At seventeen, when Spot Conlon remembered his mother he didn't see the wretch she was when she drew her last breath. As with most little boys, his mother was his whole world and he didn't see her flaws. Not even when she locked him in a cupboard while she entertained men to pay the rent, nor when she told him to play in the hallway outside the door. He loved her, though he'd already been hurt and watched her be hurt too many times to know what that should mean, but he hated that hallway. It was dark and dirty with only one grimy window at the end. The green carpet smelled like mildew and the plaster was crumbling from the walls and the ceilings. She only put him out there when he cried or picked his skin to bleeding from being in the cupboard too much. She knew the risk out there even when she walked wobbly and didn't talk right. She knew that her boy might be safer from the John in her bed, but in the hallway, Constantine could get to him. Constantine was so much worse than anything else the little boy had ever been up against. He was a monster.

He didn't have shoes because he'd outgrown his last pair weeks before and there was barely money to buy old bread. He sat with his back against the door, crumbling the piece of bread she gave him to keep him quiet at his feet, waiting for her to let him back in….if she remembered him at all. His eye never left the door to his left as the speckled bread fell on his bare feet; the one with the shiny brass plaque on it that let all of the tenants know that someone special, someone with power lived there.

The lock clicked and every muscle in his tiny body stiffened. He had no way out. If he went for the stairs or the front door, he had to pass the monster's door. There was nowhere on their floor to hide. His only chance was that dirty little window and the iron fire escape outside of it. He pumped his little legs, but the monster's boots were right behind him. The window was jammed, it wouldn't open and that big hand clamped down on his shoulder as he struggled. "Stan," his mother's groggy voice called, the panic clear even though she tried to play it coy. "Leave him alone. I got what you want right here."

Those words rang through his head, his mother's voice mixing with Marta's as Marta pulled Mick away from him. She told him to run, to hide, just like his mother did. But he couldn't, because he did when he was five and she died while he hid on the fire escape. Marta's hazel eyes pleaded with him; she wanted him to let her go, let her give herself up for him. Finally, Trout had to pull him out of the room and up the stairs. The fire was already lit on the bottom floor. The smoke was thick and heavy, muffling the shouts of the men. "No!" he cried, fighting against Trout's grip. "We can't leave her! The monster will kill her! We gotta stay!"

He fought frantically until Trout grabbed his face, nearly crushing Spot's sharp chin in his thick hand, glaring at him with stern cerulean eyes. "I ssssss'ay," Trout grunted, his voice gravely from all the use it had seen that day after so many years of silence as well as the thick smoke that was starting to rise up the stairwell. He pointed at himself with his free hand and then moved his hand between the two of them. "W-we sss…ssssss'ay." The crushing grip released and Trout made a gesture, one of the ones Spot didn't know, he'd refused to learn, but he got the gist of it. Together. They'd stay with her, together. He raised his eyebrows, wanted Spot to give him a sign that he understood. Spot nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling that if he left Marta even for a moment, he would come back to find what he found when he was five. Trout pointed to the nearest window. "Go. Ow…out." Spot froze. No. He couldn't watch from there. He couldn't watch her be ravaged and then watch the monster on top of her bash her head in. He wouldn't watch Marta end up that way, but Trout gave him a gentle push towards the open window. "Go."

Together they crouched under the window on the second floor. Spot started out at the dark city listening to the roar of the beast in his head while Trout kept an eye on Marta. Spot writhed and jittered, shaking his head to stop the noise. "Trout," he grunted, not even recognizing his own voice. "Trout, I gotta get outta here. I gotta. It's just like before. I can't do this." He started to scramble to his feet. He had to get away before he hurt his friend, his brother, again, but Trout grabbed his arm and pulled him back, pointing in the window. He didn't want to look and he fought, but Trout was ready for him, shoving a fist into his gut so hard that he retched and folded over. When he looked up, Trout was already climbing the stairs to the window they broke to get out and his need to save her won over his fear. In the room, Marta hadn't moved. Mick still sat astride her, but he wasn't hurting her or kissing her anymore. He was staring down at her in wide eyed confusion while she smirked up at him. Spot pressed his ear to the window to try to hear what she was taunting him with.

"Can't you feel it? Your little Tenement of Dreams is on fire, Mr Mickelson ." She grinned at him brilliantly. He looked up at the haze that was creeping up on them and ran to the stairwell and stared down at the flames licking up and the men already collapsed below, before very slowly returning to stand over her. "Rudy has the rest of them down in the street in case you try to run. They'll be waiting to take you out. I have your second, I have your mistress, I have your protege and I had your madame by my side until she sacrificed herself to make sure you thought you were winning. She was wrong about one thing though, I'm not your weakness. You are. I warned you about being a self righteous prick. You're nothing but a manipulative asshole who gets his jollies torturing other people. You bent me, I'll give you that, but I have and always have had people behind me pushing me back upright. Even I thought you won when you took Scat, when you turned him on me, but he was never the only one there. I have a family behind me, holding me up, which is exactly why I will win this. Because you have nothing." Her eyes flicked to the window and she smiled just a bit before returning to her prey. She was back. That was Kisser, that was the strong willed, never-say-die girl who raised him. "You were just bested by a housekeeper, a kid and a couple of whores and we set your whole world on fire. I have boys dousing the Fox and your house in kerosene as we speak. Your empire is dead and your reign over my city is over."

