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The Sinyala Facility hummed with the electric vibration of a new era. Dr. Hendrick Joliet Easterman, the director, stood before the observation glass, standing, his fingers twitching in a rhythmic, almost paranoid way around a glass of alcohol, his groin twitching as he ignored his body’s wanting to urinate.
He had to ignore everything; this was it, he had it.
The stage was set! a curated nightmare of white-picket domesticity and blood-soaked linoleum. For the newest Prime Asset: Franco Barbi, Hendrick hadn’t just helped build a family; he engineered a primal aggressive linage through science.
Hendrick viewed himself as the ultimate architect of the soul. In his mind, he was the benevolent father, almost God, to this grand experiment, but for Franco, the manipulation had to be mental, almost surgical. After all, he was DOCTOR H.J for a reason.
He saw the hunger in Franco’s eyes in photos. The desperate, pathetic need to be ‘a good boy’ one thing Hendrick knew all too well.
To Franco, Hendrick would be the mentor, the one who rewarded the boy’s inherent need to please with a nod and a thin, clinical smile, wanting to attend to his delusions. After all, he was, in some perverted way, an extension of his Freudian self, especially what to do with that extension of a phallus they both shared that was ‘Lupara.’
Then there was Sergeant Leland Coyle. If Hendrick was the carrot, Coyle was the electrified stick. Coyle represented the ‘Law’ a brutal, familiar figure of authority that would be poking at Franco’s subconscious wounds, almost reminding him of Salvatorè. The Sergeant’s presence would be a reminder of every beating Franco had ever earned, a force designed to keep the boy’s impulses focused and sharp.
Together, they were two sides of a fractured paternal coin: one offered pride; the other demanded submission through fear.
For weeks, Hendrick’s obsession with his new ‘son’ left the others rotting in the periphery. The neglect started to fester around Sinyala, and everybody felt it. Phyllis Futterman, draped in the tattered finery of “Mother Gooseberry," paced her trial grounds with an agitated twitch. She would shove her mannequins face-first into the cocaine-laced soil, screaming lullabies until her throat felt like raw glass.
"It would be really nice to have a child to be with Mother!"
She would whine, her hand trembling against the coldness of the puppet on her arm.
Then, the rasping, hateful voice of Dr. Futterman: the puppet, the ghost, her trauma, would snap back in the usual way:
“You lumbering cow! You don't need a child! You can barely keep your own skin on with that FUCKING cop around, and now you want a baby?!”
Hendrick watched her spiral with clinical indifference. He refused to acknowledge the puppet was anything more than metal, leaving Phyllis trapped in a vacuum of her own delusions.
Meanwhile, Leland Coyle cared little for domestic fantasy. He didn't want a ‘son’; he wanted an outlet. When he grew restless, Hendrick simply applied a swift, agonizing jolt of electricity.
Coyle would take the shock with a sickening grin, clinging to the pain like a child with a lollipop; his mind resetting into a state of violent compliance.
The ‘son’ was finally ready. Hendrick had studied the reports from Mr. Perry; he knew the weight of the bullet Franco carried and the darkness it represented.
To Hendrick, the boy was more than a killer,!he was a masterpiece of compensatory power. Franco clutched his Lupara like a holy relic; it was his security blanket after all. Hendrick understood the psychology perfectly: the gun was an extension of the man’s very essence: a metallic phallus to replace the potency he lacked in his own fractured mind. It represented the only three things that mattered:
Control.
Power.
Respect.
With a flick of his wrist and a look at his watch, the transport mechanism hissed.
The ‘Family’ was finally whole. Hendrick leaned into the microphone, his voice a silk-wrapped blade.
"Welcome home, Franco,"
He whispered to the monitors.
In Hendrick’s fantasies, they would be a portrait of perfection. A mother who lived in a dream on a television screen, a father who lived for the law and commanded it, and a son who lived for the kill.
What could possibly go wrong in a family built on the foundation of a shared, beautiful madness like his own?
__________________________________
The relocation to the Sinyala Facility from Miami was less of a prisoner transfer and more of a pest control operation. Franco Barbi had been run to ground in the sweltering back alleys of Miami by Clyde Perry, a man whose clumsy, limping gait hid the terrifying patience of a veteran hunter.
