Missing Chicago

Part One:

Mickey, Lip, Fiona, Frank, Veronica, Sheila

1

Mickey's life began a decline with the words, "Dad's acting funny." Though to be honest, his life really hadn't been going great to begin with. Considering he'd just knocked over a liquor store with the Ortiz twins and their dyke sister Alicia. Considering they'd been busted up and ran from the police in two directions. Considering Alicia and he were standing here, needing to hide out in the house before being arrested. And especially considering Iggy was standing between Mickey and the only chance of cover he had right now.

So really, Mickey could have given a fuck less about his old man having a bad god damned day. Terry Milkovich needed a few bad days. Bad enough to make up for all the shit he'd been putting Mickey through lately just so Terry could have a good one. Terry was so fucking selfish lately, and it burned Mickey up inside knowing he'd had to drop school just to make up for all the money Terry had been pissing away on meth and hookers. Somebody had to feed his family, and Mickey guessed that'd be him. His brothers were too fucking stupid and Mandy was just a girl. So Mickey would handle it.

Unless, of course, Iggy blocked this door long enough to get Mickey throw back into juvie.

"Isn't he always?" Mickey snapped up at his brother.

Beside of him, Alicia craned her neck, brown eyes darting around all corners in look out. She tapped Mickey with her chipped fingernails and shoved a short, choppy lock of hair out of her nervous face. "Dude," she hissed still looking out, "we need to get inside."

"Yes, I fucking know that!" Mickey hurled back at her, causing the girl to flip him off and huff as she started walking away. "What?" Mickey called out, alarmed. She'd bring attention if someone spotted her running down the street. "Where you going?" he asked, face wide and angry, yet trying to maintain his cool. If she did run off and get picked up, Mickey didn't want this cunt ratting him out to save her own skin. "Alicia," he started up again as she made it past his fence, cursing him still. Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed out heavily. "Aye, bitch!" he growled, apologetic, sort of. "I'm sorry! Get your ass back over here!"

Iggy shook his head, glanced over his shoulder through the back door. Deep frown imprinted on his bruised face. He crossed his arms and spit by his foot on the stoop as he turned back. "Man," Iggy started, voice low and wary, "he ain't right. Uncle Tommy says something clawed him when they were in Indiana burying that Polish guy."

Mickey furrowed his brow and wrinkled up his mouth. "You still on about this?" he asked, annoyed. Alicia stalked back up behind him as he shoved past Iggy to get through the door. But Iggy pressed back, slammed the door shut it hard behind him.

Scowling now instead of worrying, Iggy told Alicia to back the fuck down. Getting in Mickey's face, he said, "I mean it, Mickey. Tell your spic bitch to shut her trap and listen. Something's bad wrong."

"Like how?" Mickey flared, exasperated. Hoped that abiding Iggy for now would get him in the door. His brother's breath smelled of cigarettes and tuna. Was putrid. Their closeness was irritating. Mickey had his bubble and didn't like it being popped.

And then Iggy said, "Dad just bit Colin! Took a chunk out of his hand!" That's when Mickey's life really fell to shit. Followed by the sound of sirens rounding his neighborhood, and soon being forced into handcuffs.

Four Weeks Later

Solitary confinement in a youths' detention center was a lot like the time Mickey's father locked him up in the basement for letting a cop into the Milkovich house. It was quite, cold, and dark most of the time. He could hear people walking around and never saw them. Was tossed down a plate of food a few times daily. And the time passed by extremely slow. Mickey slept whenever because his concept of time was off by a long shot. Currently, however, he couldn't sleep because of all the racket going on in the building. His block was the only quiet one, and that was because of being set away from the others.

Until today, though, things had been eerily quiet.

Mickey had no clue what was going on. Brow furrowed, he pressed his ear to the door, cupping his hand around it. Tried to listen in better. Outside of his cell, things sounded insane. Like everyone had lost their shit. He listened more. To all of the screaming. The sound of gunshots echoed through his skull.

"Fuck!" Mickey spat in a whisper. Terrified, he shoved away from the door. Running footsteps coming toward his way freaked Mickey out. Eyes wide, he dropped to his ass and scooted across the small room. Mickey looked around fast. Of course there was nothing to defend himself with. "Shit," he mumbled as the footsteps stopped.

Whatever was going on, Mickey didn't have to think hard on it. It was bad news. Someone was shooting up the place. That much was obvious. Though how this person had gotten in and managed to take down various armed correctional officers was worrying. The security here was packed tight. This was bad.

