blood-soaked streets of brooklyn

By: misprint

"Slick!" The door burst open and Pockets appeared in the girls dormitory, his face lined with wrath. Every girl looked up from their activities to witness the scene with eager eyes. "I swear ta God you have breathed yer last breath!" Slick, a scrawny blonde, looked up, her rat like face a vision of innocence.

"I don't know whatcha talkin' about." She said virtuously.

"You didn't know what I was talkin' about the last four times eitha!" He practically howled.

"Ah, yer touched in the head." She snapped, going back to reading the paper, which she had swindled out of her days work.

"You're gonna be touched in da head!" He yelled, lunging towards her. "Touched so hard you ain't gonna be thinkin' straight fer months!" Slick jumped off the bed and ran towards the window, with Pockets hot on her heels. She opened it, and swung around to a gable just beside it, then jumped up on to the roof. He clambered up after her in time to see her disappear through a trap door, back inside. He dove down after her and landed on his feet, then saw her take off up a stair case.

"I'll moida ya!" He yelled, two steps behind her. She tossed back her head and gave her usual high pitched chicken laugh. She swung around a corner.

"Don't give me dat bull, Pockets, you neva live up to ya threats." She teased. She turned another corner and ran straight into Spot.

"Well, well, well." He said, giving his trademark smirk. "What have we here?" She raised an eyebrow. Slick was the only girl in the lodging house that could get under Spot's skin and live to tell about it the next morning. Pockets appeared behind her, panting angrily.

"Heya Pockets." She said, not even turning around.

"Whaddidya do?" Spot said, the grin dropping from his face.

"Stole my watch, that's what!" Pockets yelled. Slick stepped to the side so she could see both boys.

"My dahlin' boy." She smiled. "You must a' gotten me confused wid one of our uddah news goils. You know the last thin' on my mind is bein' a thief."

"If you woin't a goil I'd butcha ya!" He yelled, his face turning red with anger. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Don't play stupid wid me!"

"Oh, yer pocket watch." Slick laughed. "Ain't that funny, I don't got it."

"Give it back, Slick."

"Honest." She said, her blue eyes widening. "Okay…so I admit I did kinda steal it from ya…" She talked faster as he made a move to leap at her. "But Killa took it from me! It's wid Killa, I sweah!"

"Spot, deal wid 'er!" He pleaded.

"You don't know whatcha talkin' about." She said, smiling infuriatingly. "Check wid Killa."

"If yer lyin' to me…" He said, raising a finger at her threateningly.

"Now why would I do such a thing?" She said. He growled and turned around, then raced down the stairs. She watched him go, with a smirk on her face. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the watch. She flipped in the air and deftly caught it.

"Well, whaddaya know." She said. "Killa musta left it wid me afta all." She grinned. "Sucka." She pocketed the watch, turned and tried to walk past Spot, but he held the gold end of his cane in her face. "Whaddaya want, Conlon?"

"That watch betta be back wid Pockets before the day is out, ya hear me Slick?"

"Loud an' clear commanda." She said, doing a mock salute. "Besides, have ya ever known me to keep some'n' from someone more dan a day?" she slid her arm around him and smiled.

"You're gettin' outta hand." He said, sliding the cane back into his belt. She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Puhlease. Whatcha gonna do? Snap ya red suspenda's and hit me ova da head wid dat cane you carry? Alright, alright, I'm just jokin', jeez." She said quickly as he swung his cane towards her. She ducked just in time. "Grow a sense a humour, Conlon, it'll give ya some'n' ta do." She walked down the hall. He sighed and hooked his thumb in his back pocket. A second thought hit him, and he quickly patted his pockets. His slingshot.

"Slick!" He yelled. She burst into laughter and ran down the hall, the slingshot hanging from her hand. Sensing the look on his face, she tossed the slingshot back to him.

"I didn't hoit it." She said, turning and leaving in earnest. Sure she was daring, but to tempt the wrath of Spot Conlon was a dangerous art. And adding a slingshot into the mix was also a bad idea.

~*~

Killer opened the door just as Slick appeared. Behind her sprawled Rosie and Lashes, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the afternoon paper to arrive so they could get selling it over with.

"Slick you doity goil." Killer spat. "Almost got my head torn off by Pockets. What did you do wid his watch?"

"Hey, you're da one dat stole it off a' me, apparently." She said, dropping the watch into Killers hands. "What did you tell 'im?"

"Dat I had no idea what he was talkin' about."

"An' did he believe ya?" She asked, walking to her bunk, leaving Killer standing there with the pocket watch hanging from the belt loop of her corduroys and her hands on her hips.

"A coise not, you pulled the same gag on 'im two minutes before! You realise how mad 'e's gonna be when 'e finds out you got it!"

"You got it." She corrected, motioning to the watch hanging off of her pants. Killer groaned. Slick smiled and climbed up one of the bunk beds, collapsed on the top, and stared at the ceiling. Killer was fifteen, Slick's age, and had long black hair, so straight it could have been ironed. Her eyes were shaped like coins, round and far apart, and when she smiled, her teeth were slightly crooked.

"Slick, you ain't gotta prayer." Rosie said, flipping her red curls over her shoulder. "I mean, everyone, 'ceptin' you a coise, knows ta not so much as look at Pocket's watch fa too long."

"Well, dis is just peachy, den." Killer sighed. "Because, apparently, I stole it offa Slick!"

"Unless Harlem stole it offa youze." Slick suggested to the plaster, trying to calm her partner in crime, for who she pinned the blame of many deeds on, even though no one believed her. Killer had a quick temper.

"Harlem's off wid that kid from Manhattan, that, ah…" Lashes said, trying to remember the name. "Skittery."

"Well put it unda her mattress or some'n'." Slick said carelessly. The door burst open for the second time, and Pockets was standing there. Killer jumped and turned around.

"Jeez, Killa." Lashes laughed. "You mighta well as have "guilty" written all ova ya forehead!"

"I didn't do it!" She protested.

"Heya Pockets." Slick grinned from the top of her bunk. "You look angry. Been around da woild an' back?"

"Gimme dat!" He hissed at Killer, snatching it off her belt. Killer shrugged and grabbed Slicks newspaper.

"Hey!" Slick protested.

"Ya win some, ya lose some." Killer snapped, shaking it open. "Hmm. Maya spoke to head of the bank. God, how are we sapposed ta sell these things?"

"I want an explanation!" Pockets was yelling.

"Ah, Pockets, Pockets." Rosie said, smiling over at him. Easily the prettiest of the girl newsies, she was able to charm almost anyone into doing her bidding. "Don't worry 'bout a thing. The main thing is you gotcha watch back, right?" She asked, standing and walking over to him.

"Yeah…" He grudged. He slowly stepped backwards as she neared him, but she kept on walking, forcing him backwards.

"And another thing is, Slick's loined a lesson, right?"

"Well…"

"Right?"

"Yeah…I guess…"

"And ain't in common coitasy not to distoib a lady in her bedroom?"

"I didn't wanna distoib no body…" He admitted.

"Right." She smiled and winked at him, then slammed the door in his face. She turned to face Killer and Slick.

~*~

"Extra! Extra!" Spot yelled. "Astounding Quarrel Between Bank Manager and Mayor! Read All About it! Thankyou ma'am. Extra!"

"So, whaddaya say?" Chaos asked, appearing as though by magic in front of the leader of Brooklyn. "Tonight we take Manhattan?" Fourteen and as tough as nails, Chaos had a sort of magical quality that had automatically made her Spot’s right hand man, or woman, in this case. She seemed devoid of happiness. She never smiled.

"Yeah, they’re hostin’." He said, referring to the nightly game of poker. "I figure I’m up for a li’l gamblin’."

"That’s Racetrack’s lodge." She said, raising an eyebrow. Her long spiky dark hair jabbed out from under her newsies cap, and her green eyes were almost as piercing as his were. They were certainly drilling into him at the moment. "You really wanna gamble wid Race?"

"He says ‘e’s good, but it’s all talk." Spot said in a dismissive tone. Chaos shrugged.

"Suit ‘cherself." She said. Then she practically disappeared. Spot smiled. She was like a whirlwind of energy, and everywhere she went, it seemed the edges around her blurred, as though nothing was real, except for herself. He liked being with her. It made him feel safer.

"Extra!" She was shouting. "Fifty Two People Involved In Gigantic Hoax!" Someone bought a paper from her. She resumed her call. "Extra! Extra! Fifty Three People Involved In Gigantic Hoax!"

Spot took off his cap and let the warm, scented air run through his honey coloured hair. It felt good against his scalp. He still had about fifty more papers, and he wanted them done with as soon as possible. Even with Killer and Slick on the loose about the home, it was more relaxing to be there than out here.

He walked past the docks. They were empty, since the afternoon had practically just started. Spot was one of the best sellers in New York. "The most respected Newsie in New York, and probably everywhere else!" Was what Jack’s friend David had called him. David. The walking mouth.

"Whatever happened to David?" Lashes had asked him once. Spot had shrugged.

"Moved to Joisey wid his family. ‘Parently ‘e ‘ad to go back ta school, an’ his dad couldn’t get a job heah. They all hated him."

"That’s tough." She had said, jamming the toe of her boot into the floor. She still pretended she hadn’t cared, but Spot had a feeling it hurt her inside. She wasn’t the kind that let on easy, though. Despite her name, which was given to her because of her long, dark eyelashes, she was a fierce kid. "Fierce as dey come." Chaos had remarked once, a cigarette clenched between her teeth.