Perry was a natural ratcatcher, and he had treated the screaming, womb exiting Franco like a prize vermin. He helped corner him until the chemicals could do the work the law never could.
He was shipped across the desert like high-risk cargo, Franco was dumped unceremoniously into the cold, clinical custody of the Murkoff Corporation, falling directly under the dark, manipulative shadow of Doctor Hendrick Easterman.
When consciousness finally returned, it came with the bite of recycled air and the smell of industrial cleaners. Franco awoke in a world of rigid steel. He was reclined in a chair that mimicked a dentist’s station, but the padding was thin, and the intent was far more sinister.
Heavy leather and metal straps bit into his wrists and ankles, pinning his small, wiry frame to the seat. His body felt like lead, his nervous system still thick with the forgetfulness of the sedatives. He knew this feeling, the heavy tongue, the disconnected limbs, and a foggy mind. He had used the same chemical shortcuts on the women he’d broken in Miami, and the irony of being on the receiving end tasted like copper in his mouth.
He lifted his head, his breath hitching in a wet, wheezing rattle. He surveyed the room: a windowless box of cold metal.
“I want my lupara!"
Franco barked, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and genuine, childlike fear. He thrashed against the restraints, his eyes darting frantically for the comforting weight of his sawed-off shotgun.
It was gone.
Even worse, the empty air around his mouth felt wrong.
“Cuiccio..."
He hissed, twisting his torso to find the pacifier. He could see it dangling from the bandolier across his chest, mockingly close, but his bound arms refused to cooperate.
Above him, a television set mounted in the corner flickered to life; its static-filled screen watching him like a giant, unblinking eye. It would glitch and flicker the words: “BETTER TOGETHER” and “FREEDOM IS WAITING” and occasionally the company’s logo:
“MURKOFF CORPORATION, 1959”
Beyond the tinted observation windows, he could see the blurred silhouettes of Murkoff’s watchers, ghosts in lab coats, documenting every twitch. Franco’s fury quickly collapsed into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. He sagged against the straps; his energy spent in a useless tantrum.
Then, the heavy doors opened with the sharp, rhythmic hiss of hydraulics.
Two men stepped into the sterile light.
The first was Hendrick Easterman, a man who radiated a polished, terrifying authority. He was tall, dressed in a sharp suit that looked out of place in a laboratory, and he held a cigar with the practiced ease of a man who owned everything he looked at. Beside him was Clyde Perry, looking haggard and outmatched by the doctor’s predatory grace. He had a hat that covered his hair and two different colored eyes. His shadow immediately called Franco to the corners of his eyes, causing him to jerk and bellow, flailing around in his restraints to attack him.
"You again?!"
Franco bellowed, his body jerking forward with such violence that his head slammed back against the metal frame. He let out a sharp wail, the sound more akin to a wounded animal than a grown man.
"Now, now, Franco, quit all that whining,"
Easterman said. His voice was a rich, practiced one, dripping with condescending paternalism.
“This is my good friend, Mister Perry."
"You’re the man in the hat!"
Franco spat, ignoring the introduction as he glared at Perry.
"Oh... so you do remember me,"
Perry noted dryly; his limp evident as he shifted his weight.
"How’s the wound, cazzo?!"
Franco’s New Orleans Italian accent thickened, becoming a jagged weapon.
"It stings,"
Perry admitted, his voice flat.
"Good! Fuckin’ asshole... interrupting my time with mommy,"
Franco muttered, his eyes darting restlessly. He began to fidget, his tongue sloshing against his teeth as the craving for his oral fixation became unbearable. He looked at Easterman with desperate, naked intensity.
“I need somethin' to chew on."
Easterman let out a low, melodic chuckle.
“Now, is that how we greet our father, bambino?"
"Pardon? Ya ain’t my fatha!"
Franco snarled, though the fire in his eyes was being replaced by a confused, instinctive submission to the doctor’s overwhelming presence.
"Well, we are—or rather, I am."
Easterman removed the cigar, handing it to Clyde, who took a puff from it and immediately coughed. Hendricks dark eyes locking onto Franco with the intensity of a scientist examining a fascinating new culture in a Petri dish, slowly pushing the food around.