He dropped over her, straddling her again. "I don't lose," he said absently.

"There's a first time for everything, Toots."

"No." He turned his too light, golden eyes on her, and both she and Spot saw the same ferocity he turned in both Niko and Spot in her presence before. "If I'm going down, I'm having what I've waited ten years for."

She gave Spot one last long look, one sad smile before hardening her face. Her eyes a flat, dull, brassy tone instead of the warm golden green he was used to. "Then do it," she gritted out. She coughed heavily as smoke burned her nose and lungs and sweat beaded in her hairline as the heat under the floor continued to build. Mick shoved her chemise up as his hand slid down into her pants but a swish of red satin caught Spot's attention and cut off her cry of protest. Darcy's petite form moved out of the shadows in the corner of the room, Clarice's cane gripped tightly in her hands. The two women locked eyes and Marta gave a slight nod. Darcy was sooty and singed, her cheeks pink from the heat as she drew the cane back, brandishing it like a bat. It struck the back of Mick's head with a crack that Spot felt in his chest even through the buffer of the window glass and the man slumped forward as if all of his bones suddenly went soft. His head took a second blow as it smacked, forehead to forehead with Marta's. Both of them were so still and Darcy stood frozen, still holding the cane up, ready to administer another blow.

Trout ran in, but stopped short, staring at Darcy with his hands up submissively. He moved slowly, gently towards the tiny girl, keeping his blue eyes trained on hers until he could reach out and pull the cane away. He stood still for another minute, just standing there before she nodded and he moved towards Marta and Mick, easily pushing Mick's slack body off of Marta and checking on her. Spot still didn't move, not even after Trout gestured that she was ok, just knocked out. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. Who the hell was he? Spot Conlon didn't chicken out! Spot Conlon didn't watch from the balcony while others did what needed to be done. Was he ever going to be Spot Conlon, the real Spot Conlon again? The window glass suddenly shattered around him and Darcy was pulling on him, screaming at him, but he couldn't understand her. The roar was too loud. "Spot!" she yelled. "Help him!" He looked into the apartment and Mick was on top of Trout, a knife held to the dark haired boy's throat. Trout was pushing back with all of his might, holding the deranged gang boss back with nothing but brute strength. Spot stared at them, and then looked to Darcy again, terrified that she was going to unleash that monster in his head again. Her green eyes were mournfully grey. "It will never end unless you do," she said. "As long as he's alive, he'll never let us go."

"Wait for me," he murmured. Her transparent eyebrows furrowed. "When it's done, wait for me. Take me out if…if it ain't me standing here when its over." She nodded, understanding the care in his words. He couldn't hurt her again. He didn't want to hurt any of them and he wasn't sure he had the strength to fight his way back to the surface again. "Club me like you done him if you gotta, Darce." At her nod, he stepped through the broken window and picked Clarice's cane up from the floor, giving it the quarter turn that unlatched the blade. The handle was heavy in his hand, and he smirked. Leave it to that crafty bird to weight the handle so it packed a harder punch. He flipped it around in his hand and watched, biding his time while Trout grappled on the floor. He had the knife now, but instead of using it on Mick, he seemed to just be trying to scare him away, just defending himself. It took everything in Spot to hold his ground, to not try to take Trout out for attempting to take the kill he'd earned, but the beast was also sure that Trout wouldn't make it against Mick. He was too soft, too sappy and too weak. So he waited until Mick had him pinned and was just about to strike before he jumped in, grabbing Mick by his sleek silver streaked hair and with one deft flick under his handsome chin, ended the tyrant's rule.

Spot would have stopped there; he wanted to, but the monster that now lived inside of him couldn't rest. Mick needed to pay. The next thing he knew, the knife was dropping to the floor next to him and Trout's big boots kicked it away from him. He raised his eyes, feeling like his body was full of lead, like every drop of blood in him suddenly weighed too much. Trout was humming and watching him with a look on his face that Spot had never seen before. His best friend was afraid of him, and when he dragged his eyes around the room he saw why. Mick was hardly recognizable, and the smoke was almost too thick to see through. Marta was still unconscious, her beautiful curls shorn short and ragged by the knife that Mick drove into her braid. "Trout?" Spot grunted, unsure of how long it had been since he stepped through the window, but couldn't get more than that out through the smoke in his lungs. Trout coughed and knelt down, pulling Marta over his shoulder. "Where's Darcy?" Spot yelled over the roar of the approaching flames. Trout nodded his head towards the window. Darcy stood on the street, her torn red skirt and pale skin standing out against the darkness. Spot went out the window first and tried to take Marta so that Trout could get out more easily, but Trout glared at him and pulled her away, insisting on doing it himself.