"Extra! Extra!" He screamed. "Widespread terror!" Improving the truth is what Jack called it. Selling a pape right, is what Spot called it. Whatever you called, every newsie did it, because what you didn’t sell you ate.

Rosie was walking with Wolf, one of the newsboys at the lodge. They were down to eighty papers each, and just getting warmed up.

"My talent, an’ your looks." He had said once to her. Then he received a bruise on his face, direct from her fist, and had changed his tune. She had to smirk when she remembered it. He never made any comment like that again. She made sure of that.

"So. The docks?" He said.

"Ah, who’s down at the docks?" She asked, rolling her eyes. "The corna heah. Look at all dese educated lookin’ people. Read All About It!" She blared, her voice slicing through the polite silence of horses hooves and murmur. "Well Known Theatre Closed Down Poimanently! Extra!"

~*~

Spot sold his last paper and sighed with relief. Then he turned around, and was met with the infuriating grin of Slick.

"Man, took ya long enough." She smiled. It hit him, and he groaned. "Tha’s right." She said, almost jumping up and down with glee. "Beatcha by twelve minutes!" She said, brandishing gold watch.

"Hey, is dat Pockets…"

"You know what dat means." She said, hastily putting the watch away.

"Yeah, yeah." He grumbled. He took his cane out of his belt and handed it to her. "For the rest of the day. An’ you betta keep ya promise!"

"Don’ worry, if you ain’t sleepin wid it secure at yer side, you have poimission ta skin me." She rolled her eyes. Then she slipped the cane into her belt and turned to walk away. He glared after her, feeling the loss of weight at his side.

"Slick!" Pocket’s voice screamed. Slick broke into her trademark laugh and started running, the chain of the watch hitting her side. "I’ll moida ya, an’ I ain’t jokin’ this time!"

~*~

Killer and Skitch sat on the roof of the lodging house, watching the sun set. Her head was on his lap, and he was running his fingers through her hair. It was spread like black lace across the shingles of the roof. They were about to leave for Manhattan, and were enjoying the void that separated the day from the night.

"Killa?"

"Yeah?"

"Don’ eva leave me."

"Where did dat come from?" She said, trying to sound annoyed over the sickening sweetness in the sentence, but coming off melted. Abruptly, she cleared her throat and squinted up at him.

"I dunno."

"Jeez, Skitch." She sighed. "An’ they said you were a lady killa."

He smiled and leaned over, his lips softly brushing hers. She moved her mouth slightly, kissing him back. A new voice made them jump.

"I, ah, hate to interrupt you two love boids." She recognised the tone. Slick was standing there, Spot’s cane hanging at her side. "But the express carriage of the day is leavin’ for Manhattan, an’ do ya really wanna miss the night I play leada?" She grinned and stood tall.

~*~

"Aight, aight." Racetrack said, his cigar clamped in between his lips. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand holding up his cards. Spades was snuggled against his side, and his arm was around her shoulders, ending with a hand on top of her head, idly twirling her dark curls. He tossed a nickel down onto the table, releasing Spades hair for a moment. Kloppman was leaning over the counter, quietly watching the game. Chaos slapped a quarter down. Spot stared at the quarter, then placed his cards on the table.

"Fold." He said. "I’m retirin’ quick tonight."

"S’matta, Conlon?" Slick smiled at him. "Too rich for ya blood?" A silence fell across the table as Spot narrowed his eyes. Then he sighed and leaned back.

"Yeah, an’ I gotta bad feelin’ about the whole thing." He smirked. "Instincts." She shrugged, and flipped a penny onto the pile of growing coins. Everyone relaxed a little. "Back ta you, race." She said.

Racetrack leaned forwards slightly, causing Spades to snarl with discontent. She poked him in the chest.

"You ain’t a very good pilluh." She complained.

"Hey, not now Spades." He said, looking over his cards. She replied by plucking the cigar from his lips and taking it herself. "An’ cut dat out."

"Yes Race." She said absently. She closed her eyes and let her head fall sweetly against his shoulder. He kissed her forehead, and then threw down a dime.

Chaos threw down another quarter.

"Whoa, Chaos." Spot grinned. "Whatcha got?"

"It ain’t none a’ ya business, Conlon." She snapped, bolded by Slick’s mouthing off.

"Fiery." He grinned. She cocked her head to one side, gave him a look, then tossed down another quarter. The air grew thick with intensity.

"Aight, dat’s it." Slick said finally, tossing her cards across the table. "Too serious fa me." Racetrack removed his arm from Spades shoulders, causing her to yelp and nearly fall to the floor.

"Joik." She muttered.

"Shut up a minute, will ya?" He snapped. He raised his eyes to Chaos, who stared back without her expression flickering.

Talk aboutcha poker face, Spot thought in admiration. Racetrack sighed, and threw down twenty cents. Without hesitating, Chaos reached into her pocket and pulled out a chain. On the end of the chain was a cross, with a red jewel in the center.

"My mudduh’s." She said, her voice carving into the brick like silence. "An’ her mudduh’s before dat, an her muddhuh’s before dat, an’ her muddha’s before dat." She slowly dropped the chain onto the pile. "I could go on foreva." Racetrack gulped. "So whatsit gonna be, Race?" He sighed, and stared at the jewel on the cross, shining up at him. Then he glared at her.

"Fold." He said, pressing his cards down onto the table. She shrugged, and took the necklace, and put it in her pocket. Then she drew her winnings towards her.

"Comon, Chaos." Killer wheedled. "Show us whatcha got." Without so much cracking a grin, she slid the cards across to Racetrack. He picked them up, and his face went white with anger.

"Sorry, Race." She said, cocking her head to one side.

"What is it, Race?" Spades whined, peering around. As soon as she saw the cards, she burst into laughter. He threw them down on the table in a rage. Chaos had held nothing. She sat, quietly pushing the coins into a pouch. Then she dropped it next to her chair, where it had been sitting before.

"One more game." He spat at her.

"No can do, Race." She said lightly. "I know I’d just lose all my winnin’s like dat." She snapped her fingers. "An’ give it back, Slick." She said, without so much taking her eyes off Racetrack’s face. Slick scowled and pushed the pouch back to her. She pocketed it, and glared over at her.

Spades stood up and stretched.

"I’m gonna go outside an’ stretch me legs." She said. Racetrack looked up at her with his huge, puppy dog eyes.

"What, ya leavin’?"

"You could always come wid me." She said, irritated. Then she winked. A slow grin stole across his face. He stood and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"’Scuse me fella’s." He said, leading her out of the room. Several cheered.

"Alright Race!" Specs laughed. Harlem, from the safety of Skittery’s arms, rolled her eyes over at Clover, as if to say "men". Clover grinned. She had met Harlem only two months ago, when the girl had started going over to Manhattan regularly to see Skittery. Head strong and controlling, and bound to lose her temper when she didn’t get her way. Not a beauty, with brown skin, and a flat face. But her large brown eyes were enticing, and her laugh was almost infectious. She and Clover had become fast friends, hardly ever passing up an opportunity to spend time together.

"Well, well, well." Prowler grinned at the chesterfield where Skittery and Harlem sat, whispering to each other. "If it ain’t the slacka hoiself. Where were ya all day, Harl?"

"Shut yer trap, Prowla." She snapped.

~*~

Chaos slipped quietly out into the cool night air when no one was watching. The laughter and cigarette smoke around the table was suffocating, and the talk incessantly pounded in her head. She was barefoot, wearing a pair of slacks Skitch had lent her, and a soft flannel button up shirt, stained with mud. The suspenders were chafing, so she sat on the stairs and slouched, trying to loosen the blade-like pressure on her shoulders. Her favourite cap sat firmly on her head, and she clenched a cigarette between her fingers.

Ever since she had emigrated from Ireland to New York five years ago, she had long since wised up to what she had to do to keep healthy. Stay on Spot’s good side. Sell enough papers. And whatever you do, stay off the streets at night. But here she was, out in the open, listening to the laughter from the endless poker games drifting out to her ears. She stood, wincing as the suspenders dug into the nerve that protruded from her frail shoulder bones, and jumped down the couple of steps, hardly noticing as the stray stones on the cement dug into her feet.

She slowly let her mind drift as she wandered throughout the streets.

~*~

"Hey, anyone see Chaos?" Spot asked, speaking up for the first time in a while. Slick was upstairs in the girls dorm, surrounded by a group of those who admired her, strutting around and waving the gold tipped cane imperiously. Many of the male newsies were still grouped around the table, betting their last coins on the game. Racetrack and Spades were up on the roof, and Harlem and Skittery were on the sofa. The rest of the newsies were scattered around the room in various places, and Specs and Kloppman were talking in quiet voices.

"She was heah a minute ago." Jake said, hardly taking his eyes off his cards.

"Yeah." Snipe shooter agreed. "Hoid ‘er leave."

"Where’d she go?" Pie-eater asked, sitting up slightly. They all shrugged. Harlem smiled.

"Chaos ‘as always been one fer bein’ alone, Pie-eata. Unless you wanna go find ‘er, I’m shooah she ain’t objectin’ to a li’l of yer company." Sniggers sprung up from many in the room. Pie-eaters face went red.

"Shaddup, Harlem." He spat.

"Yeah, quit talkin’ like dat ‘bout Chaos." Spot said. Harlem lowered her eyes instantly. Spot ordered respect naturally.

"Seriously." Rosie said, from her position on the couch. Buttons glared at her. It was common knowledge in the Manhattan lodging house that Buttons hated Rosie beyond belief, but they didn’t know why.

