++Back To Hell++ {Rocket + Sisko OOC}

[msisko]

AnthonyLessing
"Might I but through my prison once a day
behold this maid. All corners else o' th' earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison."

Thirty One /\ 5’10” /\ 180lbs /\ Short, Wavy Brown hair /\ Green Eyes

Twelve years have passed since Anthony went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
Twelve years since he gave himself in order to protect Vincent McNamara… her father.
Twelve years to change a man… to harden his heart and darken his soul.

Yesterday he was released.
Today, he finds himself back in Hell’s Kitchen...
At the door of his childhood home to care for his ailing father...
In his mind, twelve years bought and paid for his freedom.
But in theirs, twelve years is not enough.

In his room, tucked beneath the mattress, two chrome plated .45s lay
untouched over the years, and as he stands
poised on the verge of acceptance of the past or declaring his freedom,
a voice from the past echos...

[rocketfox]

"Multiply humanity, harmonize insanity, sharing light of remedy, holding
Tides of clarity, shattered glass in flower beds,
Humanize inhumane ends."

Evelyn McNamara
twenty-eight ☸ five-seven ☸ one-hundred & twelve lbs ☸ waving, golden locks ☸ blue-grey eyes

T welve years have passed since Evelyn lost bore a smile;
dozen lengths of time withered and gone -
twelve years to forge the woman who stands, hands bound.

Y esterday she heard the clipping tones;
the rumours in which circle today...
The visage of past coming to front.
Curiosity makes her vulnerable, where eyes hone in.
Her mind does not yet know - will she see?

I n her room golden rays beam;
reflection of mirror cracked.
She'll never be the same, she knows.
Yet she could not care less.

[msisko]

VincentMcNamara
"Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you,
and were tender with you, and stood aside for you?
Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you,
and disputed passage with you?"

53 /\ 5’8” /\ 162lbs /\ Short, Straigh Black Hair, Gray Streaked /\ Brown Eyes

Twelve years passed since the dark deed done.
Twelve years now since the streets ran with blood.
Twelve years to make a man… to rule by the gun

Yesterday the sun reached its zenith.
A new soul rose to authority in Hell’s Kitchen
Today the sky bruised by a setting sun.
Yesterday’s sins viewed under a dying light.

In the church, all is left in God’s hands
And the soul yearns to be redeemed of its sins.
A daughter’s forgiveness would mean betrayal
Some secrets should forever be buried.

Donovan Forester

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:
fecemi la divina podestate,
la somma sapienza e 'l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create
se non etterne, e io etterno duro.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate” – Dante

Thirty-two /\ Family Practitioner /\ Hell’s Kitchen /\ Catholic /\ Ambitious


Heavenly father, please forgive us,
For we know not what we do.
The devil has us in his sights
And his words promise life anew.

Dear Father, please forgive me
For the life, I feel within.
Sin and Guilt darken my soul
I’ve let my downward spiral begin.

Please father, I beseech you now,
The devil has me: I’m about to fall.
Grant me peace, forgive me my sins
My life’s blood drains, I give to you my heart, my soul.. my all

.

[msisko]

The world was punctuated by the sounds of barking dogs. Agitations in the blood of mutts and mongrels as the invaders pour into the courtyard. Anthony’s grip on the chrome plated gun white knuckled, his eyes red, and swollen in unshed tears. His heart beat with anger, hatred, fear, rage… it all poisoned his blood, spreading through him with every pump of the great muscle. In the moment, there was only himself and Vincent. Nothing else mattered. And as the great weight of an armored body bore him to the ground from behind, Anthony felt his finger squeeze on the trigger. His revenge, his vindication, firing harmlessly into the sky, as his face was dug into the blood soaked earth.

Carmine lay on his back in a pool of his own blood: six holes to center mass, and Vincent stood innocently aside and watched. The Don’s face was locked in death, and as Anthony fought to turn his head, his young eyes bore into the death stare of his families father. The flame of betrayal had burned in Carmine in that last moment, evidence by the smoldering embers of hatred forever etched into those cold, calculating eyes. Anthony didn’t wince as the police wrenched his right arm painfully behind his mind. He didn’t struggle as a knee was dug into his spine to keep his stationary, as his left was brought to meet his right between his shoulder blades. His mind returned to the moments before; to understand what was happening.

