one that organized the scraps and formed a decent gang. The friendly kid.

Talk. Take mental notes of what people wanted. Get promises and make deals. Talk. Soothe egos. Protect people. Talk.

Rinse. Repeat.

Then, one meeting later, he was on his way out.

When he first heard, he felt something he hadn’t expected; a strange version of vertigo.

Not one formed from fear, but one that knew that a false move would see him falling. A caution coming from the knowledge he could fall to his death in any direction.

The day he got out, he felt he was clinging to the roof of a bottomless abyss.

Then the car the Reyeses had rented stopped in front of him, and a feeling of relief bloomed in his chest.

At least there was someone to catch him.

{[X]}

They were fifteen when they were finally free.

Sam of the Blackgaters, and Billy of Blackgate.

The day he got out—two years ahead thanks to parole for caucassity and good behavior—holding a suitcase with a few things from his life before jail, he was immediately grabbed into a hug from a sobbing Ms. Reyes.

She cried a bit about how much he’d grown, and how ugly his new tattoo was—she’d only seen the barest edge of it through the collar of his t-shirt, but apparently that was enough—and held him close.

Billy returned the hug, a bit awkward, and breathed a sigh of relief when Sam managed to pull her off of him.

And then he hugged Billy as well. That one was easier to return, they’d been doing it every visit.

(It was nice to do it without the guards calling them faggots during and after, for once.)

In fact, Sam stayed in arm’s reach for the rest of the day, all the way into a surprise party held at Butcher’s place.

As he later learned, it’d been a bit awkward for Sam to contact all the Blackgaters that knew them both after he quit the gang, but almost all of them had been happy to show up.

And then they brought in their friends.

And then they all brought their hoes, girlfriends, wives, husbands, boyfriends, casual fucks and more.

Who then brought their friends.

At the end, it ended up being basically a block party, and the people just passed by Butcher’s place to drink from the keg—which quickly ran out—or to say hi to Billy.

It made sense, in any case. Any soldier would take a chance to party in a place owned by the Butcher of Crime Alley—especially if there was a ke—and any Gothamite would party to celebrate a person coming out of jail.

Hell, by the time Billy had been twelve, he’d gone to eight throughout the years, and he didn’t even know all that many people back then. Would’ve been more if more people had come back.

It was apparently even true for the people downtown, where the rich folk lived. Granted, they were celebrating white collar criminals coming back from a prison where they handed out caviar and shit, but the spirit was supposedly the same.

The point was, Sam looked pretty happy at all the people that had come to ‘pay respects’. He seemed to think it proved that Billy was loved.

Billy thought it was a huge pile of horseshit, but there was booze and he hadn’t had a drink that wasn’t lukewarm from stashing in two years.

So it was pretty nice.

Billy and Sam were standing by the band, a freestyle jazz group of old black folks that Butcher knew from his childhood, drinking beers and making small talk, enjoying the feeling of having more than thirty minutes.

With the press of bodies in Butcher’s place—even with most of the party outside—the heat from outside getting in through the open window, and the proximity of Sam were generating enough warmth to make Billy sweat.

Someone cut through the mass of people, and it took Billy a moment to recognize him.

“Hola, Will,” said Marcos Pérez as he walked up.

Billy looked at him and gave a smile. “Hey, Marcos. Been a while.”

“Shit, yeah,” Marcos laughed, leaning in and sliding his hand against Billy’s, pulling back with a snap. “How you holding up? I heard Blackgate’s not kind to its sons.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Billy shrugged. “I made connections.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Marcos said. “That’ll be good for you, no?”

“I hope so,” Billy nodded. Then he looked around, “Where’s Lucas, anyhow? Did he not come?”

Sam winced a bit and Marcos’ smile dropped.

After a moment of relative silence, Marcos spoke, “Lucas died last year.”

His voice was almost low enough for that answer to be lost under the music.

“Oh,” said Billy. There was probably a correct thing to say in this context, but the best Billy could come up with was, “That’s fucked up.”

Marcos chuckled, then he actually laughed, “Fuck! Fuck, yeah, it is fucked up!”

To Billy’s great disdain and awkwardness, Marcos seemed to be tearing up. He sniffed and nodded, “Thanks. For saying that. See you ‘round, Billy.”

He walked away, and Billy looked at Sam, confused.

“Did I say something right?”