A thump came from upstairs, and laughter.

"I’m Spot!" Slicks nasal voice was heard through the floor boards. "Hail me! Hail me! Killa! You ain’t down on yer knees, yet!" Spot growled and crumpled the cards with his hand. Then he made for the stairs.

"I’m gonna tear dat goil apart." He yelled, forgetting about Chaos for a moment in his blind irritation.

~*~

Chaos looked up at the sky. The moon would have been shining brightly tonight if it weren’t for the clouds that constantly drifted over it. She felt strangely alone without the consistent sound of the water lapping up against the shore, and the strange smell of salt and fish that was forever in the air. Homesick for Brooklyn, she thought, laughing at herself. And it had only been three hours.

She heard a noise, and her hand strayed to her pocket instinctively, finding the jewelled cross and the blade that she carried, no matter what, no matter where. A soft laugh made her whirl around and draw the blade out of her pocket, but there was no one in sight. The mouth of an alley stretched out a couple feet in front of her, one she had just walked past. Her palms began to sweat.

She slid the knife back into her pocket, her fingers tight around it, hiding it behind the layer of corduroy. Then she slowly walked to the opening of the lane and stepped in front of it. A dark figure stood there, the blood shot eyes evident, even though he was but a silhouette.

"Who’s der?" She asked, her voice steady. The figure moved towards her, and she flicked out her knife. It didn’t slow the advancing shadow. Afraid her hand was shaking, she lowered the knife slowly and tried to peer at the face. But before she could get a good look, he lunged towards her, grabbed her throat, and slammed her against a wall.

She groaned as her head cracked the brick, leaving a sickening sound in the air. White hot sparks of light danced in front of her eyes, when she opened them. The hat the figure was wearing shaded the eyes, but a prominent chin covered with stubble was visible.

She shakily raised the knife, but it was smacked out of her hand. She struggled, but every time she moved he tightened his grip on her throat. She grabbed onto his wrist and opened her mouth, desperately trying to suck in more air. His grip loosened slightly, and she gasped.

"Whaddaya want?" She whispered.

"Shut up." He hissed, slamming her against the wall. She ignored the pounding in her skull and rammed her foot between his legs. He fell backwards, and she touched her throat tenderly. It was swollen and red. Not wasting a second, she reached down and grabbed the knife. She heard a click, and looked up to see the man point a gun at her head.

His finger pushed on the trigger before she had a chance to react. She felt the bullet whiz past her shoulder, taking a chunk of her hair with it. He swore and cocked the gun, but before he could fire again, she dived at him and straddled his stomach, then held the knife over his neck.

"Whaddaya want?" She yelled, tears of rage coming to her eyes. He sneered at her, and she pressed the flat edge of the blade against his throat. Then she repeated her question louder.

"Put the knife down." He said, calm for someone who’s life was at stake.

"You’re gonna listen to me!" She said, her voice tense with hate. He opened his mouth to say something. "Shaddup!"

"I could blow you away in a second or less." He said softly his fingers tightening around the gun which he dared not move.

"Yeah, well I can cut inta ya air pipe in two seconds ah less." She snapped. "Why are ya heah?" His fist shot up and caught her under the jaw. She recovered, then grabbed the gun, still clenched between his fingers, and pointed it away from herself, towards the wall she had been thrown against. He fired it, and she watched as the bullet ricocheted off the it and hit something metal farther away. She wrestled for it, and finally tossed it down the alley. Then she rolled over on top of the man again and pounded his face in. She hit him again, three times, four times, until he reached up and wrapped two hands around her throat. She snapped her head back, trying to get away, but his grip was powerful, and an ocean of red surged across her eyes.

With a cry, she raised her foot and stomped down on his stomach. He gasped in pain, and she grabbed her knife, shoved it in her pocket, and ran, her bare feet pounding against the sidewalks of Manhattan, her hair flying back from her pale skin as though she was a ghost. She couldn’t hear anyone following her, and didn’t stop until she reached a corner. There she grabbed onto the wall of a flat and stared at the brick, trying to calm herself. Her breath came out in short spurts from running so fast, and her hair around her face was oiled down with sweat. She let her forehead rest against the brick, and finally gave into the pounding of her head. It seemed to surge through her body, pulsing and writhing. She felt sick.

She turned and looked around, realising she had no idea where she was. She pulled a cigarette out of her pocket, her hands shaking, grabbed a match, and dragged it down the brick, watching it flare into life. She lit the cigarette with difficulty, owing to her trembling nerves, and then dropped the match onto the cement, where it flickered and died. She took a deep drag and blew out the smoke, watching it stretch into the air until there was nothing left. What she wouldn’t give for those cigars Racetrack always seemed to have.

She had no idea what time it was. Had the others already headed back to Brooklyn? Did they notice if she was there? She closed her eyes and moaned. She was nauseous, and for once, the cigarettes weren’t helping. She heard the carriage long before she saw it, and narrowed her eyes as it rolled past her. A lady with an upswept hairdo sat in it, regally staring off into space, looking important. It didn’t impress her. The thing that jarred her was Killer, crouched on the back.

"Killa!" She hissed, running after the carriage. Killer saw her, and jumped off, then sprinted towards her, her long legs scissoring after one another.

"Chaos!" She said, stopping short of the girl and violently shoving her shoulder. "You coulda at least told us where youze was goin’! I just spent half an owa lookin’ for ya!"

"I didn’t think I mattad all dat much." She snapped. "Besides, the boys wander aroun’ plenny."

"Yeah, but dey don’t wander around at night, genius." She snapped. She sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. She looked uncomfortable in her dress. All the girls dressed up for poker nights and parties, except for Chaos and Slick.

"I’m takin’ ya back to da lodgin’ house." She said. Then she stopped and peered closely at the girls face. "You look shook up somin awful." She said. Chaos sighed and averted her eyes from her rescuers prying ones.

"I’ll tell everyone lata." She said. "Right now I jus’ wanna get back to da home and get somin ta drink. Undastood?"

"Yeah, yeah, keep ya pants on." Killer snapped, miffed by Chaos’s bristles. She patted her on the shoulder as she walked past her. Chaos followed, uneasy. The night seemed much too dark.

~*~

"It seemed like he was out fa me or somin." She explained uncomfortably, aware of everyone’s eyes on her. She didn’t like being the center of attention. She didn’t like telling her story to the thousands (it seemed) of newsies around her. Spot had run towards her when she came in. She had a couple bruises across her face and a black eye, and blood was trickling from her lip at the point. Killer had her arm wrapped around her, something she hated.

Why can’t they all just leave me alone? She thought, full of wrath.

"Do ya know what he looked like?" Harlem asked, warming her hands between hers. She shook her head.

"He kinda had a beard, dat’s all I know." She said, looking down at her. Wolf was standing in the corner of the room, quietly smoking a cigarette. She risked a glance at him before returning her eyes to the ceiling, where they had spent most of the past half hour. Her insides jumped. She knew Wolf hated her, he made no hindrance of his usual display of annoyance when she appeared. All she knew was that apparently, he was Spot’s right hand man, and almost the leader of Brooklyn, before she came along.

Why are you mad at me? She wanted to scream. It wasn’t my fault. Straight off Ellis island and steered in the direction of Brooklyn. Where else was I supposed to go? What else was I supposed to do?

"Chaos!" Someone said loudly. She broke her gaze with the ceiling, and saw Harlem standing there. "You dreamin’?"

"Uh…"

"We gotta go. We got a couple carriages pullin’ up, one way trip non stop ta Brooklyn. Ya comin’?" It took her a while to notice the Brooklyn newsies were grouped around the door, waiting for her.

"Yeah, a’ coise I am." She said, standing and stretching. She winced as she still tasted blood on her lower lip. She sucked it off, then went to join them. Spot was looking out into the night. Then, with a quick crook of his finger, the Brooklyn newsies streamed out, almost invisible in the darkness. Chaos jumped onto the back of a carriage, next to Harlem, who was blowing Skittery a goodbye kiss. She huddled back, her arm gripping the wooden bar so hard her knuckles went white.

Harlem gave her a look, the kind that clearly said "you okay?" Chaos turned away and stared down at the city streets, rolling underneath her.

~*~

Spades woke up next to Racetrack, her hair spread out all over the pillow. The small Italian boy was slumbering beside her, his lips parted slightly. She kissed his forehead, and snuggled against his chest. Warmth enveloped her, and she felt so content it was almost unbearable. A pain shot through her when she heard Kloppman yelling at the foot of the stairs.

She groaned silently and tried to pretend she didn’t hear it. But the silence was tainted. He started at the bottom of the stairs, and yelled his head off, all the way up.

"Come on! Rise an’ shine! We got papes to sell! Get outta bed ya lazy bums!" She laughed as Racetrack mumbled and shifted in his sleep. All around her, the newsies were grumbling as they rolled over in bed.

"Specs! Jake! Skittery, Skittery, Skittery!" He smacked them gently on the head as he called their names. "Come on! We got papes to sell! We got money to oin! We got people ta please! Outta bed, outta bed!"

"’Mornin’." Spades smiled at Racetrack when he finally opened his eyes. He laughed gently and trailed a finger down soft line of her cheekbone.

"’Mornin’." He replied, kissing her mouth.

"Race! Race!" He yelled. Racetrack groaned and pulled the covers up over both their heads. Spades giggled, and kissed him again. He kissed her back, threading a hand through her hair. The covers were pulled back, and Spades glanced up through the kiss. Kloppman was standing there, and starting whacking Racetrack on the head.