Anthony came into the gardens of the McNamara family house as he was asked. He was quick to present, jogging through the main gate from the direction of the garages, to find Mr. McNamara standing before a bed of blooming tulips. Carmine was something different than any other ordinary man. He was heavy set, with a grandfatherly face with a smile that, at times, seemed almost gentle understanding, while at others spoke of the devil rumored to live within. He dressed in a white suit, as stereotypical as that was, it fit Carmine to the nth degree. His hair was well gray, and his head bare of its traditional chapeau, which he wore in the face of common trends of fashion. He was a figure of power, of authority, who took a little punk kid off the street begging to save a ill and dying father, and gave him a job tending flowers.

Carmine turned to see Anthony come into the garden area, and he raised his head. That smile, splitting his grandfatherly face, accompanied a motion with his right hand to beckon the boy over, and Anthony didn’t hesitate to obey. Nobody hesitated to obey Carmine. At least, nobody lived long afterwards. Anthony had seen horrors, had put things beneath the earth here, in this garden, that still sparked in his nightmares. Things he didn’t want to understand, for reasons he would not to know. As he broke into a comfortable hearing range, he heard Carmine’s voice raise out to him, speeding his steps.

“Come here my boy. I want you to help me with something.” It was always a favor with Carmine… after all, to the man, favors were a form of currency… as good as dollars or gold. Sometimes better, as there were things you could buy with a favor, that you could never hope to purchase with dollars. He found himself staring at the bed of tulips, Carmine’s strong arm running across the width of his shoulder, clasping him in a firm grip.

“My boy, beautiful flowers. I want them clipped, vased, put in Evie’s room for when she returns tonight from Paris,” Carmine spoke. His granddaughter, Evelyn, sat at the heart of Carmine since she came to him in infancy. If there were one thing in this world Carmien was said to truly love, it would be that little girl. With her, he seemed normal. Just a man with his grandchild… he spoiled her so, made her want for not. If it was in his power, she had it. Tutors… clothes…. Pets…. The dreams of childhood fulfilled at even the slightest request, without concern for waste or the flippant nature of children. She truly was his hearts treasure.

“I’ll see it done,” Anthony said, but didn’t move from Carmine’s grip, as the old man’s fingers tightened even further around his shoulder. There was something else. Something weighing on the old man. He could feel it hanging about the air like a stench, a thick oil settling on the surface of the water. “And I would talk with you about the brightest of blooms in my household, my boy…” Carmine spoke, his tone growing serious, and he knew what was coming next. Carmine had noticed him and Evelyn had become friends. Talks out in the garage, words exchanged in the safety of small, secluded places, away from listening ears: apparently not far enough away. He thought they’d been careful… but apparently it wasn’t careful enough.

“Evelyn,” Anthony said, letting Carmine know that he followed the topic of conversation. The old man’s head slowly nodded, and he repeated her name slowly, in a deep, quiet voice. But what was to come never did. No threats. No talks about how he, a poor gardener, could never provide… would never be good enough. The conversation was cut short by the sound of foot steps on the stone path through the gardens, and both Carmine and Anthony turned to see Vincent coming up the path. His face was serious, and there was an air of agitation about the younger McNamara that made Anthony want nothing more than to be allowed to leave the two alone, and to his surprise, Carmine let his grip on Anthony’s shoulder go.

“Run along now and get the vase. We’ll continue our talk in a moment,” he spoke quietly to Anthony, who stepped away quickly, towards the oncoming Vincent, and ultimately, towards the gates to the garden. He didn’t meet Vincent’s gaze, as the younger rested his eyes on him for a moment, and felt his body stiffen as the younger’s hands reached out, gripped tightly at his wrists, pulling him to a stop. Anthony looked down to see a black, leather gloved hand upon his wrist, clenched tightly, and he raised his eyes to Vincent’s face, but the keen eyes of Vincent McNamara were trained on his father. There clearly was anger in that gaze… a rage that Anthony couldn’t understand. Had there been a fight between the two of them: a dispute… over what?

“She is my daughter, not yours. Mine to decide who is best for her,” Julian said flatly, but he could hear the anger constrained behind the man’s voice, an inferno behind the heavy doors of a crematorium’s furnace. Then the gunshot reverberated off the garden walls. Once, twice.. again, and again, in rapid succession. Anthony closed his eyes tightly against the noise, the sound coming from so near, so suddenly. The sounds shattered his composure, instinct forced his hand, as he gripped at the chrome handle he was suddenly well aware of digging against the small of his back. He drew, ripped himself back in a single motion. A seventh gunshot rang out.

Julian screamed in pain, dropping the chrome .45 as he fell backwards form the impact of the bullet against his right shoulder, and Anthony was standing stunned, numbed. His mind devoured what was happening, trying to make some sense of it all, trying to place events in an order that made sense. Julian had come and… Carmine! The young man’s eyes slid over the ground to the older McNamara’s position to find the old man laying on his back, crushing the pink tulips he admired only a moment ago: The pink tulips he had deemed a present for Evelyn. His life’s blood seeped out of six large holes in his chest: the final resting points of the first six shots.