The person outside of his door jingled a pair of keys. Clearly searching for Mickey's. Heart racing, Mickey changed his course. He hurried to his feet and slammed himself against the wall by his door. Tried to mold himself into the wall. With all of the noise outside, no way could whoever came for him hear Mickey's erratic breathing. He stood in wait, eyes wide, and mouth hanging open in furious terror as the door opened up. The nose of a gun extended in aim. Mickey saw the figure visibly pause before quickly turning in the direction Mickey was hidden, behind the door.

Fast, Mickey shoved the door against the man, caught him off guard. The gun slung upward and went off. Ears ringing painfully from the close quarters shot, Mickey yelled out and held his head. A small smear of blood coating his pam. Thankfully, he hadn't had to work hard at saving himself. Due to the fact that the bullet miraculously rickacated back and nailed the fucker in his neck. Bleeding out, the suited up maniac writhed about, trying to re-aim his gun at Mickey's retreating form.

Too late because Mickey Milkovich ran fast down the hall and away from the psycho's next fire.

His hall was empty as usual. Yet up ahead, Mickey heard what now sounded like a fucking raid. His head swam. Breathing heavy as he ran toward the commotion, Mickey made a snap decision to see about going off toward the visiting area. As he grew closer, the screams grew louder, the guns sounded off like thunder. Mickey turned on a dime and swooped around the corner. Yet, as he came to discover, nothing was quiet. Nowhere seemed safe. Still Mickey ran to the visiting area. This was made easy being as someone had shut off the automatic locks to all of the entrances. Sweating like crazy in his blue jumpsuit, Mickey came to a dead stop just outside the bars of his destination. Beyond him was a lineup of boys, all laying dead before the phones and glass.

Mickey took a step back, swallowing the panic that threatened to overtake him. "What the fuck?" he asked no one as he stared at the bodies. Some shot in the back of their heads, others looked to have tried either fighting back of pleading for their lives. Regardless, no one in the room was alive. Layers of brain and blood splattered the visiting glass and cinderblock walls, running down and pooling about the linoleum.

Holding his face, Mickey blinked. He smacked himself hard. No way was he seeing this. He was dreaming. Except he really wasn't. Mickey looked back over his shoulder, back to the noise.

He had to get the hell out of this building and fast. How had someone not come in and put a stop to this?

A sudden fear struck a cord in Mickey. Realization. It ran his blood cold. The thought hadn't occurred to him until that very second that perhaps this facility had okayed mass homicide for some ungodly reason.

Letting out a shaky breath as he held onto the white bars of the opened door, Mickey let his eyes roam over the display of bodies and carnage. No one was dead on the other side of that glass. In fact, it appeared as though no one had even been on the opposite side. He observed this with a sick stomach. And sudden realization that his fear was true. The boys in this room, their dead faces, looked scared, angry, and above all, the ones who'd been shot in the back; they looked confused. Someone had led these people in here under the pretense of visitors. And then they'd shot them up. But why?

Mickey tried to calm himself and gain enough composure to think of a way to get himself to safety. If doing so were even possible. Regardless, he knew he'd go down trying.

And then the screams stopped. All was silent. Somewhere around a corner, Mickey heard a radio go off.

"All clear?" a man's raspy voice asked.

Sounds of static filled the quiet, followed by, "Rodger that. Tracy, code nine in the solitary."

"Is he dead?" the raspy voice asked, paused and concerned. Yet business.

What the hell had Mickey woken up to? He'd been locked up in solitary for his entire stay. His second day in, Mickey had punched the warden in his fat fucking face and landed himself in a wing all to his lonesome. From all Mickey could tell, what with being blocked off from all forms of news and awareness, things had been fine. Though he hadn't received food all day today. He'd thought maybe his idea of what time is was had been confused, though. Hadn't put much more into it.

Mickey chewed his sweaty mouth and tried breathing silently as he sneaked into the visiting room and crawled up behind a body. He did this as the voice on the radio grew close by. By the time the now obvious Swat Team member thudded his way toward Mickey, Mickey had sandwiched himself between two corpses and lay still. Camouflaged enough that he fooled the man. And there he remained until the coast was clear yet again. And even then, Mickey staid laying in the floor, shaking and afraid to move. He stared into the eyes of the dead twelve year old boy beside of him and chewed his tongue raw as he listened. Listened for all signs of life to leave the building. The wait lasted hours. And hours. Until Mickey's bladder wanted to burst and he'd had no choice but to rush and piss in a corner. Yellow urine swirling in a mix of gore.

When night came, Mickey tiptoed out of his hiding. Remained as sneaky as he could, just in case.

By the grace of a god Mickey didn't believe in, he made it out the side exit and into total darkness. Into eerily empty streets. He stood staring off, mind numb. Yet breathing better. Covered in someone else's blood. But he was safe for now.

Until the butt of gun thunked him in the back of his head.