"Race! Race! Gettup, gettup, gettup!"

"Whassa matta witchoo, ya mad?" He complained, hitting Kloppman back with wild swings, managing to kiss Spades at the same time.

"Spades! Get back wid da goils!"

"Aw, Kloppman." She groaned, unable to get up. "It ain’t fair."

"Life ain’t fair, missy, now rise an’ shine!" He snapped. He turned and started waving his cane in the air. "Jack! Comon! Get up, ya lazy cowboy! Cowboy!"

Spades pulled her shirt and pants on under the covers and stood, flipping out her hair. Racetrack got dressed too, and searched his bedside table for a cigar. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply and tried to wake up. Spades was pulling on her socks. Then, with a smile at Racetrack, she waltzed out of the room, high up on cloud number nine, oblivious to the teasing comments of the rest of the guys.

Racetrack grinned as he watched her go. She was quite the girl, and he was lucky to have her.

Spades yawned as she walked into the girls dorm. She grabbed a hat and tucked her hair under it. She found being a boy a lot easier. She grabbed a fifty cent coin off her dresser and stuffed it into her pocket, then looked out the window and scowled as she saw the clouds hovering low.

She sighed and fell into step with Clover and Burn, two of her friends. She was a social animal, insecure if there was no one standing beside her. She had long dark hair that lay flat on her head, then curled near her shoulders. The paleness of her skin contrasted with her hair, causing Racetrack to give her the name "Spades" the moment he laid eyes on her. She had wild black eyes, which distracted anyone from the fact that she was missing a few teeth. None of the girls in the Manhattan Lodging House were exceptionally beautiful, like the women they saw on the streets sometimes, who were always on the arm of a dashingly handsome man. But each had a distinctively unique personality.

She jumped when Racetrack slid his arm around her waist. They were down at the bottom of the stairs, and she smiled at him, placing her hand on top of his. Together, they walked out of the Lodging house.

Jack was walking with Bumlets and Snipe shooter. Clover trailed behind him, secretly watching him. Despite the fact that there was hardly any privacy between the newsies, especially the girls, only she, and possible Harlem if she had caught the signals Clover tried not to send, knew that she was obsessed with Jack Kelley. She followed him now, all the way to the world building and lined up behind him.

"D’usual." He said, sliding a fifty cent piece across the counter.

"Hundred papes fa Cowboy!" The growling man said. Jack took his papers and propped them up on his shoulder, and jumped off the platform. Clover averted her eyes from the back of his head.

"Just give me eighty today, Weasel." She said, yawning. Weasel waited for her forty cents before screaming; "Eighty papes! Hurry it up back der!" She took her papers and stayed them on her shoulder, before going down the ramp. Then she sat on the staircase, careful not to wrinkle her dress. There she opened the paper and browsed through it. Snipe-shooter sat down next to her.

"See anythin’ good?" He asked casually. She shook her head, and flipped through a few more pages. Nothing jumped out at the girl, and she was glad she asked Weasel for twenty five less than her usual.

"Der’s a conference comin’ up wid da constable an’ da maya." He said, trying to be helpful.

"Och, sure, there’s always a conference between someone and the maya, they just word it differently." She snapped, irritable. She sighed and closed the paper. "I suppose we’re back to the old standby."

"What? Eatin’ em?"

"No." She sat, whacking him over the head with her paper. "Making it up." She left, anxious to get to her best selling spot before anyone beat her there, yelling all the way about the earthquake in Brazil.

Specs and Jake both stood on the corner by an old bookstore. Hardly any one was stopping to buy a paper. It was a bad morning. Jake remembered Clover’s sullen look and made a mental note to trust her premonitions. He still had fifty papers to sell.

~*~

Rosie sat on the edge of her bed, fingering the worn material. Killer walked in, smiling. She grabbed a cigar off her bedside table and was about to leave, when she caught sight of Rosie.

"Heya Rosie." She grinned, sitting down beside her. "What’s rollin’?"

"Just a li’l depressed, s’all." She replied softly.

"Yeah?"

"Well…I dunno." She said, dropping the fringe of her blanket and standing. "It just seems like every goil heah has been in love. ‘Cept for maybe Slick, but it don’ get ta her."

"Whaddaya talkin’ about?" Killer said, hardly believing the words coming out of Rosie’s mouth. The most beautiful newsie in Brooklyn was complaining because she lacked love?

"You hoid me."

"But Rosie, yer beautiful." She protested. "How can you complain ‘bout somin like dat?"

"But dat’s just the thing!" She said, turning to Killer, her brown eyes pleading. "Ya see, I can neva be sure if any guy likes me because of me, or because I’m…well…" She sighed and turned around, walking to the window. The roof was the perfect place to sit and think. "I ain’t neva been in love before, ya know." She said over her shoulder as she swung outside.

~*~

Slick had given Spot his cane back the minute he had said her time was up. If it had been anyone else, she would have shook her head and grinned evilly, but she knew enough not to annoy Spot too much. She had seen him when he was angry. Like when he heard Chaos’s story, he had paced, his fingers twitching, as though he longed to curl them into fists and pound at the face of the man who did it to her. Vaguely, she wished someone like that cared that way about her, but dismissed it.

She stepped softly on the creaking floorboards, and smiled when they were silent for her. She was a master all right. It had taken her two years to memorise the patterns, on account of an unwelcome creaky board or two that had occasionally ruined her misadventures.

She could see it. A Cuban cigar lying on the table. Holding her breath, she glanced at the sleeping Skitch. Then she darted forward, quick and as silent as a bird, and snatched the cigar, and then sprinted for the door, her feet making no noise on the boards.

"Givit back Slick." He mumbled. She froze. "Put da cigar back on da table…" He said, opening his eyes fully. She groaned and put it back.

"’Dat ain’t fair, Skitch." She snapped. "Pullin’ somin like dat."

"It ain’t far when ya steal me cigar’s neida." He snapped back, sliding it into his pocket. She sighed and took off her cap, in exasperation and crumpled it in her fists. She hadn’t been able to steal things as easily as lately. Her reputation was being worn out as fast as an old pair of second hand shoes. She was having trouble getting away with things. Her subconscious was bothering her. What was wrong?

"Slick?" She looked up. "I just asked ya four times. Somin wrong?"
"Ain’t nona ya business, drip." She shot, jamming the cap back on her head. He grinned at her, then leaned back against his pillow. She sneered, and left abruptly, a weird tingling doubt in the back of her mind.

Killer pushed past Slick as she stormed out of the boys dorm.

"Slick? Somin up?"

"Nah." She said, without even turning around. Killer stared after her a moment, then shrugged and went in. She sat on the end of Skitch’s bed, and watched as he opened his eyes.

"Slick, I toldja…" He said. Then he stopped when he saw her. "Oh."

"Nice way ta great the goil who’s neva gonna leave ya." She teased, smacking his foot gently. He grinned and sat up, and pulled her towards him.

"Thoughtcha was Slick." He smiled.

"I figad."

"Didja?" he kissed her softly, and she smiled in spite of her feigned annoyance. She kissed back, feeling her heart speed up in her chest. She had never felt these things about anyone before, not even when she was dating another guy from the East Side of Brooklyn before.

Skitch trailed a finger down the side of her face and cupped her cheek with one hand. She finally broke the kiss when she heard the keeper yelling up the stairs.

"Papes are in!" He yelled. "Come on, lazy!" He chastised some one. "Let’s go! Let’s go! Move!" She groaned.

"Aftanoon already?" She complained, dropping her head wearily on Skitch’s shoulder. "I don’t wanna sell papes taday."

"How ‘bout we don’t sell papes taday!" Skitch said, his hands encircling her waist as he buried his face in her neck. She giggled. Spot swung in from the window, and his tough, "kicked puppy" look only deepened when he saw the two.

"Comon, Skitch." He snapped, straightening his cap. "Papes don’ sell themselves."

"I know." Skitch replied, his voice muffled by Killer’s skin. "Gimme a moment heah." Spot rolled his icy eyes and left, his cane swinging by his side. He was overprotective of his things now, seeing what Slick could do when she put her mind to it.

Wolf met him at the bottom of the stairs.

"Heya Wolf, howsit rollin’?" He smirked.

"Can’t complain." Wolf replied easily. He grinned at the leader of Brooklyn. Even though he wasn’t in some high ranking position, the two were still good friends.

It was true he was envious of Chaos. No one understood why. Wolf had been one male in his family of seven. His mother and five sisters had constantly daunted him, the middle child. Then he had finally escaped. A train ticked from Jersey to New York was all he needed, and he was no longer a burden on his family. He remembered the day he had joined the newsboys like it was yesterday. He remembered him and Spot being so close, they practically were one person. Unless it was serious business, Wolf was with Spot constantly. He began to be known as the "right hand man", and maybe even "leader" someday.

Until a girl took over.

He wasn’t fond of girls. Sure, he took off his hat if a fine lady was in his presence, he whistled at the random women on the corner, but if given the chance, he’d rather be with Spot. Clowning around, just like old times.

"How many papes ya getting’ taday?" He asked, feeling the few coins in his pocket clink.

"Ah, I dunno. Not as many, dat’s fa sure. Dis mornin’s headline? Pfft." He replied. They stepped out into the slightly warmer day. "I may not even sell taday."

"What?"

"I lost money dis mornin’." Spot explained grumpily.

"Ah, jus’ don’ buy more dan you think you can sell." Wolf said simply. Luck came to him when paired with selling papers.

"If it was dat simple, I’d be a rich man." Spot said wistfully. Rosie was sitting down, leaning against the side of the distribution center.