Anthony shook his head, and suddenly where fear stood, there was anger. He trained the gun on Julian, to freeze the man in his place, though he hadn’t moved since landing on his back against the stones, a bullet in his shoulder. “Why,” Anthony started. Hesitation only angered him further, as he saw Julian’s eyes skitter to the dropped .45 on the ground. Anthony’s eyes flecked to it as well, and instantly he recognized it as his. The gun he hadn’t been able to find this morning. Instinct again, and he picked it up from the ground to look it over. It was his alight, etched with his initials, matching the weapon in his hand now. He tucked the still burning barrel of the weapon into his pocket, before going back to Vincent, and again demanding reason. “Why?”

“Does it matter,” Vincent spoke, a sinister grin crossing over his lips at his own good fortune. Slowly he rose to his feet, careful not to envoke Anthony’s anger any further. Vincent knew that the gunshots would have been heard, and knew that the police would already be on their way. It was only a matter of minutes… the station was not far. He held up his gloved left hand, placing it over his injured shoulder, wincing at the pain as he applied his own pressure to the gunshot wound, all the while the smirk remaining on his lips. “It won’t be my crime. Look around you, do you see a witness? I don’t.” Vincent spoke, “I see my father murdered, and my gardener standing with the murder weapon… a weapon that bears only his prints,” Vincent spoke, and wiggled his blood stained fingers. The grin grew sharper as he saw realization settle into Anthony’s eyes; watched as they grew wild with anger.

“Ah ha.. I’d wait on that if I were you,” Vincent added, watching the finger around Anthony’s trigger tense. He held a breath in his lungs, pain choking him, threatening to swallow his mind, but he fought it off. He only had one shot at this, just one to ensure that he walked away.. that young Lessing here assumed responsibility. “Imagine her turmoil, if both her loving grandfather, and her loving father, were murdered on the same day… all that supports her, gone in one fell swoop. You’d not only destroy me, but you’ll destroy Evelyn as well.” Vincent’s eyes shone, and Anthony believed now the devil that rumored to live in Carmine… must be passed through the blood.

“The police will be here in a moment. Just stand there, and hold that gun on me. I will tell them it was a defensive struggle.. that my father attacked you. You will go to jail, because you don’t have any defensive wounds… but the doubt will be enough to perhaps save some shreds of your life for when you get out?” Vincent’s voice was poison, and in the moment, Anthony was too afraid, to lost to know what to do, where to look…where to turn. There was no logic for this, no experience in his young life to fall back on. The devil stood before him offering him a deal.. his soul for what?

“Evelyn,” Vincent spoke. He too knew their little secret. “This will tarnish you in her mind, but take the fall, and I will whisper doubt into her ear that she’ll not close herself off completely. Time can mend all things… “

Groping hands located and drew the second pistol from his pocket, as Anthony laid still against the dirt. His eyes squeezed shut as realization sat in. He didn’t believe Vincent, couldn’t believe him. She’d never be able to forgive him this., and there was nothing Vincent could say, would say, that would convenience her otherwise. But he was right. The loss of Carmine would be hard on her. He couldn’t take her father away from her too.

They found his wallet, pulled it loose. He felt like he was being processed, as the metallic cuffs closed painfully over his wrists, digging in against the bones and tendons. He listened as they spoke his rights to him, lifting him from the ground, an officer on both sides of him. He could do nothing but glare hatred at Julian.. the smug younger McNamara being led back towards the house by a paramedic.

In a few hours, Evelyn would come home from Paris, an she would learn the truth of this. That a gardener friend of hers broke into the garden and shot her grandfather as he tended his tuplips… That was what the truth had to be, to protect her. And as they lowered his head, forcing him into the back of the squad car, Anthony whispered his goodbye to her…

[rocketfox]

All righty then!
Altered her age, now she would of been maybe sixteen-seventeen back then.

[msisko]

awesome. that'd make more sense..

[rocketfox]

Yepp!
Now, excellent start off post, it was lovely to read.

I'm thinking of how to start my own off though..
:|

[msisko]

thanks! I'm glad you like it. I've read some of your writing, so I find that to be high praise.. your great. I'm really excited about this play.. I find better writers improve my craft..

[rocketfox]

Excellent, I'm glad I can 'least inspire you to push on otherwise common writing boundaries.

I'm thinking of starting my post sometime tonight, don't know if I'll finish it all, but it's a start none the less.

[msisko]

awesome. can't wait.