March 4, 1919. Small Heath, Birmingham.
Finn Shelby sat on the edge of his sagging mattress with boots half-laced and a cap tilted low over his eyes.
Yesterday had been a blur; landing in this body and hearing Tommy's voice and feeling the weight of 1919.
Now second day in, he was itching to do more than stumble through.
Tommy, Polly, Arthur and John weren't just family, they were legends, and Finn wanted their edge, starting with their voices and Tommy's cool, like he could stare down the devil and win.
He stood, rolling his shoulders and paced the cramped bedroom as the floor groaned under his boots.
No mirror today; he didn't need to see Finn's bony face to know what he was chasing. He wanted Tommy's badass demeanor, that slow walk and colder voice from the night before, so he tried it, stepping deliberately with his hands loose but ready, like he owned the space.
"Help John with the bags," he said, aiming for Tommy's low and flat tone, the one that'd pinned him in the kitchen. It came out reedy and too eager, and Finn winced while shaking his head. "Come on," he muttered, this time slowing it down and letting his voice drop.
"Help John." Better, almost there. He tried again and nailed it; "Help John with the bags" and grinned as he was feeling taller and tougher, like he could walk downstairs and shut Arthur up with a look.
Polly next, her voice all fire and command, different from yesterday's snap he'd already tried. He thought of her ordering the house, something he'd overheard last night: "Get that table set."
He stood straighter with his hands on hips and barked, "Get that table set." It came too soft and missing her edge, so he leaned forward with a harder voice.
"Get that table set." Perfect. Finn's pulse kicked u, and he flipped his pebble in his pocket, a tic that steadied him. This is it he thought, I'm stealing their power. Arthur was a beast, his voice booming like a cannon.
Finn recalled him shouting about whiskey but picked a new line from last night's chaos: "We're back, Birmingham!" He puffed his chest with his fists tight and roared, "We're back!"
The room seemed to shake and he froze, his heart pounding as someone'd hear. But the house stayed still, so he tried again louder, letting Arthur's wildness fill him.
"We're back, Birmingham!" Dead-on, like he could rattle the walls himself. He laughed softly with the pebble flipping faster and moved to John, a cocky line he'd caught at dinner: "Pass the bread, you sod." Finn tilted his head while smirking like John and said, "Pass the bread."
Too stiff, so he loosened up while tossing his pebble like John's coin. "Pass the bread, you sod." Spot-on.
Finn's grin grew for he was good, scary good and he wasn't stopping here.
"Finn! Out, now!" Polly's voice ripped through the walls, sharp enough to make him jump. He tugged his cap tighter, grabbed his patched and rough jacket and headed out.
No kitchen stop today; he'd dodged Polly's glare and her tea, and her orders.
Small Heath was calling, a mess of noise and grit he'd seen yesterday but hadn't tasted yet. He wanted voices, walks and fights, real ones, not just Shelby ones.
Tommy's cool was gold but the streets had their own rules, and Finn needed them if he was gonna keep up, maybe even get ahead, with Kimber out there.
The street came into full view; mud thick under his boots grabbing like it wanted to keep him, and air heavy with coal smoke and sour canal water, and something sharp, like spilled beer.
Kids ran past shouting names Finn didn't catch, while carts clattered and dogs barked from alleys. His 2023 side reeled, missing clean roads and cars, but Finn's legs moved sure.
He pulled his cap low with his eyes sharp like a hunter. He'll start with mimicking voices first then fights, for Small Heath was a school, and he was here to learn fast like his power let him.