Flashbacks
The bang. The piercing pain of a projectile entering his chest. This was all Cyrus felt as the bullet entered his body. He knew he was dying the second he cartwheeled backwards off the platform. He could feel it in his bones. He could sense the blood pouring out of the severed vein in his chest. The drowsiness began to overwhelm him as he flew towards the ground. Suddenly, a white light filled his vision, and he felt a sense of seperation. All went blindingly white, then black, then white again. He never felt the impact with the cement.He found himself floating in a sea of ivory. There wasn't a speck of any other colour around him. It was as though he were weightless, and he didn't seem to occupy any physical space. He began to notice inconsistancies in his vision. He would see things for brief seconds, then they would be gone. Suddenly, he was floating in a hospital room. He could see two men standing at the foot of a bed, one dressed normally, the other wearing the traditional white of a doctor. Cyrus couldn't control himself, so he just sat, watching. He looked around and spotted the calender over the bed. It said "March 4th, 1956". The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was watching his own birth!
There was a cry of pain, followed by a cry of a different sort. The man at the end of the bed turned around, and Cyrus felt a pang of anger. His father. He was holding a small bundle to his chest. The conversation between the nurses, doctor, and his mother was loud enough to be heard. His mother was speaking, out of breath and pained, "We're naming him Marcel, after his grandfather... my god, he's so beautiful."
Cyrus suddenly found himself jerked away, and he was in the sky above Van Cortlandt Park. He saw utter chaos below. There were cops swarming in, gangs swarming out, and among all that was his body. Sitting there on the concrete, positioned like Jesus on the cross. There was a disturbance nearby. A man in a black vest was yelling at something. Cyrus knew without even thinking about it that this was the man who shot him. He seemed oddly familiar, almost as if he had seen him before. Cyrus willed the Riffs to do something, but no. They moved for another guy. A black man in a red vest. Cyrus wanted to scream, but he found that he couldn't speak. The Riffs scattered, leaving the wrongfully accused man dead on the ground. A light shot up from the corpse, and a figure flew out of it. The figure flew past Cyrus, barely even slowing down, enroute to the stars above.
Cyrus looked down again, only to see Masai staring up. Cyrus thought for one amazing second that Masai could see him... no, he was only staring at the storm clouds that were gathering. The weather was mimicing the events of the night, in a way. Masai looked back down and ran after the other Riffs. His body was left out to be battered by the elements. Another jerk, and a blast of white light.
Cyrus found himself floating in the living room of an apartment. The black and white television was on, and it was tuned to Lyndon Johnson's first State of the Union Address. There was a disturbance in the next room, then a yell. Cyrus knew what was coming. Eight year old him came flying through the door, and he smashed into the TV, breaking it. A hulking figure filled the door. His father. Cyrus knew that he would be smelling alcohol right now if it weren't for the strange absence of smell. His younger self tried to run, but his drunken father caught him and smashed his head into the ground. His dad pulled back for another punch, then went limp and fell. There was a knife in his back, and Cyrus' mother was standing there, a large bruise on her face. Cyrus remembered the aftermath of that very well. The courts, the lawyers, and the eventual exoneration of murder charges on the grounds of self-defense.
He felt himself pulled away yet again. He was in the kitchen area of a different apartment, though still a familiar one. His mother was sitting there at the table, staring into a cup of coffee.There was darkness outside. A door slammed open, and Cyrus came running into the apartment. According to the newspaper on the table, it was July 19th, 1968. The twelve year old Cyrus came sauntering into the kitchen. He was wearing a red shirt and white pants. The colours of the Delancey Thrones. He walked over to the table, "Hey mom." She looked up, "Do you know how late it is?" "Nope." "It's three in the morning Marcel-" "It's Cyrus now goddammit!" he yelled. She stood up, "Well whatever the f*ck you're calling yourself now, your curfew is ten! You know that, whether you're Marcel, Cyrus, or Joseph f*cking Stalin!"
He stared her down, "F*ck you mom. The Thrones need me now. I can't just stay out till ten and come back-" "Another thing, what's with this Thrones bullsh*t? I am sick and f*cking tired of everything being about the Thrones. I want you out of that gang. You are going to get yourself killed one of these days!" "Better to get killed doing what I love than live in this sh*thole!" "Oh, so it's a sh*thole, is it!? This apartment that I work damn hard for us to live in is a sh*thole!? Y'know what Marcel? F*ck you. I saved your ass from that crazy f*ck who fathered you, and you repay me like this!?" The younger Cyrus thought for a second, "No mom, f*ck you. F*ck you and everything you ever worked for. The Thrones are my family now. I'm out of here." "Have fun," his mother said, a steely look in her eyes. "You dumb whore," Cyrus swung at her, clocking her full in the face. She sprawled against a wall and Cyrus took off out the door. He never returned.
Cyrus felt that now familiar jerking motion. He was in a room, and there were several guys hanging around. They were all wearing Thrones colours. He was in their hangout. The DJ was on the radio, though it wasn't the current DJ. It was the male DJ that held the radio waves before the smooth voiced one they knew and loved. He was talking about a big brawl in Flushing Meadows, between the Hampton Road Homewreckers and the Carolina Road Crushers. Cyrus tracked back mentally, and found himself in May of 1971. There was a commotion at the doors, and they were kicked inwards. A fifteen year old Cyrus walked in, followed by a familiar figure. Masai. "Where the hell is Ismael!?" Cyrus yelled. A figure limped in from the next room. Ismael Rivera walked in, "Cyrus? What are you doing back so soon?" He was cut off, "You tried to get us killed, you goddamn backstabber!" Ismael looked at him with a confused look, "Cyrus, what in god's name are you talking about?" "You know what I'm talking about. We walked in on that drug deal about a half second after someone shot the place up. We saw a guy in Thrones' colours running away, and the buyers were dead. Those bullets were meant for us!"