“I thought I would take a look at my beautiful boy myself. My name is Doctor Hendrick Joliet Easterman. And I am your father here at the Sinyala Facility."
Easterman stepped into Franco’s personal space, his hand reaching down toward the bandolier. He caught the pink colored pacifier with the yellow rubber which had been gnawed at, cradling the rubber nipple in his palm with a strange, clinical tenderness before snapping it upward.
He jammed it into Franco’s mouth with aggression, forcing it past his crooked teeth. The relief was visible; Franco’s entire body went slack, and a rhythmic, wet clicking filled the room as he began to suckle with obsessive fervor.
"Now that you’ve got the first half of your security blanket,"
Easterman continued,
“I will inform you that you are the only asset that I requested to see in person. You’re so special to me. A beautiful... beautiful boy."
The doctor reached out, cupping Franco's cheek in a mock-caress.
“You’re the only one that I truly adore, your potential, your ability...”
For a moment, Franco leaned into the touch, his baby blues fluttering open and closed. He was a broken child simply seeking a parent’s warmth. But then, the wires in his brain crossed again, and the mafiosos son took over.
"Non toccarmi!"
he snapped in Italian, jerking his head away.
"My, my. What a naughty reaction from a small boy,"
Easterman sighed, his tone shifting from warm to dangerously cold. He quickly snatched the cigar from Clyde, taking a long drag from it and exhaling a thick, grey cloud directly into Franco’s face. Franco coughed, the smoke stung his lungs.
“I’m giving you a chance at a new life, my little boy. We really needed you for this, you will understand later why I must meet you in person.”
"What the fuck are you on about...?"
Franco wheezed.
"Ah, ah, ah! Naughty language isn't for young boys. Thank goodness your mother isn't here to hear that. Your mother will have to punish you harshly for such a foul mouth."
The word ‘mother’ acted like a trigger. Franco’s eyes dilated.
“Mother? You mean Miss Angelina’s here? Where is she?! Where’s mommy?!"
Easterman smiled, a thin, cruel line.
"Oh, my apologies, I must have misspoke. Your mother is a very, very, very plump woman. A woman of... let’s say, delusional spirits."
"You gave me a loonie for a mamma?"
Franco asked, his voice was small and confused, his eyes narrowing.
"Oh, don’t worry, you and your father will get along faithfully. There is much to prepare for, my dear boy."
Easterman said, turning on his heel, his polished shoes clicking against the metal floor. He draped an arm around Perry’s shoulder, leading him away like an old friend.
“You’ll be transferred to your permanent quarters shortly. I’m sure you’ll transition nicely."
"Hey, fucka’, Do you know who I am?! I am Franco FUCKIN’ Barbi! Get back here!”
The bravado was a mask that slipped the moment the needle hit his neck. A hidden port in the chair hissed, and a fresh dose of tranquilizer surged into his system.
"What the... what the fu—"
Franco’s words dissolved into a wet slur. As his vision blurred into a grey haze, he felt the heavy weight of the world pulling him back down. His last coherent thought wasn't of revenge, but of the empty space where his lupara should be.
“Mommy...?"
he whispered, his head rolling to the side as his eyes drifted shut.
Easterman paused at the exit, looking back at the slumped, twitching form of his newest ‘son.’ He watched with a quiet, satisfied pride as the orderlies moved in to collect the asset. He had found a perfect person to mold, and he intended to enjoy every second of the process.
__________________________________
The transition from the icy, strapped-down confinement of the holding cell to this new reality was a blur of trauma and disorientation. One moment, Franco was fading out in the humid heat of Miami and the wrath of the mosquitoes the next. He was being hauled like a piece of luggage toward a permanent assignment across the states. Although, he didn’t quite know where he was.
His nap, however, came to an end on the floor; the sensation of cold tile pressed into his cheek. His body felt heavy and uncooperative; his legs curled instinctively toward his chest in a fetal position. A thin trail of drool pooled near his lips, and a dull, rhythmic throb radiated from the injection site in his neck, It was a familiar, sickening ache. He always saw people getting injected with things, and the feeling of a needle always rattled him.
