Official

Connor's first day with the Fitzroys
Date/Timing: 1 Feb ~2035
Setting: metro Sydney area, especially Blacktown (eventually)
.
The receptionist shows Jimmy into a standard-issue social services office—albeit one with a /lot of family pictures on nearly every flat surface.
Tony smiles widely. "Fitzroy!"
"Tate!" greets Jimmy, bowing.
"Sit, sit." Tony waves Jimmy to a visitor's seat, drops himself in his desk chair. "Thanks for coming in."
Jimmy sprawls. "I'm curious why you wanted to see me, of all people."
Tony puts his elbows on his desk, his chin on his hands. "Well ... you've got a reputation for helping out at-risk kids—"
Jimmy straightens. "I don't know—"
"You're not in trouble."
Jimmy exhales, sits back.
"I've got a tough case I hope you can help me with." Tony sighs. "He's torn through six homes in two years. No one can handle him."
"Which's where I come in."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"Tell me about him."
"He's ... he's badly damaged goods, Jimmy." A deep breath. "Mum died in a car smash when he was twelve-ish—kid was in the back, too. Dad tried to raise him solo, but got overwhelmed and turned him over to the state. Did great with a foster family for a few months, then it all went to hell." Sighs. "He's running out of options. Another outburst or two and he's for juvie, then maybe prison."
"Sounds like a mess."
Tony grunts.
Jimmy scratches his nose. "We're already helping Shara with her son; I don't know if we can give a kid like this the attention he needs."
"Will you at least try? I don't want this one to go the way of that one in Redfern last week."
Jimmy hisses.
Tony says, quietly, "Please help him, Irish. I don't know what else to do."
Jimmy rubs his neck. "Let me talk to him a moment."
"Thanks, mate." Tony pushes to his feet, shuffles for the door.
Jimmy takes a deep breath, shtumps after.
.
""—his name?""
""Connor Harmon. I know I don't need to worry about /you, but, still, be careful.""
The 'consultation room' door opens on Director Asswipe and a big bluey.
Connor keeps his face blank.
Asswipe scarpers; Blue plonks into a chair, says, "I'm Jimmy Fitzroy. Pleased—"
"I don't like you."
Blue shrugs. "You've got no reason /to like me yet."
Connor grunts.
Blue leans forward, elbows on knees, hands out front, stays schtum.
Connor breaks first (/idiot). "Why're you here?"
"A friend of mine works in the front office and thinks we'll get along."
"I don't need friends and I sure as hell don't need /you."
"Probably not, but everyone needs food and a roof. I've got both."
"Which makes you different from the last asshole how, exactly?"
Blue scratches his nose. "Maybe not at all. Won't cost you anything to find out, though."
Connor swings his heels against the desk.
"So. I live in Blacktown with my wife. My daughter stays two streets over and runs the family business."
"And what's that?"
"Personal security." A glint in his eye. "We're professional bodyguards."
Connor stomps down on a flash of interest, scoffs instead.
"Well, I have permission to take you outta this joint for a few days. You don't like it with us, I bring you back, no hard feelings."
Connor rubs the back of his neck.
Blue waits, quiet.
"Fiiiine. Let's go." Connor heaves himself off the desk.
Blue smiles a little, stands. "You go grab your kit while I sign you out, ay?"
Connor grunts, trudges to the dorm, straight to his bunk. He yanks his duffel from under the bed, stuffs in the things he'd taken out
"Leaving already?" jeers one of the older toerags.
Connor ignores him, keeps stuffing.
"Whatcha think they want him for?"
"No idea, 'less they need a punching bag."
Connor grinds his teeth, zips the duffel.
"He's definitely good for that."
Connor sniffs, stomps out.
Blue's propping up the intake room wall, arms crossed, somehow looking bored and watchful at the same time. "Ready?"
Connor grunts, shifts the duffel strap on his shoulder.
Blue pushes off, holds the door.
"Where's your car?"
"Took the train." Looks a little sheepish. "Didn't know I'd be meeting company."
"Assholes lied to you, ay?"
"More like withheld some important details, but, yea."
Connor snorts.
Blue leads the way to the station at the end of the next block.
Connor tap tap taps his toes on the train.
Blue side-eyes him. "So ... what name and pronouns do you want people to use for you?"
Mumbles, "'Connor's fine. And 'he'."
"I go by 'Irish' and 'he'."
"Why's that? 'Irish'."
"My daughter's 'Jimmi-with-an-i' these days. It's a work thing." Shrugs. "Saves confusion." Smiles. "The 'Irish' is about family pride."
Connor grunts.
"How old're you?"
"Sixteen."
"How long you been in the city?"
"What's it to you?"
"Curious about your accent. 's a little northern."
"This's all in my file. Didn't you /read it?" Connor sneers.
"Nah. Wanted to learn about you from you." Scratches his nose. "All I knew walking in is what Tate and company call you."
Grumbles, "Three months."
"Welcome to Sydney, then."
Connor scoffs.
They hop off the train in Blacktown, trump along the sidewalk for a couple of blocks.
Irish unlocks the door of a nice-ish house, bows Connor inside.
Connor goes, hovers in the foyer.