The other Thrones started to stand up slowly, and Cyrus kept raving, "We have been planning this for a while, but consider this the casus beli! Gramercy Riffs, join me! Immediately, two of the six Thrones in the room turned to Ismael, "Sorry about this man. We're with him now." Ismael looked around in shock, "A mutiny is it?" Cyrus nodded, and groups of Thrones from elsewhere in the building started to walk in. Some walked to Cyrus, others to Ismael. Ismael spoke, "I don't know what in the hell you are talking about Cyrus. I ordered nothing in regards to you. If you think that way though, so be it. You just started a war." Cyrus turned wordlessly and walked out, followed by his people.
Cyrus watched all this from the ceiling, then faded out from the room. He was in another place. Above a park. He recognized it as East River Park, and it was in chaos. There was red and orange everywhere below, with specks of blue dotted around. Cyrus knew exactly when and where he was. It was the early morning of February 10th, 1974. He was witnissing the final reckoning between the Riffs and the Thrones. He could see a few members of the Battery Park Patriots there as well. Cyrus finally located himself, being held up by the throat by Ismael. There was a gunshot, and Ismael fell. Jamal, of the Patriots, was standing there with a gun in his hand. There was blood pouring out of a wound in his side, and the gang member collapsed about ten seconds later, unconscious.
Cyrus was jerked to a different location, though on the same day. He was sitting in a restaurant, eating breakfast. There were members of the Riffs and the Patriots at the table with him. The door to the bathroom smashed open, and a man wearing Thrones colours ran out. He was carrying a gun, and he sprinted out the front door. Cyrus watched as the scene unfolded, Jamal running out and informing them that the man had stolen the gun that Ismael was shot with. Just then, Cyrus was hit with a massive revelation. He didn't even notice when he was pulled back to the present and saw the same man who shot him speaking on a telephone. He had come upon a huge realization.
It was Luther all along. The guy who had shot the dealers in an attempt to get Cyrus killed. He could see the long hair in his memory, flying behind the Throne as he took flight down the alleyway. It was Luther. The Throne who stood just behind Ismael in the hangout later that day. It was Luther. The one who went tearing out of the bathroom after the defeat of the Thrones. It was Luther. The one who finally killed him... it was Luther. It was Luther all along. The whole reason the Riffs even existed... was Luther. Ismael had been telling the truth about that day. Luther had always held a bit of a vendetta against Cyrus, as Cyrus had stolen his girlfriend when they were thirteen. He had tried to get back at him and failed. From then on in, it was just him biding his time for a second chance. That chance came the night of July 13th, 1979.
Cyrus was pulled away again, and he found himself in the white room for the second time. He was able to walk now, though there was no tangible ground. There was another person there. Cyrus rubbed his eyes in disbelief as he stared upon his mother. She stared right back, and she spoke, "Nice to see you again, Marcel." Cyrus found his voice for the first time since the shooting. However, it wasn't the booming voice of the Riffs' leader, but a meeker version. "Mom, is that you?" "Yes, Marcel, it's me." Cyrus looked around, "What are you doing here-" "I'm dead, you fool. I killed myself two weeks after you left. Overdosed on my prescriptions. I guess you never found out. Doesn't exactly surprise me." Cyrus let out a shout of rage, "Why the hell are you so disappointed with me now? I'm dead, you're dead, we're the same."
She screamed at him, "I am disappointed because you didn't listen to me! One of the last things I ever said to you was "That gang will get you killed one of these days". Sure enough, you're dead. Dead and gone. Your body is on the way to the morgue right now, as a matter of fact." Cyrus looked on in shock, and his mother read his mind, "Yes, it is just starting to sink in. You will never live again. You will never breathe air, taste food, feel the embrace of your girlfriend. She's the one who will be affected worst by this, you know. Raising a child alone isn't easy, god knows I've tried it.
Cyrus looked at her, "Raising a child? What the hell are you talking about!?" His mother laughed, "She never had a chance to tell you. She was going to drop the bomb after your little get together in the Bronx. She found out three days ago that she's pregnant with your child. I guess those all night romps in the bed finally caught up with you." Cyrus was shell-shocked. His mother stared, "That's all I have to say to you. Go away. Do whatever. I believe your father was around Ursula Minor last I checked. I don't really keep tabs on him though. Leave now." Cyrus snapped out of his shock and felt himself slipping away.
He was floating above a beach. The sun was up, and there were people below. Finding that he could control his flight now, Cyrus flew downwards. There were six people in red beginning to walk away down the beach. There was a group of Riffs on the ground, closing inwards on a smaller group of black wearing people. Luther was among them. Thus, Cyrus got his revenge. The Rogues were left broken and battered on the beach. He saw their spirits ascending towards the heavens, and thought about giving chase. Nah, he thought. The Riffs walked away towards their vans, and Cyrus began to fly upwards. He swung downwards and passed over Manhattan. He went past the Bronx, noticing the fire trucks pulling away from Tremont Avenue Station, and headed upstate. He thought about Tuscany, the one place outside of the USA he had ever visited, and he was there. Flying through the trees and streets, taking in the sights. He then angled upwards, and he headed for his place in the stars. Cyrus was no more.
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