Sam thought about it, and spoke slowly, “I think... I think I get it. Everyone, including me, just said some version of ‘that’s the game’. He must be thankful someone finally said that it was something that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Huh,” said Billy. It always weirded him out when he lucked into succeeding in a social situation.

He sipped his beer.

Sam watched him for a moment, before putting an arm around Billy’s shoulders and leaning in to be heard without raising his voice.

“So?” he asked, “What do you got planned?”

“What do you mean?” Billy raised an eyebrow. “I’m at a party. I’mma drink, smoke and maybe fuck.”

“I sprung the party on you,” said Sam. “I mean, what did you have planned? What did you wanna do?”

“... definitely fuck, then.”

Sam snorted. The air brushed Billy’s cheek, cooling the area that sweat had run down.

Fuck.

“A’ight,” he said, and Billy paid attention again. “I’ll give Sonya a call. Been a while since we talked, so she might not give us the friend disc—”

“Yo.”

The voice cut through the conversation in a moment where the band paused just for a second. The perfect serendipity to put Sam and Billy on guard in an instant.

Russel Broadus, the kingpin of the Blackgaters. Wearing a cream polo shirt that was tight against his frame, backed by Devon Greggs, and getting looks from most people in the party. Including Butcher.

“... yo,” said Sam, frowning and hand twitching as if holding a gun. “Russ. Devon.”

“Reyes,” said Devon.

“... what brings you here?” asked Sam.

“Just here to pay respects,” said Russ, turning to look at Billy. “Heard you took the fall for some shit James’ cousin pulled?”

Sam stiffened up, but Billy mantained his focus on Russ for the moment. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Hm. I appreciate it,” said Russ. “Got a corner that could use that kinda loyalty, if you’re interested?”

“Um...” Billy said, “I... kinda have plans? Sorry.”

Holy shit, he was going to die. He was going to die within 24 hours of his release. This was some bullshit.

“Hm,” Russ repeated. “I see.”

He turned his attention back to Sam, who looked like a lion was staring him down.

“Can I talk to you outside?” asked Russ.

Sam, understanding he wasn’t really asking, stood up wordlessly and gestured for Russ to lead the way.

Billy made to follow, but Devon slightly raised his hand.

He took the hint and sat back down.

Russ and Sam made their way through the crowd and through a side door that gave access to the alleyaway between Butchie’s bar and the Alcoholics Anonymous building.

The door closed behind them, and Billy leaned back. For a moment, they stayed there in silence.

“... two years, huh?” Devon suddenly said.

Billy raised an eyebrow, then nodded.

“Did ten myself,” Devon apported.

He looked to be in his early thirties, meaning that he’d probably had about a decade in the game before getting caught.

He walked so he would be a bit to the side of Billy, back against the same wall as he looked at him.

“Want some advice?” he asked.

“... sure.”

“Don’t jump back in the game right away.”

“Why not?”

“You know how when you feed someone that’s been starving too fast, they die of shock? You’re about to feel like that for every aspect of your life. I’m thinking you’re gonna need at least a month to stop asking for permission to shit.”

“It’s only been two—”

“It happens to people after one, if they weren’t all that prepared. And not to be rude, but you were a fuckin’ kid.”

Billy frowned, before taking notice and asking, “Were?”

Devon didn’t reply, turning his head forward and scanning the crowd with his eyes. Keeping his focus close to the door.

“... right,” said Billy. “I... appreciate the advice.”

“Mm,” Devon said. His mouth opened for a moment, before he hesitated, then closed it with a sigh. “Whatever, do what you want.”

They remained there in silence for a while, before the side door opened again and Russ came back, heading directly for the door without more than a look to Devon.

Said hitman nodded once at Billy, then walked after his boss.

Billy watched them go for a moment, then looked around at ‘his’ party. Everyone that knew him had paid their respects already, so...

He stood up then headed to and through the side door, finding Sam immediately to his left, trying and failing to light a blunt.

Billy fished in his pocket for a lighter and offered it, catching Sam’s attention.

Sam watched him a second, then took the lighter with a thankful mutter and started sparking again, lighting the tip on the third strike.

Billy watched him for a moment, then leaned back against the wall next to Sam, watching his friend out the corner of his eye.

After taking a deep drag, Sam offered the joint. Billy took it, and Sam proceeded to throw away his own lighter, pull out a pack of smokes, light one, then pocket Billy’s lighter.

The dick.