"Heya! Pockets!" She called. He turned. "Spot me two bits will ya?" He sighed, and dug into his waistcoat. He tossed her two coins. "Thanks."

Soon, Pockets was standing on the corner, screaming out the headline. No one stopped to buy a paper. Things were wrong. Too slow, almost. It seemed as though the people walking past him and the carriages that sped by had been diminished down to the pace of a worm. His papers felt heavier. He sighed and decided he hadn’t got enough sleep last night.

Maybe, he thought, if I just change selling spots. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered a neat little library where people loved to buy newspapers. Strengthened, he rearranged his papers, then took off down the street. Halfway, he spotted a shortcut. Two apartment buildings were built next to one another, and the gap between them was fenced off. The grass had grown long, and looked about mid calf height. The space was narrow, but he could fit.

He dropped his papers over one side of the fence and climbed over, then picked them up and scuffled through the grass. He stared down at it, wondering what it hid. Just then, his foot bumped against something. It moaned.

He froze, and then slowly nudged it with his toe again. He heard a sharp breath, so quick, as though it was painful for the creature, or whatever it was.

He squatted down and pulled back the grass. At first, the sight was so unexpected, he almost couldn’t place the fine, white wrist that lay on the soil. Then it hit him. Hurriedly, he followed the wrist up a slender, pale arm, to a shoulder, covered by soiled clothing, up the neck, and then, steeling himself, set eyes on the face.

At first, she looked so different her hardly recognised her. Her hair was still as curly and lustrous as ever, and her face hadn’t changed, but her lips were pale under the paint, and her eyes that once twinkled were as heavy as dark stones.

"No." He murmured under his breath. He shifted her into his arms lightly, trying not to upset her. As the left side of her collarbone was uncovered by the newspapers he had dropped, and that were scattered around, stained with a dark red liquid, he saw a bullet hole. He stared in revolt and shock. She coughed weakly, and tried to grin up at him.

"Sold all me papes." She said proudly.

"That’s…" He couldn’t think of anything to say. Here she was, dying in his arms, and she was telling him about papers.

"Even Spot can’t sell ‘em dat fast…canne Pockets? Canne?" She asked, almost begging.

"No, no…it’s…We’ll get you help." His voice came out high. She didn’t even listen.

"Pockets, I gotcha two bits. I sold enough. Dey’re in ma purse."

"I’m not worried ‘bout ma money."

"Sorry for da trouble."

"We’ll get help." He said again, moving her slightly, determined to keep her alive. He looked behind him, as though expecting a doctor to appear immediately. When he looked back, she was gone.

Pockets had never dealt with death. He had heard of it. He had heard his fellow newsies tell stories of their dead parents in soft voices. But she couldn’t be dead! She was here, in his arms! Her lipstick was still in place. She was so proud of her lipstick, never letting any of the girls borrow it. Even Slick knew not to touch it. "My muddah’s." She had bragged. "Ain’t neva run out yet. S’my favourite." Had he ever seen her without it? Could someone with those characteristics, the little things permanently implanted in their friends minds, could they ever really be gone? He tried to say something loud. Something to bring her back. But his voice only came out in a tiny, high pitch.

"Rosie?"

~*~

"Skitch, ya gotta help me." Skitch turned around to see Pockets, his small, dark eyes wide and afraid. Killer appeared, and saw them both.

"Whadddaya want?" Skitch replied.

"I jus’ foun’ Rosie…she…" He gulped. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. "She ain’t doin’ so good."

"What happened?" Killer asked, her eyes dancing with fire. She and Rosie had been friends.

"I jus’ don’ know!" He said, his voice rising in fear. "I don’ know what ta do! Ya gotta help me! Ya gotta!"

"Okay, calm down." Skitch said, putting both hands on the boy’s shoulders. He gulped and nodded, though still panting. "Jus’…where is she?"

"Ova heah." He said, turning and leading. Killer and Skitch paused before following, feeling their stomachs turn.

He led them down to the narrow space between the two apartments and climbed over the fence.

"I don’ see ha." Killer said.

"Pockets, what kinda game is dis?" Skitch asked.

"Ain’t no game." He stopped beside an indentation in the grass. Killer and Skitch quickened their pace, then stopped. It seemed the whole alley froze.

"Oh God." Killer moaned, clasping her hands over her mouth. She shook her head.

"She ain’t…" Skitch started, but his voice trailed off. Hours seemed to pass in the minute they stared at what once was Rosie. The only sound was of air on lips and grass on skin.

Killer stared at Rosie. She was so beautiful. She almost expected her eyes to flutter open, or her chest to move, or for either her or Pockets to give her a sign that this was all some cruel joke.

Pockets started pacing, his soft footfalls on the earth grating at their ears. Killer watched him, her eyes wide and pleading. She wanted to grab his hand and yell at him, somehow blame him for what happened. Anyone.

"I don’ know what ta do!" Pockets repeated. "We can’t carry her out through da streets…an’ we can’t jus’ leave ‘er heah!"

"Get Spot." Skitch said, his voice even. Killer was in his arms, both staring down at the dead girl. "Get Spot an’ all de oddahs. Papes sales are slow today anyways." He said bitterly.

"But she sold alla hers." Pockets said, running a hand through his hair.

~*~

"Doity thief!" Slick screamed, tears in her eyes. She wiped them away viciously, hoping the crowd wouldn’t see. She rattled off a couple more loud swear words, to make sure all eyes were focused on her. "Trip! Don’t pretend ya don’ heah me!" Trip turned around and sneered at her.

"Whaddaya want, Slick?" He shouted.

"I wan’ my papes back! The ten you got at da bottom a’ ya pile!" She yelled, advancing towards him. They held a loud argument, the two newsies.

"I didn’t steal ya papes!" He said.

"Yeah? I’m missin’ em, and you seemed to have gained ‘em. Give ‘em back!"

"I don’t have ‘em!"

"You are a liah!"

"De only liah I see is infronna me!" He retorted.

"Ya bastad!" She yelled. "You stole my papes!"

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" He answered back. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes flicked past the crowd, past the eager faces, and landed on Spot. Skitch was walking beside him, carrying Rosie, like some sort of hero saving a damsel in distress. Spot turned and caught her eye. The second that passed seemed to hold a year. Then he nodded. She nodded back, slowly, then turned to Trip. With an angry cry, she threw her papers down on the street and punched him square in the face.

~*~

"What’s goin’ on?" She screamed, the door of the lodging house bursting open. Hundreds of eyes turned to her. "Why won’ anyone tell me?" Slick was panic stricken. She hadn’t been told anything except for the bare facts, and couldn’t cope.

"Rosie’s dead." Spot had said, taking her shoulders in his hands. She had gaped at him, dumbstruck. "Create a distraction’."

"But…"

"You heah me Slick? We gotta get Rosie back to da lodgin’ house right away." He had ordered, his voice rising in menace. "Fight Trip or somin. Woik it out."

"O…Okay…" She had said. Then she had turned to Trip, who had been listening, and started screaming.

It had worked.

Rosie lay on one of the beds in the girls dorm room.

"Da bulls are comin’ ta pick her up dis evenin’." Spot said heavily now, sitting on the sofa.

"Does she getta funeral?" Lashes asked, her dark face streaked with tears.

"She didn’ have any money." Spot replied.

"What happened to ‘ah?" Spikes said, her voice laced with pain.

"She was shot." Chaos replied, after a moment of silence. "Probably by de same bastad who attacked me."

"Why?" Slick demanded. No one answered. She sighed and brushed a strand of pale blonde hair away from her face. "What can we do?" She said again.

"Nuttin’!" Bones, a black boy they had found in the streets said, standing up and pacing. "We don’t know who did it, why, or where dey are now."

"De only thing we know is dat he has it in fa newsies." Wolf said softly, cradling his cap in his hands. Chaos sighed and wanted to go up the stairs and collapse in her bed, just letting the mattress soak up her problems, but she knew Rosie was in there. She contented herself with flicking at her fingernails, trying to avoid Wolf’s eyes. Even though she was softened by the sudden tragedy, her hate for Wolf was still as hot as ever. And she knew his was the same.

Shingles, a girl who had received her nick name for loving the rooftops as much as her life, swiped a tear from her eye. She was only ten. She had known Rosie for five years. Rosie had taught her a lot, and though the girl was bitter at the world, she loved those younger than her. Shingles had always felt like the ugly side kick, shunted off to the side, but she found herself wishing she could have done something to keep it that way.

Slick sighed, and went and sat next to Killer. She stared at her stained thumbnails, shaking violently. Killer was leaning against Skitch, her eyes blank. Only Bones was moving, pacing up and down, staring at the floor. Prowler, a dark eyed boy from England, was fidgeting.

"Fa goil newsies." Chaos said, finishing Wolf’s sentence. Sharply, she looked up at him just as he looked at her. Something flashed in his eyes, and Chaos could have thrown up. She clutched her stomach, and wondered if she dared run into the girls dorm for the bathroom. She lowered her eyes, afraid he could see her suspicions. The only person she knew that hated girls, as much as to kill them…would he? Was he missing too, when she was walking? Was he selling newspapers when Rosie was attacked? "I feel sick." She murmured.

"Calm down, Chaos." Harlem said, reaching out to touch the girls shoulder. Chaos snapped away and hid herself in the corner, crouching into a ball. Harlem sighed and sat down. She knew when to leave Chaos alone.