As his vision cleared, the confusion set in. The room was decorated with an eerie precision, mirroring exactly how he would have styled his own space if he’d ever been allowed such a luxury at his father’s estate. But the comforts were twisted. There was a full-sized bed.
Truthfully, it was his first point of silent contention, and the floor was littered with a nursery worth of alphabet blocks, teething rings, and a wooden rocking horse that stood stagnant near a small library of toddler books.
His eyes landed on a dresser where a baby bottle sat filled with wolf’s milk. Instinct took over and he scrambled for it, unscrewing the cap to sniff the contents before the familiar scent drove him to screw it back on and start to nurse from the rubber nipple. A sudden, sharp twitch racked his body, his hand darting to his crotch as a wave of overstimulation pulsed through him.
“What the fuck...?”
He muttered the question into the empty air, rubbing his sore face. He reached into his suit jacket, a reflexive search for the weight of his Lupara, but his fingers met only fabric. The realization that he was truly unarmed sent a spike of adrenaline through him. His pace quickened, his white shoes clicking frantically against the tile as he paced the small perimeter, his breath hitching until the dam finally broke.
The panic dissolved into a raw, ugly wail. He tore a pacifier from his bandolier and hurled it across the room without thinking, his feet stomping in a rhythmic, childish tantrum. In his blind frustration, he snatched up a toy and flung it upward. It caught the corner of a television mounted on the wall, the impact triggering the screen to roar to life with a harsh, crackling static, in his panic he accidentally dropped the bottle of wolf’s milk.
“Mister Perry, give me a moment, the television in his room came on—Ah, you’re awake!”
The voice cut through his crying like a blade. Franco froze, his thumb sliding into his mouth as he clutched an alphabet block in one hand; Milk dripped from his chin as he glanced at the milk bottle on the floor that was on its side.
“Where is my lupara?!”
“It’s in my office for safe keeping, I can’t have my little boy walking around with such a—“
“It’s MINE and I want it back! You can’t just be goin’ around stealin toys!”
Franco interrupted. Though, his attention span quickly showed through as he slumped to the floor, the sting of the impact on his bottom was ignored as his focus drifted back to the blocks, his anger flickering out as quickly as it had ignited.
“Despite your rudeness, my boy, You’ll be happy to know, I received some excellent results from that little interaction that You, I, and our dear friend, Mister Perry had!”
Franco didn't look up. The memory of the interaction was a fog he couldn't penetrate. He just moved a block from one pile to another and let out a soft, wet burp.
“Excuse you. Nonetheless, I’ve heard the most peculiar thing: that you can be 'shrunk' down without anyone even touching you. Just a few choice words and your mind retreats into the nursery. Mentally, you become quite manageable, or so I’m told. Does it happen all at once, or do you feel yourself getting smaller piece by piece?”
The block in Franco's hand slipped. His breathing hitched as he paused, his breathing decided to start turning into a frantic, shallow wheeze as a whimper escaped his throat. The static of the TV seemed to grow louder, matching the thundering pulse in his ears. He wanted to turn around tear the screen off the wall and use the glass to shred Easterman until the floor was soaked in red.
But the impulse died before it reached his muscles. This was the hand that fed now. The hand that owned him.
His new papà.
"I don't…-get like that for just anyone."
A hiccup racked his chest, followed by the bitter burn of stomach acid that flew back up his mouth, leaving a vile aftertaste. The anxiety was a physical weight, churning his gut until a sharp, stabbing pain made him bite his lip to keep from screaming.
“Well, why not we discuss that in my office? I’d like to see you again, My boy.”
“Can’t I sleep first..?”
“No, this is an important conversation, as your doctor and father, this is something we need to discuss privately.”
With a defeated sigh, Franco nodded. The screen cut to black, plunging the room back into a heavy silence. He sat there, his mind a minefield of intrusive thoughts:
his father,
the looming shadow of Angelina,
the loss of his weapon.
His body finally revolted. Before he could even register the nausea, a mouthful of warm, spoiled-smelling wolf’s milk splashed onto the tiles in front of him, staining his pants. He stared at the pale patches of vomit for a long moment, trembling, before reaching for the pacifier to soothe the bile that spilled onto the floor. Once his stomach settled into a dull ache, he dragged himself off the floor, he quickly snatched up the bottle of Wolf’s milk.
