Author's Note
.｡｡*ﾟi hope you're staying safe and being kind to yourself! .｡｡*ﾟ
Warning: Mentions of violence, insensitive language
Love youuu 💗
Chapter Text
HOUSE OF REFUGE, 1897
The strong, somber dark-brick buildings of the Refuge were now dusted with light snow and ice as the afternoon progressed.
Outside Dr. Sayers' temporary examination room, Jack could hear the clink and clank of medical tools as the doctor cleaned and organized them neatly on his tray.
The boys were gathered in the schoolroom, anxiously waiting to be called one by one inside the connected examination room – which had formerly been the smaller annex schoolroom for the younger children.
Jack craned his neck to look through the translucent glass on the door, unable to see anything besides the doctor's silhouette. He and the other boys sat at the rows of long benches and tables in the moody, dark wood-paneled room, facing the chalkboard.
The schoolroom smelt like coffee, old books, and burnt kerosene. A stack of books lined shelves on the wall opposite the chalkboard, serving as a library: psalm hymnals, Bibles, classical poems, ancient mythologies, textbooks on astronomy, language learning books in Latin, Greek, French, and Italian. They'd all been abandoned ever since Snyder became warden of the reformatory.
A coatrack stood in the corner, only holding Dr. Sayer's brown tweed coat, crumpled papers spilling out of the pockets.
Each of them was busily engaged in mundane activities, trying to take their minds off the dreaded procedure to come – anxious to put the plan into action.
In the row before Jack, Tide was etching swear words into the table with a sharp ballpoint pen. Sitting in the chair directly across from the examination room door, Grim squinted at a printed sign above the chalkboard depicting the alphabet, not really knowing what each letter meant or how to use them. They might as well have been hieroglyphics. He copied each letter in his wobbly, awkward chalk writing on a slate in front of him – figuring now was as good a time as any to learn.
Doc looked exhausted as he inspected Muggs' jaw again, reassuring the older boy the swelling had gone down well and nothing was fractured. He looked inside his mouth, finding where he'd pulled out the broken tooth.
"Doesn't look infected," Doc said. "Does it hurt?"
"Not much." Muggs' apathetic expression contradicted the way he jabbed his arm with a sharp pencil, trying not to scream as Doc accidentally pressed too hard on the bruised jawline. "Do that again, and I'll break your fingers."
"Speaking of that, let me see your hand," Doc muttered, completely unfazed as he took Muggs' injured left hand to inspect the scar on his palm. The scar he'd gotten after digging in the glass shard from the mirror all those nights ago. "It's healing nicely. You have to keep it clean."
"That might be difficult." Alexei smirked from across the room where he sat atop a table, snapping pencils in half. "He's left-handed, Doc."
Rails sat at the small, dusty piano in the corner. It had stenciled designs carved into the varnish, reminiscent of vines and leaves. They keys were stained a yellowish color, and it was far from in tune. Still, Rails tried a few keys, tapping here and there, in major and minor with no pattern. He paused, cracking his knuckles, and thinking, as if trying to remember something.
Positioning his long fingers over the rotting keys, Rails began to play a slow, emotional piece in the Phrygian dominant scale – surprising the others.
"Rails, you can play piano?" Shakespeare asked, looking dumbfounded for once.
Rails turned his head, his fingers continuing to play. "Nah," he replied with grin.
Shakespeare was doodling scripted letters and intricate patterns on wrist with a fountain pen from the teacher's desk. River sat beside him, rifling through a large book full of pressed flowers with delicate, handwritten inscriptions labeling each plant.
No Name appeared to be daydreaming with his head resting atop his arms on the table, staring off to the right with a starry-eyed stare. His dark, wild hair concealed bits of his face. And for whatever reason, he'd seen it fit to kick off his boots.
Z's cheeks were flushed in anxiety and hopelessness as he gazed out the window at the winter wonderland, longing for the sun, and wishing for a happier occasion.
Crazy stood at the chalkboard, one of his boot laces untied, quietly arguing with Atlas, who stood near him at the board, chalk in hand. They were playing their twenty-fifth round of tick-tack-toe, and Atlas had gotten fed up and constructed a jagged, wobbly line through his letters, and Crazy accused him of shameless cheating. Crazy ran his fingers through his soft hair in frustration as Atlas laughed like a crackling fire, suggesting they play something else.
Marquette was at the other end of the chalkboard, composing a messy but impressive sketch of a sailing vessel. He hadn't spoken for nearly an hour, and he'd barely gotten any sleep the night before. Jack knew he hadn't come to terms with Dr. Sayers' plans for them. Like Grim, Marquette had wanted a family of his own more than anything else.
He begrudgingly joined in for a round of hangman with Crazy and Atlas, using it as an opportunity to teach them a little French.
Fleet, too, was subdued. He was lying on his back across one of the tables, reading an old newspaper, and snickering quietly at something he'd read every so often.
Cards looked like he'd fallen asleep – his head on the table, his shoulders rising and falling steadily as he breathed.
Jack had found a book of old poems, forcing himself to read one after the other quietly – willing his nerves to settle. He was stuck on one in particular – Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Kubla Khan. When Grim suggested he read it aloud, the others fell silent as they listened to the vivid language.
When he'd finished, Lion – who had been folding paper planes and hats out of pages in a hymnal bound book – raised his hand as if to ask a question.
Jack nodded to him.
"That sounds like something Alexei could've written doped off his ass on opium," Lion said, launching one of the paper planes at the Russian boy.
Alexei picked up the fallen plane, turning it over in his hands, inspecting the creases. "At least I know how to write."
Lion scoffed. "I know how to write, thank you."
