THE DEVIL IN MANHATTAN
To the majority of people who knew them it would seem a far reach that anyone could leave both the MacManus brothers speechless. Usually, if one couldn't come up with a sharp retort in time, then the other would instantly take up the slack. Sometimes neither would have say anything at all. The flash of their eyes would be all the words necessary. In moments like that, particularly if you were a evening patron at McGinty's, it was wise to stand back and pray the storm wasn't aimed in your direction. However, speechless was as good a description as any to describe the atmosphere now hanging oppressively in their small, hole-in-the-wall quarters. It was almost too much for Murphy to take. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a thin cigarette and lighter. Sparking a flimsy flame to life, he took in a deep drag, closing his eyes as the calming taste of smoke rolled along his tongue. He had never been one for silence. That had always been more of Connor's style. His twin could find just about anything to keep himself occupied when the need arose, whether it be by reading the newspaper, designing a grandiose scheme that never quite worked out the way he planned, or simply praying. Patience came to Connor as easily as breathing. For Murphy, though, it was a task not an art. A task that had become harder in the last few months then he ever imagined. Silence, for him, was the key to memory. Memory or rather memories were something he wanted to put behind him. The bed creaked as he shifted, glancing over at his brother. Connor looked up at the noise. It was the first sign of life he had exhibited in an eternity. After Anna's footsteps faded, he had momentarily stormed off after her. His footsteps only made it about as far as the stairwell. Then, as if deciding it wasn't worth it, he had returned, picked up the magazine on the foot of the bed, and began reading it as if nothing had happened. However, Murphy could tell by Connor's ever darkening scowl that more then one or two nerves had been hit by Anna's abrupt departure. He also knew it was wiser to give his twin the chance to cool off. "So," Murphy said, taking the movement as permission to finally break the unbearable silence, "Do ya think she was serious?" "How the fuck would I know?" Connor replied, his scowl darkening another shade as he turned back to his magazine. Murphy shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his. Apparently it was still too soon for Connor to want to speak. Leaning back against the wall again, he closed his eyes, willing time to go by faster. "Besides," he heard Connor mutter, almost to himself, "Even if she weren't...She's always on abou' how she doesn't fuckin' trust us. Maybe it's abou' time she left us alone." Now it was Murphy's turn to scowl. Opening his eyes, he sat up and turned sharply to fully face Connor "Ye don' mean that," he argued, glowering at his brother. Connor turned his head towards him, a look of momentary surprise crossing his face. "The fuck I don't," he replied, "What's it to ye anyway? Ye hardly ever speak a word ta her." A sharp stab of guilt accompanied the red flush of anger through Murphy's veins. Despite the obvious impression Anna had made on his brother, Murphy still hadn't been able to allow himself to warm up to her. It wasn't that he didn't like her (though he could do without her constant attempts to make him talk about his experiences and the nightmares that came with them) or that he felt overly protective towards his brother and his brother's feelings. In all honesty, he was grateful her daily interactions with Connor had provided him with an excuse not to face the bitter resentments he had found he harbored towards his twin over the way their fates had played out. While he understood on an instinctual level that Connor had done everything short of killing someone to find him and he knew he would have done (and still would do) the same if their roles were switched, he also knew that something had finally come between the closely bonded pair. All things being equal, he alone had born the burden of being taunted, tortured, given the choice to kill his brother or save himself, and then been left to carry out his choice. Anna, for him, was a reminder of how close he came to making the wrong one. "Ah, don' try blamin' this on me," Murphy shot back, though in the back of his mind he wondered if it weren't true, "Yer the one who won't admit ta takin' a fancy to her..." The scowl dropped immediately from Connor's face, replaced by a mask of cold indifference. It was a look Murphy recognized as full intent to maim and possibly kill. Any more pressure and he knew Connor would come at him. "Walk away, Murph," Connor interrupted him softly, honoring their bond only so far as to give his brother a warning. His eyes locked on Murphy's and the brothers glared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down. "Fuck you, then," Murphy finally replied, unwilling to deal with Connor and his mood. Standing up, he threw on his jacket which had been lying across the edge of his bed. Turning his back on Connor, he stalked off in search of fresh air. Father Reginald A. Genosa had been serving the parishioners of St. Peters and the surrounding city missions for approximately thirty-seven years now. A man in his mid-sixties, the good reverend was an unusually active individual both for his congregation and in the volunteer community during his own spare time. Casting a terrible, lean, reaper-like shadow from his pulpit, a quick conversation with the man would reveal an individual with a sincere, gentle, and self-sacrificing personality. Hardly a person to condone violence, Father Genosa had nevertheless taken it upon himself to shelter and protect the Saints of South Boston, providing both physical and spiritual support to the two young men. His reasons were his own. The brothers, he had soon found, were a study of contrast when it came to their shared response towards support. On one hand, they seemed almost awed by his willingness to allow them to partake of the Sacraments (provided they had confessed and received absolution) and to pray with them without necessarily asking what he was pray about. While obviously devout, their reactions bothered Father Genosa. It was almost as if someone had taught them all they needed to know to be good Catholics, yet had failed somewhere to point out why they were to perform or not perform the actions. In the most secret of his thoughts, he sometimes surmised that such an error may have been the root cause of their vigilantism. In the physical realm, however, both men showed a stark independence. Once cleared by a physician in his congregation, the brothers asked little of the priest in terms of material goods. In fact, the only vice they made known to him was asking his permission to smoke cigarettes. While he personally found the habit insufferable, Father Genosa decided to make a small exception in their case, provided the boys indulge only in their tucked away sanctuary. Now sitting in the safe quiet of his own office, Father Genosa's thoughts were far from thoughts of cigarette smoke or even the wanted fugitives hiding in the basement of his church. Instead, he was currently entangled in the design of his sermon for the first Sunday in Advent. With Christmas coming in a few weeks, he had decided to start a circuit involving the angelic messengers found throughout the Bible. Unfortunately, the usually articulate man could not find the right words. Taking off his reading glasses, he set the flimsy frames down atop the blank sheet of paper needing to be filled by Sunday. He had momentarily contemplated giving up the task earlier evening, but remembered he had promised to conduct a service at one of the missions in the lower end of Manhattan. The trip itself would take up too much of the day for him to put off working on the sermon. Nevertheless, he could feel the wariness of late evening settle on his bones. It was in that instant, of course, that the telephone at the edge of his desk rang. Looking dubiously over at the offending object, Father Genosa once more pulled on his glasses before picking up. "Hello, Father Genosa speaking," he said, his voice rumbling in a stong base. "Father, Tis Murphy," a familiar lilt came over the line, "Could ye get Connor?" Genosa had a sudden feeling momentary apprehension hearing that one twin was without the other. Shaking away the feeling as suddenly as it appeared, he replied quickly, "Of course, my son. Has something happened?" There was a momentary pause followed by, "On second thought, tell him ta come over ta Anna's." Again, Genosa felt the tingle of apprehension and the sense that this was an affair he was not welcome into. "Of course," he replied, standing anyway, "Anything else I should tell him?" "Aye," Murphy replied and Genosa thought he detected a note of panic in the young man's voice, "Tell him Anna's not here." A.N. Dun dun dun. Sorry for the late update, I've been trying to figure out how to write the brothers' interactions/personalities and make them normal but somewhat altered based on what's happened to them. Hopefully I'm not too far off the mark. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Please review!
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