Ryan's Redemption

[the-empressar.livejournal.com]

Title: Ryan’s Redemption 3/?

Author: The Empress 
Word Count:  1,466

Pairing: None yet, but all of the WLIIA should make an appearance one time or the other

Rating: PG

Summary: AU its sort of a Shawshank/True Crime/Prison movie etc. fic. Hopefully not too much will be rehashed from the movies that are swirling around in my brain and I hope to have given it its own special twist.

Disclaimer: Same Stuff/Different Story

*SPECIAL THANKS TO MY BETA GODDESS ONCE AGAIN SNARRY_FAN 7*

Ryan lay on his back in the small cell that was his allotted space for the duration of his sentence. He had given the cell a once over when he entered earlier, holding his toiletries and an extra uniform in his hands. The bunk beds in these places were never long enough to accommodate his lanky frame. He always hated that. But it was something he had learned to grow used to, unfortunately. He had his arms folded behind his head and he was staring at the patterns of the bunk above him and tried to will himself to close his eyes and get some sleep.

Lights out had been called hours ago, so there wasn't too much talk in the halls, save for the fact that when they had entered the hall earlier, the place seemed to come alive with cat calls, and whistles and obscenities from each cell. Ryan was used to it; he knew the drill. He shuffled along with the other inmates on their way to their own respective cells and just blocked out the noise. Now the place had quieted down considerably, and Ryan stretched his long legs out until they slightly curled over the edge of the end of the bed.

His thoughts brought him back to Wayne and the unfair treatment he had been subjected to. This would never have happened in the joint upstate, he told himself. He'd seen many riots start in the pens up there, most from guards threatening the privileges of its inmates. Of course those were just small time holding cells he admitted to himself. There they put you away for murder and mayhem. Nothing like the big joints down south where they send folks to just for looking at people funny. 'What a fucked up world', he thought bitterly. He hoped that Wayne would be taken care of in the infirmary, and that he'd find a way to contact his lawyer or someone that would help him seek justice over what had been done to him. He put little salt into that notion.

He stiffened a little as he heard the man above him roll over onto his side, the bed springs squeaking. He didn't get a good look at his bunk mate when he entered the cell. The small bulb above the sink afforded little to no light in the evening. 'Lights out was lights out' as he was informed. The snores from above told him he wasn't going to get any conversation from the man either, which was a good thing for the moment. Ryan didn't really feel like getting acquainted.

He rolled over on his side, his back facing the room and closed his eyes. He heard the hollow clicking of footsteps in the hall as the guards patrolled the floors, making sure all was well. He tried to use those sounds, as he always did, to lull him to sleep.

It was the same dream he had every night for the past seven years. It always started the same it always ended the same, with him waking up in a cold sweat. He hoped in his new surroundings that things would be different this time. They never were.  As long as he was in the stir, nothing would change. This night though, his memories took him back to the days before everything went down. The days of good times and good memories. Being one of the top mob boss's number one guys had its advantages and disadvantages. He'd seen it all in his day. Not that he was old by any means; it’s just that he had done so much in his youth that he knew he was way beyond his 30 years in mentality.

It was one of his old street gang buddies that had introduced him to New York's underground life back in the early 20's. He was 18 years old and well into his life of petty crime. In and out of juvy hall most of his formative years and living on the street during the rest. His mother had died early of influenza, leaving him and his four brothers to fend for themselves. Being the youngest, he had the toughest time. The others abandoned him to his hood friends and they all went their separate ways. Ryan grew tougher on the street, learning the rule of beat or be beaten, take or be taken. One rule he gave to himself was that he would always give someone the benefit of the doubt. He wouldn't pick on just anyone. He gave up fighting the defenseless long ago, when his conscience got the better of him. Now, he rationalized, he would only take advantage of the ones that deserved it. Trouble with him was everyone deserved it in his mind. He was bitter that life didn't always work out well for him. And more often than not, there was always someone to pay for that unfairness.

He remembered one day his buddy, Jim Phillips, introduced him to Tony Malone, one of Henry Morgan's top henchmen. Jim had be talking to Malone for a while seeing if he could get some easy work on the side, to earn some extra cash. Malone fixed it so that Jim and Ryan could start transporting some of their "company's" homemade hooch from one part of the state to the other, in large covered trucks. It sounded like an easy way to make a living for Ryan, who had by this time made his way through life with odd jobs and small theft. He was always right under the radar with the law. This, he knew would cross him over into full blown hard core criminal territory, but it was a risk he was willing to take for the dough.

So Ryan lived the life of a lower-level henchman for about 3 years. He learned the ropes of avoiding checkpoints, fixing shipping invoices, cutting deals with his proprietors, running raids, and everything in between. He'd seen his fellow "coworkers" caught, busted, gunned down at times, and he grew eyes in the back of his head as the saying went. He always seemed to be lucky, except for the times when he was caught himself and served his sentences, a month here a month there.

Ryan remembered the day his buddy Jim was found floating face up in the river by his flat in the middle of town. He stood at the edge of the crowd as the police fished Jim's lifeless body out of the river, a bullet hole in his head, and cement overshoes on his feet. Ryan cried that night for his lost friend. The first time he had cried in years; Jim was only 22 years old. He had barely enough time to live, but then he lifted his pint to his fallen friend saying at least the lucky bastard got out of it when he did. Ryan would have given anything at that moment to join him.

It was around that time when Ryan was introduced to the head man himself, Mr. Henry Morgan. Malone had been talking up Ryan's reputation for getting the job done, and not taking shit from anyone. Morgan had noticed his profits increasing where Ryan had his routes and he wanted to meet the man who was making his pockets fatter. Ryan was nervous at first, but then warmed up to the genial mob boss's good natured ways. He immediately became one of Morgan's favorites. Ryan always had a way of making people laugh with his unique brand of humor. It mostly centered around sex with the prostitutes that he favored visiting after a hard week's worth of work. Morgan thought highly of his employee and he let him know by offering him a section of the neighborhood to take control of. It was the turning point in Ryan's career.

Ryan woke up to harsh sunlight in his eyes and a blaring of a horn in his ear. It took him a moment to remember where he was and then the realization settled back in on him and he sighed. 'What would today bring?' he wondered. He looked down on his chest noticing something there. It was small and odd shaped. He recognized it as a rabbit's foot, worn and well rubbed.