Boy, Boy, Crazy Boy

Chapter 12: Three Weeks

Three weeks.

Three weeks since the rumble.

Three weeks since Riff ended up with a switchblade in his stomach.

Three weeks since Tony plunged that same blade into Bernardo's heart.

Three weeks since Tony bled out from gunshot wounds.

Three weeks since they'd died.

<~•~•~>

Death was fucking weird.

Whoever was in charge needed to hand out instruction manuals or something. It had taken Riff a full two days to figure out the whole earth/afterlife visiting thing. It was all very confusing. But at least he could still keep track of the Jets. Even if he couldn't interfere.

"You're doin' what?!" Action yelled, angrily pushing himself off the wall of the old warehouse.

Ice sighed and stared him down. "It's the only option I can see, Action. We gotta disband the Jets."

(At first, Riff had - naturally - thought this was fucking nuts, but Ice was slowly winning him over.)

"NO!" Action angrily kicked a wall. "You can't do that! Riff put you in charge so you'd lead, not throw his life's work down th-"

"LOOK WHERE THAT GOT 'IM!" Ice roared.

Action stepped back, blinking rapidly.

Ice never yelled. At anyone. Not even the Sharks. If he had something to say, he'd say it quiet enough that everyone else had to lean closer to hear him. Everyone knew that.

The Jets were staring at him, and - for the first time in a while - Riff was rendered speechless.

"Look where that got 'im." Ice repeated, voice breaking. He swallowed harshly and ran a hand through his hair. "He was stabbed, in the stomach, with a switchblade. He bled to death, in a salt shed."

He looked to Diesel.

"And that don't sit right with me either." He started winding his way through the crowd of Jets, looking at each in turn. "And I'm not lettin' what happened to him happen to any o' you."

He stopped at Baby John.

"Ever."

He looked around at all of them. "So yeah, I'm disbandin' the Jets. But only 'cause I don't wanna see you bleedin' out in the streets. I'm sorry if you hate me for that, but it's the only way nobody else gets hurt."

He turned to Tiger. "No more fighting."

He looked to Baby John. "No more lying."

To Mouthpiece. "No more secrets."

To Numbers. "No more needing to beat people up just for walking down the street."

He looked at all of them. "No more violence. No more Jets."

He finished his speech and for the first time in a couple years, Riff took a good look at him.

His hair was greasy and hung limp around his face. He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days, and his skin was unhealthily pale. He was breathing heavily, and for the first time, Riff realized how much shorter than everyone else Ice was. He'd just never seemed like it because he stood tall and looked intimidating, but now the walls were down, and Ice had kicked them down himself, for all the Jets to see.

The Jets were frozen, cigarettes still halfway to their mouths as they stared at Ice.

Mouthpiece stood up, fidgeting with his hands before shaking Ice's. "Thank you. For everythin'." He looked around at the others and walked away.