Spot was sitting on the counter, his eyes fixed on the ground. It was a good thing no one saw them, because they seemed angrier, bluer, than ever. Spot Conlon was cool, and it was something he was very proud of. Hardly anything fazed him. And he had seen death before. He had seen members of a gang he belonged to hurt so badly, but stretched into death slowly. His eyes weren’t innocent. But this hurt him, because Rosie didn’t do anything to warrant the hole through her collarbone.

"I’m goin’ ta bed." He spat, jumping off the counter and climbing the stairs.

~*~

Lashes woke with a weight on her chest. This wasn’t new. It had been like this for a year and a bit, waking up and missing David. But now it seemed heavier, and she remembered why all to quickly.

And she was also afraid.

Like Chaos had said, it was girl newsies. Lashes felt it was too soon to make assumptions about anything, but Chaos seemed so sure of herself. And when you were around her, it seemed to make sense. But there were lots of murderers in New York. They couldn’t obtain any results from anything yet. But it didn’t stop her subconscious from making up things to terrify her out of her wits.

~*~

The newspapers didn’t even talk about Rosie, Harlem saw as she shook hers out to flip for headlines. But who really cared?

"Nuttin’." Spikes said, throwing down her paper in disgust. Harlem looked up briefly, then sighed and folded hers. Of course there was nothing. One more newsie, one less newsie, it really didn’t make a difference, except to the distribution center, who would be pushing them to sell more papers to make up for her absence.

"You’d think a moida story…" Spikes was saying. "Would warrant a li’l merit for da…"

"But it’s a moida story of a newsie." Spot interrupted. He turned around, his papers on his shoulder. "Weze woithless." He spat.

"S’like you don’ even rememba the strike!" Spikes said, her voice anger.

"I ain’t talkin’ bout owa jobs, I’m talkin’ bout us." He retorted, his expression never flickering. "Now, ya wanna cut the chatta an’ sell some papes?" He turned around and started walking down the street, his cane swinging by his side.

~*~

"Hey! Race!" Someone called. Race turned around to see Kid Blink coming up the street towards him.

"Heya Blink." He said.

"You seen Jack around?"

"Nah," Race admitted. "Think he went down ta Brooklyn. Spot’s ordas."

Scratch and Sling were wandering the streets together, talking about Dutchy, who they both hated, when the news hit.

"Rosie?" Sling asked. Crutchy stood in front of her, his cap in his hands. The image of a beautiful, laughing girl sprung into her mind. Long red curls and ruby lips. "Dead?"

"How? What?" Scratch stuttered.

"She was shot afta Chaos was attacked." He replied. "Memba poka night?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Scratch said, pressing a hand to her forehead. "What da hell is goin’ on?"

"Dat’s what everyone wants ta know." He said, shrugging. He pushed back his hair with his hand. "I think ‘bout every newsie’s gonna be wonderin’ dat tanight."

"Whaddaya mean? Everyone knows already?" Sling asked.

"If dey don’t, dey will by evenin’." He sighed.

~*~

Mush sat with Buttons on the steps of the lodging house. She was gazing up at the night, almost invisible, the way her dark skin blended with the evening. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she was wearing a button up shirt, suspenders, and brown slacks. Her feet were bare.

"Ya hoid ‘bout Rosie?" She asked, her voice choked slightly.

"Yeah." He replied carefully, tossing his cigarette into the darkness. Buttons nodded.

"I used ta hate ha." She said.

"Uh huh. We all knew dat."

"Yeah, but…but the thing is…does her bein’ dead make me like ha?" She asked, looking up at him. He glanced at her, before returning his gaze to the gravel, and not answering. "I mean…I mean am I supposed ta like ha now? Now that she’s gone? Coz I’m still not so shooah I undastand."

"Why?" He asked finally.

"Why what?"

"Why didj’you too hate each oddah so much?" He asked, looking up at her. She crossed her arms to hug away the cold.

"It was some stupid argument a couple yeahs ago." She replied softly. "Ova…it was ova a boy. Afta we both realised that we shoulda neva started it, she said somin mean, an’ I said somin mean, an’ we both just grew colda tawards each oddah." She wiped away the tears that formed suddenly in her eyes. "Just last day I was thinkin’ a makin’ it up wid ha. You…you kinda realise how trivial things ah in the face a’ somin like dis."

"Yeah." A long silence passed, broken by the short, random sobs of Buttons. Finally, Mush looked up at her. "Which boy?"

"What?"

"Which boy were you fightin’ ova?"

"Oh." She was glad for the darkness, making it impossible to see her cheeks flame. "He neva figad it out anyways. Jus’ a boy."

"Would ‘e mind if I moved in on his goil?"

"Aw, I was neva his goil, I jus’, I, what?" She stuttered. Shocked, she turned to face him. With a slight smile, he turned to her as well.

"You hoid me."

"Yeah. But I think I hoidja wrong." She said, brushing an escaped strand of hair away from her face. He laughed softly.

"I said; Would he mind if I moved in on ‘is goil?" He asked, taking her face in his hands.

"Uh…" She said, staring at him. "I…I don’t think ‘e’d mind at all."

~*~

Harlem came over a couple days later to see Skittery. Rosie still hurt her, and she needed condolence. She sighed as she went up the steps of the lodging house and pushed the door open.

"Harlem!" Clover said, standing. She ran towards her friend and hugged her. "I heard about Rosie. I think everyone has by now."

"Poifect." Harlem said softly. "Sympathy. Jus’ what I need."

"Sorry…"

"Don’t worry ‘bout it, ya heah?" She said, smacking her friend lightly on the side of her head. Clover grinned and hit her back. "Ya seen Skittery?"

"He’s down at newspaper row. I think he’s with Jack and Crutchy."

"Aight. See ya lata." Harlem said, turning around.

"Hey, wait!" Clover said, grabbing a jacket off the sofa that Kid Blink had left there. "’m coming with you."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. Sure, things are getting real boring round here. And I’ve been talking to the same people all day." She blushed suddenly, and grinned. Harlem raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest. It didn’t bother her that her friend was coming along. What bothered her was her strange behaviour.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She replied, suddenly defensive. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Dunno." The two girls took off towards the World Building. They saw the guys grouped around the statue of Horace Greely. Clover watched with a smile on her face as Skittery caught sight of Harlem and ran towards her. She smiled and jumped into his arms, kissing him.

"Hey! Harl!" He laughed. "You okay?"

"’Coise I am, ya drip!" She giggled, grabbing his cap and sticking it on her own head, looking like a clown in her long dress. He led them over to the statue. Clover climbed up onto Greely’s lap and sat there, timidly joining in the conversation once and a while.

"It’s simple." Jack was saying. "Don’t go out alone when it’s late."

"But Rosie was killed in da day time." Harlem said. "Are ya sayin’ we all gotta have a buddy system or somin?"

"We can’t even prove anythin’." Skittery said decisively. "Chaos gets attacked, an’ Rosie dies a couple days lata. It could be a coincidence. I mean, we live in New York."

"It just…it don’t seem like a coincidence." Jack said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"You think it’s the same guy?" Clover asked shyly.

"Somin like dat." He replied, looking up at her. She smiled. Harlem was too engrossed with Skittery to see what was going on, and Crutchy was explaining the number of reasons to never be alone, and so it was that her secret was still safe. But did Jack know?

"Maybe we should jus’ travel in a pack." Crutchy finished, jerkily sitting down and abandoning his crutch.

"What? Havin’ every newsie in Manhattan sweepin’ down da street like a mob? How many papes would we sell like dat?" Jack said scornfully.

"I didn’t mean dat, I meant just not travellin’ too far from each oddah." He said.

"This is stupid." Harlem said.

"Yeah." Clover agreed.

"Okay, I know Chaos got attacked an’ it might even be da same guy dat…dat moidad Rosie, but we can’t jus’ give up everythin’ we been taught because a what could be a huge coincidence, right?" Harlem argued.

"I guess." Crutchy said, a depressed look coming across his face.

"Whatever comes is gonna come." Clover said decisively. Then she looked at the sky. "And just to be a total hypocrite, we should head back to da home. S’gettin’ dark."

Harlem kissed Skittery, then jumped off of his lap.

"I’d betta head back ta Brooklyn."

"Oh no ya don’t!" Skittery said, grabbing her wrist.

"Whatsya problem?" She demanded.

"I agree witcha an’ everythin’, but it’s still a fact dat two of our goils got attacked. Maybe you should stay in Manhattan tonight."

"Comon, Skits, I’m a big goil. I can take care of myself." She said, rolling her eyes. "I’m from Brooklyn, fa cryin’ out loud."

"’E’s right, Harl." Clover said, rubbing her arms, trying to defend them against the goosebumps that were forming. "Just stay one night. Tomorrow’s Sunday. We don’t sell on Sunday."

"But…" She protested, feeling babied. Then she looked up at Skittery’s pleading brown eyes, and grinned like a little girl, in spite of herself. "Aight, ya talked me into it. I’ll soak you bums lata." She grinned, snuggling against Skittery, who wrapped an arm around her. Clover shivered, and turned her face to the direction of the lodging house, and they all ran after Crutchy, who had taken it on himself to lead the way.

~*~

Spades flipped her hair over her shoulder. A month had passed since the death of Rosie, and she could almost feel the tension lifting from the air. There was no news of any more attacks.

She heard footsteps past the dorm, and ducked under the doorway. She caught sight of Jack, Harlem, and a tough boy from Brooklyn. One of Spot’s minions. Bruiser.