""Welcome home, dear!"" calls someone from the back of the house.
"I brought company!"
A round-ish blond appears, wiping their hands on a kitchen towel. "Good thing I made a couple of extra portions then," they smile.
"I love you," sighs Irish.
Connor rolls his eyes.
Blond snorts a laugh.
Irish clears his throat. "Connor, this is Beth, my wife, she-her-hers. Beth, meet Connor, he-him-his. He'll be staying with us for the weekend to see how he likes it."
Beth takes it in stride, but gives Connor a quick once-over. "You're not allergic to gluten are you?"
"Uh, no."
"Lactose-intolerant?"
"No."
"Keep kosher? Halal? Vegan?"
"No?"
"Any dietary restrictions at all?"
"Nope."
Something /bings in the distance.
"Cool, cool." She bustles away, waving over her shoulder. "Gotta go! Entertain yourselves!"
Connor blinks after her. "What was that about?"
Irish straightens from undoing his laces. "Making sure her famous lasagna won't hurt you."
Connor grunts, kicks his trainers into the closet beside Irish's boots.
"Your room's over this way." Irish beckons toward a side hallway, strolls off.
Connor follows, checks over the space.
Bed, side table, dresser, closet, carpet, blinds.
"It's a little plain 'cause it's been the guest room, but we'll dress it up if you stay."
Connor shrugs, dumps his duffel on the bed.
"Washroom's back down the hall on the left for when you need it." Scratches his nose. "Well, I'll let you settle in. I'll be marking time out front 'til dinnie's ready if you want to join me."
Connor grunts, "Thanks."
Irish goes.
Connor lets his shoulders slump, plops on the mattress. He scrubs his face with both hands, sighs. "Home sweet home," he mutters. "For now."
He lies there for a bit, until the boredom starts to bite again, then shoves to his feet, yanks off his socks, and retraces his steps to the front door and out, plops down on the stoop.
Birds, a few cars, a little breeze.
Kids' voices.
A scrawny one, a short one, and one that's out of sight.
Laughter.
Connor sets his teeth, closes his eyes.
More laughter, louder.
""'eyyy, Newbie.""
Connor cracks an eye.
Scrawny smiles down at him.
"It's 'Connor'."
"'ey, Connor." Scrawny bows. "I'm Spark, this's Turtle, and the weirdo—"
""I'm /not a weirdo!"" hollers the big gum in the yard.
"—up the tree is Fish."
Connor puts his shoulders back. "Ye don't have real names?"
"''course we do, but nicknames are traditional for Tykes."
Fish drops from the leaves.
"We pick our own," says Turtle. "Usually."
"Yup. I'm 'Spark' 'cause I'm hyper, she's 'Turtle' 'cause she's shy, and he's 'Fish' 'cause he's so skinny."
Connor snorts.
Fish glowers at Spark. "/He stuck me with the stupid name."
Spark snickers.
"You'll fill out eventually, kid," says Irish as he plunks down on the top step.
"'ey, Irish."
Irish bobs his head.
"Could be worse," points out Turtle. "You could be 'Button'."
"Yea, but he actually /likes it."
"He's also, like, five."
Fish glowers. "'s old enough for him to change his name and pronouns."
"Yea, sure, but can't help the silly nickname: his parents are Blossom and Buttercup."
Connor bites down some snark.
"You want a name, too, Connor?" asks Spark, with a gleam in their eye.
"I'll pick my own, " Connor growls,  "/if I want one, later."
"Cool, cool," shrugs Spark.
"You lot looking for leftovers?" prompts Irish.
"Nah," replies Turtle, "just passing by."
"There /might be some lasagna—"
Fish and Turtle light up.
"—available on your way back."
Motion behind Fish.
Skinny bluey holds a finger to their lips, puts Fish in a gentle headlock—
Fish squawks, flutters.
—gives a noogie.
"Sean," greets Irish with a nod.
"'ey, Carrot," says Spark.
"Hey." Carrot releases Fish.
Connor mutters to Irish, "You collect gingers 'r something?"
Irish grins. "The colour runs in the family. That you kinda match is a coincidence."
Connor sniffs.
Carrot rolls his eyes, folds to the lawn with a sigh.
"Button tire you out again?" asks Turtle.
Carrot scowls, grumbles, "Kid's a maniac and his parents are /crackers." Rolls up a sleeve, displaying a fresh bruise on his bicep. "They showed him how to use a /hanbo this week and he whacked me a good one."
Connor snorts a laugh.
"Just wait 'til /you meet him," sneers Carrot.
Irish clears his throat. "You staying for dinner?"
"Yea, if you'll feed me. Mum's working late and wanted me to wait here for her."
"Hope Beth made an extra lasagna."
Everyone but Connor chuckles.
"Aren't you gonna ask about the newbie?" says Spark.
Carrot shrugs. "I figure they'll tell me who they are when they're ready."
Connor sniffs.
"Connor, this's Sean," says Irish. "He and his mum are distant cousins of mine and live up the street. Sean, Connor'll be staying with us for a bit."
"Cool. Good to meet you."
"Same," mumbles Connor.
"You another cousin?"
"No."
.
>TBC<
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