"Sure," Shakespeare chuckled. "You have the penmanship of a blind infant."
Lion cracked a small smile as a few others chuckled. His smile faded as Dr. Sayers opened the examination room door, prompting all laughter to cease as the boys looked in his direction warily.
"Well, let's begin," Sayers said, dressed in his white uniform. He scanned the room, deciding to select the first boy in the line of benches. "You." He pointed to Grim, holding out a piece of chalk. "You're up first. Write your name on the chalkboard so I can keep track."
Grim swallowed hard he got up slowly.
Jack watched him drag his feet to the front of the room, giving the doctor an unsure look as he took the chalk from him.
"I can't write my name," Grim said, staring back at the doctor.
Sayers looked incredulous. "I don't have time for childish games," he muttered, grabbing the chalk from Grim. "What is your name? I'll write it."
"Miles."
"Miles, what?" Sayers prompted him, writing the first name in neat cursive on the board.
"Krause."
"A German boy," Sayers guessed, finishing the name before dropping the chalk on the ledge.
"I was born here, actually," Grim corrected him, eyeing his name on the board – how strange it looked, written all fancy-like. "My father's German."
"I'm surprised your father never taught you to read," Sayers said, folding his arms, and staring at Grim like he knew something the boy didn't. "Your people aren't a bad sort, much like the Scandinavians I've seen out west. Honest, hard-working, temperate. More agreeable to assimilation. And far less diseased."
The other boys exchanged glances, murmuring quietly. Jack heard a small snap from behind him, and he turned to see Alexei had broken another pencil in half.
"What?" Grim tilted his head, as if he hadn't quite heard the doctor correctly.
"I mean, in comparison to the other huddled masses," Dr. Sayers went on, as if giving a lecture. "The Irish, Italians, and Yids that engender more and more of their kind. Count yourself lucky to not be of their ilk."
Grim exhaled a breathy laugh in contempt, shaking his head. "Dr. Sayers, my mother was Jewish."
Something in the Sayers' face changed, and he gave a thoughtful nod in response to this revelation. "Is that so? You must've gotten your father's features." Sayers seemed a bit puzzled, and Jack averted his gaze as the doctor gestured to the boy next to him – Lion. "This boy is a Semite. You can see it in his face. And if you had the ability to read, Miles, you might refer to my monograph on—"
"I'm Italian, you succhiacazzi. E che cazzo era tua madre? Uno dei fenomeni da baraccone di Barnum?" Lion growled, and Z turned away to conceal his laugh.
Atlas whispered something to Crazy, whose eyes widened in amusement.
Sayers looked taken aback, knowing whatever Lion had called him must've been unsavory given the reactions. "Shut your filthy mouth," Sayers said, glaring at Lion. "Or I will sew it shut for you in addition to your procedure."
Doc crinkled his eyebrows, gritting his teeth. "Does Dr. Fuller know you're doing this, sir?"
"Dr. Fuller is no longer gainfully employed at this institution," Sayers replied. "And what gives you the right to question me, boy?"
Doc said nothing, looking back down at his hands.
"I'm waiting," Sayers demanded. "You speak when you're spoken to."
Grim narrowed his eyes, pretending to be confused. "First you're going to sew our mouths shut, and now you want us to talk?"
"Miles Krause," Dr. Sayers mumbled the name to himself, turning it over in his mind, searching for something. He looked up, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "I know you. The warden tells me your mother was committed to the Blackwell asylum. I suppose you have bad blood yet. All the better that I get yours done first. Stop you from creating more bastard pickpockets."
Grim flinched as Sayers grabbed his shoulder, forcefully escorting him into the exam room.
Jack craned his neck to see the medical tools. A long needle, a clear solution in a bottle, a large rubber band, gauze, forceps, clamps. A whole lot of weapons.
"Remove your trousers," Sayers ordered, gripping the door handle. "And lay down on the table there."
Grim looked over his shoulder, giving Jack a determined look as the door was closed behind him.
The boys held their breath in silent anticipation, listening to the steady tick of the grandfather clock at the back of the room. Muggs was tapping his fingers against the table, looking like he was restraining himself from jumping out of his seat. Jack noticed the glimmer of wickedness had returned in his eyes, the eagerness, the readiness.
Alexei snapped another pencil. Crazy cracked his knuckles. Tide began dragging the pen across the table, gripping it in his fist.
Fleet crossed himself.
Cards was awake now, nudging No Name out of his daze. Marquette's game of hangman on the chalkboard now included a chilling sketch of four sets of gallows with four lifelike illustrations in each noose – Mrs. Anderson, Dr. Sayers, Mr. Whalen, and Warden Snyder.
The word Atlas and Crazy had been struggling to guess was finally spelled out below in Marquette's handwriting: Châtiment.
Jack was chewing on his thumbnail, his eyes fixed on the closed door. He could practically feel his heart beating in his chest.
Suddenly, a scream rang out from the examination room – like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Another scream, followed by a loud crash of metal, and then a thud against the door.
Jack fidgeted anxiously, watching the door, waiting, sensing the other boys getting antsy around him. He gripped the edge of the table, staring straight ahead. "Wait for it, fellas," he said to the others, keeping them in place.
Another thud, and the examination door was thrown open. Grim stood in the doorway panting – a splattering of blood on his shirt and across the bridge of his nose and cheek. Jack could see Sayers' legs and shoes lying still just inside the room, the rest shielded by the half-open door.
"I know I was just supposed to knock him out, but old habits die hard…" Grim said with a shrug.
He brought his hand from behind his back, holding it up to reveal a ring of keys Snyder had given the doctor. He wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his other hand, giving Jack a dry smirk. "Once a pickpocket…"