Bruiser was sort of a celebrity amongst the Manhattan newsies for one thing. His infatuation with Spades. She brushed it off as nothing but a phase, and Racetrack, they all knew, was itching to pound Bruiser’s face in, but didn’t dare, considering his size. Spades remembered sometimes waking up and seeing Bruiser peering in at her, out of place in Manhattan instead of in Brooklyn. It scared her sometimes, but others she laughed along with the other girls.

"I really don’ need no ceremonial accompaniment on my way back ta Brooklyn." Harlem was saying.

"We ain’t no ceremonial accompaniment, Harl, you know dat." Jack said, shoving her lightly. "Bruisa told me I gotta talk wid Spot."

"Yeah, I know, I know." She retorted. Bruiser grunted. Spot’s minions didn’t talk a whole lot. They walked to the Brooklyn bridge, in awkward silence.

Harlem sighed and stared out over the water. A fog was rolling in, September was coming. She wished Skittery had been able to come along, but there would have been no point, and she didn’t want to waste his Sunday. But she already felt a lacking feeling.

Bruiser led them to the lodging house. Slick was sitting on the stairs, playing solitaire with cards that looked suspiciously like Racetrack’s, and a cigar clamped between her lips.

"Heya Bruiser." She said. Then she glanced up at Jack and Harlem "Harl. Cowboy."

"Hey Slick." Harlem said, yawning. Understandably, she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

"Where’s Spot?" Bruiser asked.

"Down at da docks, where else?" She said. Jack nodded, and then turned to walk away as Harlem and Bruiser walked into the lodging house.

"Heya! Cowboy!" Slick called, tucking the cards in her pocket and running after him. With one huge leap, she landed on his back and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and legs around his stomach.

"Ah! Slick!" He protested.

"Where ya goin’, Cowboy?" She asked, her body jarring as he walked.

"Down ta see Spot, obviously."

"Whatcha gonna go see Spot fa?"

"He’s gonna talk ta me."

"Bout what?"

"Aight, you’ve officially worn outcha welcome." He said, sliding her off his back. She trned and ran, grinning impishly, his hat clutched between her hands. He kicked a stone all the way to the docks.

He saw his friend sitting on a post with his shoulders slumped.

"Hey! Spot!" He called. Spot turned around, and saw his friend. He smirked and jumped off the post, landing on his feet.

"Heya Jackie Boy." He replied, spitting on his hand. Jack spat on his own, and they shook.

"So." Jack said, as Spot sat back up on the post. "Anythin’ happenin’ I should be aware of?"

"My men ‘ave been all ova New York." Spot replied, finally, staring out over the water. His heart was sinking, just like the fiery sun. He turned and stared up at a bottle on the rooftop. He took his sling shot out, and aimed it at the glass. "Queens…Trenton…Midtown…" He swung the slingshot back and forth, pointing it perfectly. "An’ they’ve been hearin’ some strange things." He let it go, and watched the marble fly, and hit the glass, shattering it into a million pieces.

"Whadda they been hearin’?" Jack asked, watching the splinters of glass fall like frozen rain. Spot put the slingshot back in his pocket, and turned to his friend.

"Twelve newsies ah dead." He said. Jack didn’t reply. "Four from Manhattan, five from Trenton, an’ three from Midtown."

"Goils?"

"Goils an’ boys. All shot." He spat bitterly. He stared at Jack’s face. It was the same kind of look he’d wear if someone told him the empire state building collapsed. Shock and disbelief.

"Well who is it?"

"If I knew dat, do you think I’d be discussin’ dis witcha?" Spot snapped, bitter. "I’d be trackin’ him down. But we ain’t got no evidence."

"’Cept fer what Chaos told us." Jack replied.

"But what can she tell us? Dat he had a stubble?" Spot asked, crossing his arms. "How many men in New York have a stubble?" Jack sighed and stared out at the water. Spot was still talking. "Jus’ tell all ya newsies ta be extra careful. No sense in losin’ someone else."

Crutchy was waiting faithfully for Jack outside the Manhattan lodging house.

"Heya Cowboy." He smiled. "How ah things?"

"Bad, Crutchy." He replied. "Really bad."

~*~

Buttons smiled as she passed Mush. They exchanged a look, and Button’s could have fallen over. Now she understood why Spades and Killer, both fierce, wary girls, could be yelling at you one minute, and then giggling the next.

They hadn’t had a poker game in a month, out of respect for Rosie, but Button’s could almost see Racetrack’s fingers itching to be wrapped around cards. It was rather cruel of Slick to steal them, but she was Slick. What were they going to do, lecture her?

Button’s and Mush were going to walk, letting the others take carriages, until they heard about the deaths.

"Weah fine." Mush had argued, Button’s fingers entwined with his. "We can take care of each oddah."

"An’ what if you two come up against a guy wid a gun?" Jack had snapped back. "Youze betta take the carriages, like da rest of us." Then he turned and stormed out. Mush had sighed and wrapped an arm around Button’s. He could see why Jack was bitter at the couples in the newsies home, what with Sarah gone. Lashes too, was withdrawn. But he decided to mull that over later.

"Comon, Button’s." He said finally. "The carriages ain’t too bad."

"Yeah."

They sat on the back of one together, along with Clover. Button’s head was attached to Mush’s shoulder, and he had an arm across her back. Clover was staring out in another direction. The trio spoke in soft whispers all the way to the Brooklyn bridge.

They jumped off and stood by the railings, waiting for the rest of the carriages. They pulled up, and as they did, more newsies jumped off and joined them. When all eighteen had assembled, they silently walked across the bridge and into Brooklyn.

Snipe shooter walked alone, scuffling his boots against the cement of the bridge. He could feel a sort of tenseness in the air begin to evaporate, as the newsies voices grew hesitantly louder. It was like a weight lifting from their shoulders. Was Rosie’s memory already slipping away into the oblivion of the past? Granted, he had never gotten to know Rosie, even though that was the dream of almost every boy in the Manhattan lodging house, losing her was strange. And this was even stranger. And now they were going to have a game of poker, just like old times. How different would it be?

Spot was down by the docks, even though the air clearly threatened rain, watching the stormy water push at the wood. He was hesitant to go to the lodging house for poker. Rosie had hardly ever played, she lost easily, and could never keep a straight face. It was funny how a little thing that hardly ever mattered could suddenly rock ship so hard you felt like you had to jump overboard or get knocked in the head with a broken mast.

The time had come, and Spot couldn’t jump.

He sighed and took his slingshot, trying to calm his nerves, and aimed it up at a fence post across the street. As he narrowed his eyes and lined it up perfectly, he failed to notice the carriage on it’s way down the road.

He let it go, and watched as it flew towards it’s target. Suddenly, something blocked the way. He lowered the slingshot slowly, and watched as the marble caught the spokes of the wheel, spun around, and flew upwards, smashing into a small girls face.

Hastily, he tucked the slingshot away and dove behind a pile of crates as the girls cries rose in volume.

"Mama! Mama!" She was crying. He could hear the mother’s harsh words of outrage, and the drivers impatience. Peeking slightly around the crates, he could see the woman with her upswept silver hair comforting a plump blonde child. A mean looking man was scanning the docks.

Go, just go! He thought desperately. He sat for what seemed like hours. Finally, he heard the crunch of gravel as the carriage started up again. The girl was still crying. Only feeling mildly guilty, he checked to make sure that it was truly out of sight, then ran for the lodging house.

He slowed as he reached it, giving himself time to catch his breath. Then he grabbed hold of the fire escape and climbed up onto a lower roof outside the window of the girls dorm. Spot didn’t usually sit there, like Bones or Trip, and occasionally a minion, just to spy on their female companions. But it was an ideal hiding place, not as open as the roof, and certainly enough shadows to stick to. He leaned against the wall and sighed, watching the sun set.

He could hear laughter from inside, and realised the Manhattan newsies must be there. Racetrack’s voice, especially.

"For a whole week?" He cried in outrage. Slick’s giggle grated against his ears. "You thief! Give ‘em back!"

"Whassa magic woid?"

"I don’t gat time fa dis!" A couple thumps were heard, a small cry of protest, and then Slick’s infuriating giggle again.

"Wheresya mannas, Race?" She teased. A heavy chase sounded. Spot smirked. Suddenly, the window flew open.

Shingles appeared, letting her hair fly out backwards as a sudden wind hit her. Her tiny eyes narrowed, making her seem even more birdlike. She slowly stepped out onto the ledge, not noticing Spot.

"Heya, Shingles." He said finally. She jumped, nearly falling off the platform.

"Spot!" She gasped. "Ya scared me! Whaddaya doin’ out heah?" She narrowed her eyes even more, if possible. "You some kinda poivert or somethin’?"

"You think I waste my time watchin’ you goils? Nah. Just lookin’ at da sunset." She nodded, and smiled. Then, with a deft leap, she jumped up onto the higher roof. She scrambled fully up onto the roofing and disappeared. Spot sighed and grabbed onto the fire escape, pulling himself up. When his face appeared over the brick, Shingles was already two buildings down, climbing from roof to roof, like some sort of wild animal caught in a dingy city.

Spot slid down the drainpipe till he reached the window of the boys dorm and pulled it open, climbing inside. Bluff, a tall lanky boy with dark curls, was sitting on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling.

"Dey’re downstairs." He said automatically, without even reading Spot’s look.

"Dey’re always downstairs." Spot replied, already halfway to the door.

"Yup." He jogged down the stair case and appeared in the midst of the poker game.

"Spot!" Racetrack grinned, Spades (as always) cradled on his lap and cards (as always) clenched in his hands. "Join da game. Got me some excellent odds."