They both inhaled from their respective vices together, exhaled, then switched.

Billy briefly contemplated the cigarette, thinking about how odd it would be to not think of them as currency anymore.

Devon’s words echoed in his head, and he promptly stamped down on the thought.

“What did Russ say?” Billy asked through a cloud of tabaco smoke.

“He wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth about me leavin’ the gang,” Sam sighed, taking a drag from the joint and breathing out through the nose. “He... didn’t seem angry, but...”

“But?”

“He didn’t ask why. Didn’t give a shit, I guess, but...” Sam scratched his nose, then sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Did you want to be understood?” Billy asked, offering the cigarette and taking back the joint.

“... guess so.”

There was a finality with the statement, and they both stood in silence for a bit, trading smokes every so often.

The summer night was still almost as hot as the day had been, and the noise of the block party outside echoed into the alleyway.

Eyes moving, Billy realized they weren’t alone in the alley. There were a few more people hanging around in a less noisy area of the party, and a couple of exhibisionists getting to second base in the corner.

Billy’s eyes caught on the couple. The only thing he could think about was how he wouldn’t have to wonder if the people around him were rapists any more. He would be able to fuck without worry for the first time in two years.

His eyes caught on Sam.

Choosing to change his focus, he took a drag and breathed out a cloud of smoke. He found his vision drawn over to the brick wall in front of him. Spray painted in thick purple letters across the wall, nine words had been written and underlined:

“CRIME ALLEY WONT BOW CAUSE WE DON’T KNOW HOW”

Billy’s eyes traced the letters, over and over.

“... Sam?”

“Mmm?”

“Ask me again.”

“About what?”

“About what I wanna do now.”

“... what do you wanna do, Billy?”

Handing over the joint, he looked at Sam. “I wanna get even.”

Sam took a long drag, put out the joint on his tongue, and nodded. “A’ight. Let me say goodbye to Butchie.”

Butcher didn’t say anything about them leaving their own party early. He just nodded at Sam, put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and welcomed him back.

It was the friendliest gesture Butcher had ever done for Billy. Billy resisted the urge to ask him if he was dying.

As they walked out, saying goodbye to a few people on the way, Billy asked, “They didn’t get invited?”

“I didn’t know they were responsible, so I did invite them.”

“And they didn’t come?”

“And thank you for taking the fall?”

“Ah.”

Less than twenty-four hours after exciting Blackgate Penitentiary, Billy broke his parole, stole a car and drove into someone’s house.

Then he broke it again by Breaking and Entering Artie’s apartment, walking around after climbing in through the fire escape money.

And then he broke it a third time by hitting Artie over the head to knock him out, a fourth time by kidnapping him and dragging him down the fire escape and into the trunk of the car he’d stolen, and possibly a fifth time by driving him to an empty vacant, which might just be a legally creepy thing to do.

He met Sam in there, they carefully removed the board over the door, and together they tied up James and his cousin Artie inside.

They put them both on their backs over a plastic tarp they found inside, and lined them next to each other with arms bound behind backs and legs tied together at the ankles.

They watched their work for a while, then Sam left to pick up some limestone from his house, replacing the board behind him.

Billy stayed and observed them from the shadows, away from the bits of streetlight that cut through the rotting boards nailed across a window.

Thus, they missed him as they slowly awoke and realized their surroundings.

“What the fuck?!” shouted Artie, as soon as he was awake. “Who the fuckdid this?! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Arthur— Arthur!” James shouted, before going back to a low tone, “Shut the fuck up for a second. They might still be around.”

“I fucking hope so!” Artie ‘snarled’. “I’m gonna get free and rip their fuckin’ throat out!”

“Stop posturing for five fucking seconds and let me think!” James said, “I gotta figure out who did this so I can have them put the fuck down.”

They kept arguing and trying to stand up for a while, until a car could be heard braking in front of the vacant lot. They both got quiet, watching as the board was lifted out of the way, letting in the light.

Cloaked in shadow and haloed by streetlight, Sam stepped in and further inside the vacant.

Still, he was recognized. Especially with the bandage around his head.

“Reyes?” asked James, confused, before glaring. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! What is this?!”

“Sam, bro, the fuck happened?” Artie asked, confused. “Who did this?”

“He did, dipshit!” James snarled.

“Wedid,” Billy corrected, making them both flinch as he stepped in front of the light coming in through the window.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Artie.