He stumbled toward the bed, the mattress uninviting and strange, and crawled under the covers. He felt a sensation he hadn't known in years, a total, hollow exhaustion. Franco curled up on the bed again, his stomach emptied thanks to the vomit. His eyes closed, his eyelids fluttered closed, Franco felt like he was in heaven. His body was curled up in fetal position like before, and he put a hand through the little patches of dirty blonde hair he had, the other hand was curled around the bottle.
the world finally went dark and he started to dream.
__________________________________
Franco thrashed beneath the tangled weight of his sheets, his mind was frantic, filled with half-formed thoughts and jagged memories. He fought to force his body into a state of rest, but his limbs twitching with a restless, agonizing energy. Small, broken moans escaped his throat as he wrestled with the silence of the room. Finally, exhaustion took its toll, and the world dissolved into a heavy, dark gray. He had finally fallen asleep after his body started to fight it. He was back in New Orleans. The humidity felt like a wet shroud, and every fiber of his being ached with a deep, pulsing soreness.
The metallic tang of blood coated his tongue, dripping slowly down the back of his throat. His entire face felt swollen, a map of dull pain and sharp stings.
Through the haze, a sound grated against the stillness it was a rhythmic, scraping noise in the distance.
The heavy creak of a door?
Was it Angelina, coming to check his wounds after the gun kicked back?
The silhouette solidified in the doorway:
His father.
Franco’s eyes fluttered, not with wakefulness, but with a deeper plunge into the vision. The transition was seamless, perfecting the lie that he had never left Louisiana.
Was the escape a fever dream? Had the betrayal of his blood been nothing more than a trick of the mind?
“Let’s get this blood cleaned off you, little one. We can’t have you looking like a wreck when your mama walks through that door. That shotgun really did a number on you, didn't it?”
"Mammà?”
The word was a fragile thread of sound. His Italian accent heaved through the tiredness. Franco barely registered the sensation of his own thumb replacing the pacifier he had spat onto the bedding. His father leaned down, using a damp cloth to meticulously wipe away the grime and blood with a tenderness that felt like a trap.
"Of course, Angelina."
Franco felt as though his skull had been packed with dense, suffocating cotton, like a wool was covering his eyes.
The exhaustion he felt was heavy, yet the physical presence of the man before him felt undeniable.
Seeking safety in the moment, he sat up and pressed his bruised face against his father’s chest, clinging to the fabric of his shirt.
"Let’s get you ready for the evening, Franco."
"What?"
"Don't you want her to see you at your best, son?"
A cold spike of dread pierced the fog. A realization clawed at the back of his mind that the timeline was fracturing. Memories were bleeding into the present, twisting the past into something unrecognizable.
This didn't feel like a standard dream or a desperate wish for a better father. It was too vivid, too tactile. He felt the weight of the hands on his shoulders and the vibration of the voice in his ear.
Why did the terror feel so familiar?
"We’ll run a warm bath, get your face scrubbed clean. Then, we’re all going to sit at the table together for dinner when she arrives. How does that sound to you?"
That wasn't the way it happened.
It was never how it went.
The foundation of his history was crumbling.
"…The table."
Franco echoed the word, his voice shrinking, suckling onto his thumb harder and harder.
The room around him seemed to liquefy, the walls melting into a void, yet the crushing weight of the stress remained. The air tasted of impending catastrophe. He had spent his entire life yearning for a place at that table, to be seen, to be a person, to hear those words spoken without irony.
"Papa…?”
"Papa is right here, my sweet boy—"
Suddenly, the vision shattered.
Franco’s eyes snapped open, and he lunged upward, a wheezing gasp tearing from his lungs as he fought for his breath. He had awoken and caught his breath with extreme exhaustion. His hand clawed instinctively at the air, searching for the cold steel of a Lupara, before his fingers found purchase on the nearest person.
Easterman.
“Papà? Papà..? Ah, Grazie Dio, it’s actually real!”
He threw himself forward, the boundary between the nightmare and the room completely blurred. He buried his face into the heavy fabric of the suit, the sharp, familiar scent of cigar smoke filling his senses and grounding him in the moment. He was so tired that he hadn't been thinking straight
how long had he been asleep for to be this tired?
ah, whatever, but he was here, 'nd Papà was here!
