Chapter 11: New Dawn
The heavy oak door of the tailor shop clicked shut behind them, cutting off the thick smell of hot steam, mothballs, and pressed starch.
Ricky took a deep breath of the Hudson Street air, which tasted mostly of coal dust and horse manure, and tugged at the lapels of his new jacket. The dark wool was stiff and smelled faintly of cheap dye, but it fit. For a guy who had spent his entire life in oversized hoodies and worn-out sneakers, the structure of a proper suit felt like a suit of armor. He adjusted his flat cap, pulling the brim down slightly over his eyes.
"Honestly?" Ricky said, glancing down at his trousers and then over at Marek. "I feel like Tommy Shelby."
Marek stopped on the cobblestone sidewalk, looking up from his own sleeve. He blinked, his thick brow furrowing. "Who is Tommy Shelby? A guy from your neighborhood?"
"No, just... a guy from a story," Ricky said with a small grin, waving it off. "Don’t worry about it."
In truth, Ricky could have easily pulled a pair of decent suits right out of the Founder’s Ledger. The System catalog had plenty of options, and it probably would have saved him a dollar or two in the long run. But as he looked down the crowded, noisy stretch of Hudson Street, he knew he’d made the right call. The extra pocket change was a small price to pay for the chance to actually walk into a real shop, hand over physical cash, and feel like he was part of this world instead of just a ghost haunting its edges.
They walked side by side, their boots clicking sharply against the stone. Marek kept looking down, smoothing his hands over the front of his jacket as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
"Hey, Marek," Ricky said, hands sinking into his trousers pockets. "I’ve been meaning to ask. Where’s the rest of your clothes anyway? The stuff you brought over from Poland?"
Marek let out a quiet, dry laugh. "Brought over? I did not bring anything, Ricky. This suit..." He gestured to the worn, threadbare clothes they had left behind in the tailor’s scrap pile. "I borrowed it from old Mr. Kowalski, the blacksmith’s neighbor. Just so I would look respectable when the inspectors at Ellis Island looked at me. My family... we had three younger ones at home. Every kopeck went to flour and lard. You do not buy a suitcase of clothes when your sister’s shoes have no soles left."
Ricky nodded slowly, the casual ease leaving his face. He felt a sudden, sharp prick of perspective. Back in his own time, he’d complain if his internet connection dropped for ten minutes. To Marek, a single suit of clothes was a luxury some people lived their entire lives without ever owning.
"Well," Ricky said, matching his pace to Marek’s. "What do you think of this one, then? Bought with your own money. No favors, no borrowing."
Marek didn’t answer right away. He stopped at the edge of the curb, waiting for a massive wooden dray loaded with heavy beer barrels to rumble past. The horses snorted, their massive hooves sparking against the stones. Once the wagon cleared, Marek looked down at his clean, dark grey cuffs.
"It feels... good," Marek said quietly. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Like I am a man who has a place here."
"You do," Ricky said, giving his shoulder a firm pat. "Come on. We still need to figure out where the hell Greenwich Village is. I know the general direction, but New York is a big place."
Marek glanced at him as they crossed the street, dodging a young boy dragging a wooden crate full of fresh cabbages. "You are not from New York?"
"No," Ricky said. "Further south."
"Where?"
Ricky hesitated. He didn’t want to lie more than he had to, but telling a Polish immigrant in 1910 that he was from a suburban town in twenty-first-century America was a quick way to end up in an asylum. "Georgia," he settled on. "Grew up down there."
"And your family?" Marek asked, his voice softening. "They are still in Georgia?"
Ricky’s fingers tightened inside his pockets. He thought of his mother standing by the stove, the smell of black coffee, and his brother dragging that heavy dresser up the stairs. They were still there—but they were also a century away, completely out of reach.
"Not anymore," Ricky said.
Marek paused, looking at Ricky with a deep, quiet understanding. "I am sorry, my friend."
"It’s fine," Ricky said, forcing a brief, reassuring smile. "Don’t worry about it. Let’s find some directions."
They navigated the crowded sidewalks until they spotted a middle-aged woman in a long, dark skirt and a wide-brimmed hat holding a string bag of oranges. Ricky stepped forward, tipping his cap respectfully.
"Excuse me, ma’am," Ricky said. "Could you point us toward Greenwich Village?"
The woman stopped, looking them over. Her eyes lingered on their clean, new suits, and her expression softened. "Oh, you’re a bit south for walking, boys. Keep heading up Hudson until you hit the intersection at Christopher Street. There’s a streetcar line there. Take the green tram north, and it’ll drop you right in the heart of the Village."
"Thank you very much, ma’am," Ricky said, tipping his cap again.
They followed her directions, walking several blocks until the clang of a heavy iron bell echoed through the avenue. A bright green streetcar rattled along the iron tracks embedded in the dirt and stone, its electric arm sparking blue against the overhead wire.
Ricky and Marek climbed aboard, the wooden steps creaking under their weight.
Ricky pulled a couple of nickels from his pocket and dropped them into the conductor’s metal coin box. The conductor nodded, pulling a small lever that let out a sharp ping, and the tram lurched forward.
Ricky took a seat by the window, resting his arm on the wooden frame. The breeze rushed past, carrying the scent of salt from the Hudson River and coal smoke from a thousand tenement chimneys.
He stared out at the passing buildings. It was mesmerizing. He’d seen photos of this era in his history textbooks, but black-and-white print couldn’t capture the sheer noise, the vibrant colors of painted storefront signs, or the frantic, chaotic energy of thousands of people living on top of one another.
Yet, beneath the awe, a cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach.
Four years. That was all the time this world had left before everything went to hell. In 1914, Europe would tear itself apart. Millions of young men—many of them probably walking these very streets right now—would end up buried in the mud of France. Ricky knew the history. He knew America would eventually drag itself into the slaughter in 1917. He’d read about the draft, how young men who didn’t volunteer were branded as cowards, their families shamed in their own neighborhoods.
Will the draft apply to me? he wondered, his brow furrowing as he watched a group of children playing stickball in an alley. Can a guy with no birth certificate, no official paper trail, even be drafted?
His mind drifted deeper, down a darker path. He knew what was coming twenty-five years after that, too. If he used the Ledger, if he built an empire, could he change things? Could he stop the rise of the monsters he knew would dominate the mid-century?
He shook his head slightly, pushing the thought away. No. History was a delicate machine. The rocketry, the medicine, the massive leap in nuclear physics that defined the modern world he’d left behind—so much of it was forged in the terrible fire of those global conflicts. If he tried to play God and kill the German dictator before he ever took power, the ripple effects would be completely unpredictable. He might erase his own birth. He might prevent the very technology that allowed the modern era to exist.
Not my problem today, Ricky decided, taking a slow breath and letting the tension drain from his shoulders. One step at a time. Survive today first.
"Greenwich Village!" the conductor called out, his voice cutting through Ricky’s thoughts. The tram screeched to a halt, iron grinding against iron.
"This is us," Ricky said.
They stepped off the tram and onto the cobblestones. Greenwich felt different immediately. The massive, towering warehouses of the docks were gone, replaced by lower, red-brick brownstones, quiet side streets, and small, cozy shopfronts. It felt less industrial, more alive with neighborhood chatter.
Marek stood on the sidewalk, looking around at the leafy trees lining the street. He turned to Ricky.
"What now?" Marek asked.
Ricky adjusted his flat cap and looked down the street, a quiet confidence settling over him.
"First, we find a decent place to rent," Ricky said. "Then, we find a job. The closer to the room, the better."