A/N: Hello dearest readers. It's been such a long time...If you haven't heard, Storms (the Kitty in Brooklyn sequel) is being discontinued. I don't feel like I have the time to write it and if I did, I don't feel like I have the interest or patience. So whatever you can imagine that happened to Kitty and Chirp and everyone, well, then go ahead. Create a sequel for yourself :)

Now this is inspired by Gangs of New York...kinda. The hanging scene at least. Now, if you are confused, the younger son, Morgan, is Spot. The older son, Seamus III, is Cane. If you have no idea who Cane is, read Kitty in Brooklyn and you'll get a nice histoy told in the form of memories and flashbacks :) Seamus II, obviously, is Spot and Cane's dad. Just wanted to clear all that up since I don't directly come out and say it, although if you look at the date (1883) it should be obvious that Spot is the younger one.

Also, I haven't written in an accent in a long, and I mean LONG time. So...well, I think it turned out decent :) if not...don't scold.

It feels good to be back...R/R/enjoy!


Brooklyn, 1883

There was no weather that day. Definitely not hot, and it wasn't very chilly either. The air was still. Odd for May, to say the least, but perfect for a hanging.

A platform stood in the middle of town and five men, young more or less, stood on it. One was the executioner, standing ready to drop the floor out from under the other mens' feet. He held a list that stated the names and crimes of the men atop the platform with him. They were not necessarily criminals. Just ne'er-do-wells. They could've mugged someone, which was not uncommon, and they would be hanged, even though the rich brats got away with trivial things like mugging daily. A hanging was a show, entertainment. Just as good as the theater in the minds of the crowd that was watching. Whether or not the men doomed to die had actually committed crimes didn't matter much to anyone. If they had, it was merely a convenience.

The executioner had already read off the crimes of the first three men. It was interesting to hear that number two, Mr. Henry Snoddgrass, had in fact committed a murder. The murder of his wife, specifically. It was most likely a crime that could've been prevented by apprehending Mr. Snoddgrass years ago, but domestic violence was usually only dealt with if a death was involved. At least if you were lower class. So far, Snoddgrass was the only man on the platform who truly deserved a death penalty.

"Mr. Seamus Conlon II," read the executioner as he approached the last man. He couldn't have been over thirty years old. The bags under his bloodshot eyes had grown heavy and he had a thick stubble on his chin. However, he probably wouldn't have taken care of that even if it wasn't doomed to die today. He looked solemn but not afraid. Not afraid of where he was headed after death, but maybe for what would happen to what he was leaving behind.

"Mr. Conlon has committed several accounts of larceny as well as battery throughout the city," continued the executioner, clearly very bored with the fact that his victims were still breathing. Seamus Conlon's crimes could've also said, 'stole bits of bread to keep alive and used his fists for self defense.' It would've meant the exact same thing, and everyone knew it, but no one cared.

"Mr. Conlon, have you anything to say to the city before you are off to Judgment?"

The other men had lamented about their innocents, even Mr. Snoddgrass, and how they shouldn't have to be hanged, not in these hard times. Seamus Conlon did have something to say, but not about his innocence. He stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Where's me sons?" He called out in a gruff Irish accent. Two boys stepped out in front of the crowd. Very handsome boys with honey colored hair and sharp blue eyes, one about 10 and the other 15 or 16 years old. As handsome as the brothers were, they were clearly poor and had dirt smudged on their cheeks and in their hair. The older boy also had some starting stubble but unlike his father, he was most likely proud of it. They had a tough look on their faces as though they could face the world and if they were grieving for their father, they didn't show it.

"Boys. Seamus, Morgan. You'se strong and I raised yeh well. Don't let this world tell yeh otherwise, lads," Mr. Conlon spoke out. His smaller son, Morgan, turned his head from the platform. The young Seamus put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Look up at yer da', Morgan. Look up at Pap."

Mr. Conlon continued. "I couldn't be prouder of any two sons, even if they was the princes of England. Go off to be kings, boys. Make me life worth livin'."

"Wrap it up, lad," said the executioner, tapping his foot impatiently.

"I'se just finished," Mr. Conlon replied. "Boys, I'se goin' off with yer Mam. Watch out for Morgan, Seamus. Go be a king."

"Right, then," the executioner said, rolling up his paper and heading back to the start of the platform. "Well, if all's said and done then, let's get this over with." He said it as if he was dreading the show. "Men, say your prayers, and may the good Lord have mercy on your soul."

The floor dropped from beneath the four victims and a cheer went through the crowd. The Conlon brothers hung their heads in respect and walked solemnly off to the docks. Seamus looked down at his inheritance - a bronze key on a leather thong and a black, gold-tipped cane. The accessories of a king.