“Name’s Billy. You probably haven’t heard of me,” he deadpanned.

James’ eyes, however, got very wide, and he started struggling against his ropes harder.

Sam looked at Billy, putting his hand on his shoulder. Billy looked back.

Sam tilted his head towards the two, then asked, “One and one?”

Billy thought it over, then nodded. Since Sam helped arrange this, he’d be polite.

Sam stepped back and blinked slowly, watching Billy. Giving him the first choice.

Billy considered Artie for a bit, but decided that it’d be kind of like kicking a three-legged dog. He’d been protected from failure at every turn, what he had in front was basically a child that had managed to never achieve growth for twenty years, and would never get another chance to try.

The real guilty party was right next to him.

He stepped closer to James, standing right next to his stomach. Billy heard Sam take a step and pull out his gun, ready to offer it.

Instead of that, Billy crouched down, digging his knee into James’ stomach, grabbed him by the neck and reared back a fist.

He’d worked out every day since he’d entered Blackgate, and he had been working out infrequently for years before that. Billy was not a small guy. Or a light one.

All of his considerable musculature and weight was thrown into a punch that lowered his whole body. James’ nose practically exploded, sending a spurt of blood into Artie’s face just as he turned to watch.

Billy leaned back, reared back, and aimed for the jaw next.

Rinse. Repeat.

There wasn’t any particular thought or emotion running through Billy’s head. In fact, there was a notable lack of both as his knuckles split open, blood and chunks of teeth flew out, and the bones in his hand started quivering with every impact and hurting with every movement.

James tried to wheeze something out, then Billy aimed for the throat. Artie wasn’t as easily punished, and thus he was screaming threats, begging for his uncle’s life, and crying in horror. Billy idly wondered what it must be like to watch a face being beaten into paste right in front of your eyes.

Highly traumatic, most likely.

After a while, the pain was too great, and Billy was forced to stop for as long as it took him to switch hands. There wasn’t much point to it, but it wasn’t like Billy was unaware of the fact that he’d been assaulting a corpse for a while.

It wasn’t his fault that James’ remaining life had been shorter than the two years he was owed.

Once that hand was probably broken as well, Billy stumbled into a standing position with an asleep leg, then walked backwards.

He moved to the side to better let in the light, all to better observe his work.

A truly astonishing amount of James’ face had been removed from his head, and a considerable percentage had ended up covering his cousin’s own face.

Satisfied with what he was seeing, Billy turned to look at Sam, who was watching him impassibly, and nodded.

Sam walked up to James, stopping next to his stomach like Billy had.

“Puh-Please,” Artie blubbered, all posturing gone. Washed away with the wave of urine that now decorated his pants. “Please, d-don’t—”

“Don’t worry,” Sam whispered, aiming his gun. “Quick and easy.”

Amazingly, Artie breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief.

That was Sam. Comforting even for the people he was about to kill.

“Sorry to say,” Sam continued, “But my aim’s better than yours.”

The trigger was pulled and Artie was relegated to the past tense.

Sam watched him, sniffed, then turned around, approaching Billy.

They stayed there for a moment, framed by the lines of light coming from outside, watching each other.

“Well?” Sam eventually asked. “How do you feel?”

Billy thought about it.

Then he stepped forward, right into Sam’s space, grabbed his head and laid a kiss on Sam’s lips.

Sam froze, confused, and Billy leaned back, still holding his face adoringly.

“... oh,” said Sam. “Really?”

Billy slowly nodded, eyes searching for confirmation in Sam’s.

“I really never figured...” Sam said, “Billy, I—I’m sorry, but...”

Billy kept searching for a moment, before closing his eyes, stepping back and sighing. “It’s fine.”

“I—I really am—”

“Sam,” Billy interrupted. When Sam looked at him, he smiled. “It really is okay. What it is is plenty.”

Sam hesitated, before giving an awkward smile back and nodding. “Yeah.”

They poured lime on both bodies to slow down the rot and stench, boarded the entryway back up, torched the cars, and calmly walked away, searching for a car to drive closer to the party before ditching it.

Orange streetlights shone down on them, and if they’d looked up, they would’ve seen an animal-shaped signal in the sky.

Walking side by side, they walked in silence, shoulders brushing with every other step, ocassionally pointing at cars before the other shook his head and kept walking.

Eventually, they made it to the party, got absolutely shitfaced, and sang live karaoke.

It was a good day for Billy.