“I needed you.. Papa.. why are you silent? Are you angry with me?”
He refused to look up, terrified that the image would vanish if he broke the embrace, clutching his fingers onto his suit.
“Franco?”
“Grazie! Thank you, Papa, you answered! It’s okay now; we’re—we’re going to have that dinner, just like you promised! And then mammà will be here and we can finally be a real family!”
“Franco, listen to me. This is your home now. You aren't in New Orleans; you are suffering through a hallucination brought on by your night terrors.”
“But... this is happening right now... I just heard you speaking to me—”
Franco muttered, his confusion and the fogginess in his mind buffered him, his mouth slightly agape as he shook his head, his crooked and missing teeth visible for a moment.
He couldn't have been having night terrors.
“If that is what you believe, than yes, i was just speaking to you.”
Then, it hit him:
The voice was different—colder, more clinical.
The doubt began to creep back in.
“But we were just talking, I was right there—”
“Franco, do you remember what he did to you?”
Easterman’s hand moved to the side of Franco’s head, his palm pressing against the site of the tumored, bulbous part of Francos head, guiding the younger man’s head back down against his chest.
“…...He threw me away.”
“He did.”
“And then... I—I turned my back on N’Orleans....”
Franco began to sputter, his voice cracking.
“It is far too late for regrets. Whatever existed between you and Angelina is finished.”
“No... but I—”
“There is nothing I can do for that life, little one. You have to accept that I am your father now. That other place wasn't real; none of it was.”
“Then what is left for me to do, Papa…?”
“That dream is irrelevant now. You must accept that this facility, Sinyala, is your only home.”
“If this is where I belong... can you just tell me how proud you are of me?”
A thick, heavy silence stretched between them. Franco remained motionless; his ear pressed against the expensive wool of the suit, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of the older man’s heart, his fingers rubbing against the material as Hendrick clutched onto the cigar.
“...I suppose I can do that for you.”
Hendrick hesitantly obliged.
“How proud are you?”
“Extremely.”
“Truly..?”
“Yes. I am very proud of you, my boy.”
“Can you stay? Don't leave me.”
Franco instantly gripped onto his suit, looking up at him, and they locked eyes, and then He saw it. A look of pleading, begging, one he held so constantly to his mother as a child, one he couldn't tear his eyes away from, letting out a sigh as he glanced from Franco's strabismus strucken baby blues to the bed. He had to be put to bed.
“I have matters to attend to, but I will return to see you later, do you understand?”
“...Yeah.”
Hendrick leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to Franco’s forehead before gently pushing him back into the pillows, settling him into the mattress.
“I want a crib… this bed feels too large,”
Franco murmured as he shuffled around the bed, his feet rubbing together at the heels as he curled into fetal position.
“I’ll have the request sent to the purchasing department.”
Hendrick ran a hand through Franco’s minute, dirty blond hair, pressing a hand to his cheek and running a thumb over it, his narrowing eyes blinking in tiredness. The action caused Franco to press against his hand, sinking into his touch.
“I'll see you when the sun comes up, Papa?”
Franco asked, letting out a yawn, which caused Easterman to yawn.
“Of course, my son.”
As Easterman turned to leave, the jingle of his keys seemed to act as a sedative for Franco’s anxiety. The younger man reached for his bottle, his mouth closing around the nipple as he began to rhythmically suckle the last of the milk.
The door clicked shut. Clyde stood on the other side of the observation glass, his features twisted into an expression of pure revulsion as the latch engaged.
“You.. have a truly disturbing way of managing them, Hendrick.”
“He is a child. Even beneath the skin of a hitman, he is just a boy crying out for a lullaby.”
A long silence stretched between them as Hendrick ran a hand through his own hair, clumps falling to the floor.
“…..Are you certain you aren't just projecting a version of yourself onto that boy..?”
“Would you prefer I ask him to put another bullet in you to test his loyalty to his father?”
“No.”
“Then we have nothing more to discuss.”
Easterman draped a heavy arm around Clyde’s shoulder as they moved away from the room. They shared a single cigar, the smoke trailing behind them like a ghost as they walked down the sterile hallway toward the office.