Just a short fic challenge response for fun. I do not own Angel (alas, only in my dreams) and all characters were created solely for my playtime.
Cheers!
Anna
BEGINNING
1902. New York City, New York.
He stood on the rickety balcony, the old iron creaking under his weight, and took in the street scene below him. The smoke from a new cigarette floated up past his face. Gaslamps, candles, dim electric bulbs; flickers of light and raucous noise came and went with small crowds. He breathed in the humid summer air and tasted a pungent odor from the butcher's three blocks down. As if suddenly reminded, he glanced down at the flask in his hand and finished off the last of his drink.
This was new, he thought. That he could have traveled the world and then ... It was a relief. He knew the streets of London without a map, fluently spoke eight regional dialects of Chinese and knew at least four tailors in Vienna that could give him a decent suit. Yet here he knew nothing. Knew no one. Almost no one, he corrected; the butcher and the landlord were necessities. He watched the silhouette of a family turning in for the night, their routine barely hidden by a thin curtain sheet. The stark brutality of living here appealed to him. Everyone was left with animal instinct, survival. And yet (his eyes followed a stumbling idiot on the near corner, who was trying to flatter a prostitute with a flower; she was smiling) there was humanity.
He lit a second cigarette and the streets began to empty with the night progressing inevitably towards the next day. Two patrolmen strolled by underneath the balcony, unaware that he was listening to their banal conversation. After a while he checked his pocketwatch and snuffed out the cigarette. Retiring from the balcony, he moved through the tiny dark room and heard roaches in the floorboards. From under the mattress he took a cigar box and emptied out his pockets. The butcher was clearly overcharging, he thought.
He left the crammed Sixth Ward tenement and followed the same path he had walked last night, eventually coming to the nondescript basement doorway.
"Sullivan's winner," someone grouched as they let him in to the smoker.
The boxing basement was large enough to seat several hundred patrons, filled with close-knit packs placing bets. The place smelled of sweat and beer, with a haze of tobacco smoke hanging like a cloud. He noticed one of the patrolmen from earlier casually having a drink in the corner.
"Ay here's this kid! Ay he's back!" A fiery kid across the hall was pointing at him. North Ireland, he guessed. Whatever favor he had gained with that group was matched by the dislike on the Italian side.
"Don't be listening to that rabbit. You ready?"
He faced the ringmaster. "What about the crusher?"
The ringmaster followed his gaze to the patrolman. "Can't have it rowdy this time. Get on up."
Shedding his shirt, he tuned out the jeers and the cheers. They were only in it for the money, trying to start a new life. So was he. He rubbed his knuckles and anticipated the sting.