He didn't let Spot near her when they got to the street, or when he set her down, safely out of the way of the fire brigade. He stood watch over her, making sure that Spot couldn't get close. Finally, Spot took the hint and sat down with his back against the bricks of a neighboring building and closed his eyes. His best friend, who was he kidding, his only friend, didn't trust him. Not now that he saw what was inside of him. Through years of those moments where he wasn't in control, Trout stayed by him, but he'd gone too far. Spot was alone, and maybe that was better. The ash from the burning building fell on them like snow, but, instead of the woolen grey blanket of snow clouds, the sky boiled, a molten brown and orange, moving and rolling over the top of them. Spot wished for a clear night, with a velvety winter sky to stare at. His head pounded listening to it all. "Hey, boys, her eyes are open," Darcy's bittersweet voice yelped.

She slowly rolled herself up to sitting, grimacing at the pain in her head. Her face was black and blue. She looked nothing like herself and could hardly see through the swelling in her eyes, but she gave them both a rueful grin as she croaked, "I'm pretty sure I told you to run."

He stood and moved closer, but still stayed back enough for Trout. Trout earned his respect. "Yeah, well, you always said I was better at giving orders than taking them," he sassed with a pained smirk, wincing against the stitches.

She looked at Trout, "What's your excuse?"

He answered with a wry grin and she couldn't help but laugh until she noticed that his palms were stained with blood. Her hand shot out and grabbed his.

"What happened Trout?" she demanded in a rasping, frantic whisper. He looked sharply away, his face paling as he looked everywhere but at Spot.

"Darcy hit him with Clarice's cane," Spot answered, his voice soft and tired, "and he knocked skulls with you." He watched Trout carefully, they both did, as he sucked into himself and away from them. "Trout was trying to get the knife Mick had your hair pinned down with out of the floor without cutting your hair off when he came to." He didn't even realized he'd been watching so closely, but once he got talking every detail came pouring out, from the moment Marta started taunting Mick until the knife hit the floor. He watched it play out in his mind like a sick moving picture show, one that no one would ever pay to see.

"My hair?" She reached for her braid and found her hair cut off and hanging above her shoulders. Her breath drew in sharply while Trout looked at his shoes, his blue eyes unable to meet hers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her braid and held it out to her. She took the shiny rope and stroked it, fingering the jute tie at the end. She smiled sadly at it, her lip trembling. "Thank you, she whispered.

Spot choked back the strange tightness in his throat, like he was choking and suffocating all at once. "I dunno I just snapped." His voice cracked and Trout hustled to the end of the alleyway where he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. "He just pulled Mick offa you after….after I…..". Suddenly, he felt sick too. For as long as he'd been the leader, there had been rumors about him, some of them he started himself just to grow the reputation that kept his boys on the top of the heap. The rumors all talked about how ruthless and dangerous he was, but never once had he been accused of killing anyone. Now, he was an all new, truly terrible kind of infamous. Spot Conlon was a killer, a murderer.

Marta's voice drew him away from those terrible thoughts. "But he's dead? Really dead?" she asked shakily.

"Really dead, and so are most of the guys who would try to keep the gang going," Darcy wheezed quietly as she stood. "We's free, Marta, really free." Marta's eyes were burning again, she couldn't seem to get her emotions under control. Darcy smiled as she watched the older girl struggle for composure. "I'm gonna go find my pops." Spot watched her walk away, hoping she would come back. He didn't often feel like he needed other people. He didn't often feel like he even liked other people, but at least one of the people he liked and needed wanted nothing to do with him, and he wasn't so sure that Marta would pick him over Trout if it came to that. He wouldn't pick him, not after what he did. Darcy understood better than either of them what Mick put him through, just how far from himself he was. If Darcy was going to leave him in the cold too, then there wasn't any point in sticking around. Marta chuckled softly, a look of amused wonder on her face.

"So thats what it takes to get your attention?" she asked, smiling through her sniffles, grateful for the distraction. "A bad attitude, a snotty mouth and no one else to talk to for a few weeks? I'll have to let the sweet little factory girls from next door who come over looking for a date with bad boy Spot Conlon know the next time they come a'knocking. Knowing they have no chance will be an easier let down than the one you give them the next day." She looked up at him, batting her eyelashes and smirking.

He grinned, and it was as if a huge rush of oxygen was suddenly let into his lungs as he blushed deeply. "Shaddup, Marta."