"Sure, Race." He smirked. He pulled a chair out and collapsed into it, sighing. Spades had stolen Racetrack’s cap, and was refusing to give it back. Harlem and Skittery were dancing off to the side to some unknown music, and Killer and Skitch were cuddling on the sofa. To Spot’s surprise, Button’s and Mush were sitting on top of a table across from each other, talking quietly, their hands touching in front of them. He raised an eyebrow. Then he grabbed the cards that were dealt to him.

Spades set Racetrack’s hat in the middle of the table, and dealt herself five cards.

"Spades?" He asked, watching her pull them from the pack. "Whaddaya doin’?"

"Whatsit look like?" She snapped playfully. "I’m playin’."

"You ain’t neva played poka before!" He said in disbelief.

"Dere’s a foist time fer everythin’." She replied evenly. Then she tossed a dime into his hat.

The pile of coins in the hat slowly grew, until it looked like a small fortune. Racetrack was tense now. He put a penny in the hat, and so did Spades, until it was between the two of them.

"Aight, I give. Whatcha got?" He asked finally.

"Ah…lessee…" She said, squinting at her cards. "Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. Spades." She said triumphantly.

"What?" He sputtered.

"’Sat bad ah good?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That’s really good!" He said in outrage, throwing down his cards. She laughed and drew his hat towards her.

"Ah, forget it. You can take ya money back, but I get da cap!" She slid half the coins towards him, and placed the cap jauntily on her head, dumping the other half in her vest.

Pockets sighed and played with the cover on his watch. Things looked like they were back to normal, but it was different not having the red haired beauty sitting across from him. Maybe it was time to forget and move on.

"Give it back, Spades." He was whining. She jumped up and ran, laughing, her hands clamped firmly over her head. He groaned and got up, chasing after her, trying to hide his amusement.

Slick was watching them, shaking her head.

"Aldough dat ain’t too shabby, Spades." She said finally. "Ya gotta be stealthy when ya steal somethin’. Like so." Suddenly, she had Bumlet’s comb in her hand.

"Hey!" He said, snatching it back. She smiled infuriatingly at him. He scowled and pocketed the comb, then sat down, pulling Sling towards him. She giggled and collapsed onto his lap.

"Spades!" Racetrack was getting tired now. "Give me back my hat!"

"Aww, come on." She pouted, clasping her hands together. He glared and put his hands on his hips. A silent battle was waged between the two. He finally relented and collapsed on the sofa next to Killer and Skitch.

"Fine, fine, keep da damn thing." He said, obviously bothered. She smiled and sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. He sighed and obligingly hugged her.

"Aight, any of you guys up for anudda game?" Spot asked, shuffling the cards.

"Yeah!" Slick grinned. She was a killer poker player, sometimes even beating Chaos. Chaos nodded too, accepting her cards. She looked up as Wolf stood.

"I’m goin’ outside." He said.

"Whaddaya, crazy?" Spot asked, turning in his seat.

"Jus’ standin’ outside da door." He replied. "I don’ think anythin too horrid’s gonna happen."

A couple newsies started to protest, but he was already halfway to the door.

"Don’ worry." He said over his shoulder. The door slammed behind him. Chaos narrowed her eyes over her cards. Her old suspicions came back to her. Soundlessly, she lay down her cards.

"I’m goin’ outside too."

"No yer not." Spot said, standing. "Last time you wen’ out dis late, rememba what happened?"

"That’s when I was walkin’ around." She retorted. "I can’ stand dis atmosphere, I gotta head ache. I’ll just stan’ outside the house wid Wolf, no alleys, no shadows, no nuttin, Conlon."

"I said you ain’t going outside!" He snapped, grabbing her arm as she walked past. She wrenched it out of his grasp and glared.

"Whadda ya, my muddah?" She said, her voice louder. "I’m not goin’ far! I’m jus’ gonna be beside Wolf!"

"Oh." Jack laughed. "Ya know, if ya had a thing for ‘im, you coulda told him before we got heah." Before he knew what had happened, Chaos was on top of him, her fourteen year old body loaded with surprising strength. She sat up, a knee on either side of him, and glared.

"Say one more woid of da like, Kelley, an’ you gonna wish you ain’t neva been born, punk." She spat. She was dragged off the surprised Jack by Kid Blink.

"Whaddaya doin’?" He asked her, shoving her shoulder lightly.

"If it woin’t that I neva hit goils…" Jack was muttering as he stood.

"Whassa matta Kelley, ‘fraid a me?" She hissed.

"Okay, break it up, break it up." Spot glared, stepping between the two fighters, staying them with his hands. Chaos’s eyes could have been shooting laser beams.

"Aight," he said, turning to Chaos. "You step one foot away from da wall, an’ I’ll soak ya, undastood?"

"Loud an’ clear." She said, cocking her head to one side angrily. Then she shook out of Blink’s grasp and stormed towards the door. As she slammed it behind her, the silence in the house slowly evaporated.

"Tempa." Jack murmured, brushing off his sleeves.

"You should know betta than ta make any kinda remark ‘bout Chaos an’ anyone else." Spot said, glaring slightly.

"It wuz only a joke, Spot!" He protested, sitting down and glaring at the door.

Chaos stepped outside, and was surprised to see Wolf was still there. A small dent in her theory. He turned and glared as he saw her.

"Whadda ya want?" He snarled.

"Fresh air." She snapped back. "Too bad yer contaminatin’ it." She leaned against the wall and sat down, sighing and staring up at the sky.

"I ain’t got time fa dis." He grumbled, disappearing.

"Hey! Where ya goin’?" She said, not really caring. He didn’t answer. She sighed and closed her eyes, nearly falling asleep on the steps. But footsteps and harsh breaths brought her back to reality.

The small girl stumbled into view, clutching her stomach.

"Shingles!" Chaos called, running down the stairs and landing next to the terrified girl. "What happened? Are you aright?" she pried the girls hands away from her stomach, and felt a wave of impending nausea swept over her as she saw a dark red stain. Shingles was sobbing.

"What’s goin’ on?" Wolf asked, appearing beside Chaos. His mouth pressed into a tight hard line when he saw the wound.

"Aight, comon." Chaos ordered, supporting Shingles with one arm. Shingles nodded, tears coursing down her face, and Chaos led her into the house. She glanced up at Wolf. The tenderness in his face that showed as he stared at the cut softened her heart ever so slightly, and she made a decision not to give him hell tonight.

She pushed open the door, and hardly anyone looked up, except for Lashes.

"Jesus!" She exclaimed. "Shingles! What happened?" All faces turned towards the three newsies by the door. A slow murmur built up as they walked towards them.

"Jus’ give her space for Christ sake!" Wolf snapped, helping Shingles over to the couch.

"What the hell were you doin’ out alone?" Spot demanded. "Whaddaya? Stupid?"

"I was up…" She gasped through her cries. "Up…on the roofs…An’…An’…"

"Okay, slow down honey, slow down." Jack said, sitting next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. Shingles nodded and breathed in and out slowly. The tension in the room was ringing in everyone’s ears. Spot’s hands were clenched into fists.

"I was up on da roofs…" She said, closing her eyes. "An’ I fell. It weren’t too far. I was gonna go straight back up, but der was a man wid a knife. He tried to get my neck but I fell backwards, an’…an’…" She trailed off, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out why her stomach was slashed.

"Someone get a cloth or somethin’!" Spikes yelled. Specs finally came up with a worn, grey towel, which they pressed against the injury. Shingles wiped the tears from her face and tried to breathe normally.

"Didja getta good look at him?" Dutchy asked. She nodded. Immediately, the newsies pressed closer to her.

"’E ‘ad a stubble, jus’ like Chaos said…" She said, choking back sobs. Her eyes met Wolf’s and she gulped. "An’ a real narrow face…black eyes…" she continued with his description, as accurately as she could remember. "An’ greasy brown hair." She finished.

"Dat’s it?" Sling demanded. "Dat’s all ya can rememba?"

"Well when ya gotta moiderah swingin’ a knife atcha, things can get kinda traumatisin’." Shingles snapped. "I’m sorry." She apologised immediately. "It’s just it was kinda dark, an’ I was scared…"

"No one’s blamin’ ya." Crutchy said amiably.

"’Cept fa runnin’ around at night." Spot said, glaring.

"Give ‘er a break, Conlon!" Slick snapped. "We gotta get dis kid to da hospital."

"We don’t got no money for a docta!" Scratch countered.

"Get Papes!" Prowler said suddenly, his beady eyes lighting up. He was referring to the keeper of the lodging house who they called "papes", because that’s what he shouted at them every morning to wake them up. "He’ll know what ta do!"

"Papes is a keepa." Bones protested. "He ain’t no hospital woika."

"He ken do more dan we ken." Killer said decisively. Someone nodded, and broke away from the group.

‘When it comes down to it’, Spikes thought. ‘It’s a game of kids and adults. We need an adult.’

Papes arrived, and saw Shingles.

"Heya Papes." She said, smiling weakly.

"My God, what happened?" He asked.

"Shingles got attacked, Papes." Spot said. "Her stomach’s cut up pretty bad. Can ya do anythin’?"

"I don’t know." He admitted, staring down at her. He then kneeled by her side and tried to remove the towel, but it was stuck to the cut. "We need a doctor."

"We ain’t got no money!" Scratch repeated. Papes sighed. He could almost feel the weight of thirty three newsies gaze on his back.

"I’ll pay for it." He said. "From the stain on this towel, the cut looks pretty big. You might need to get stitches."

"Nuttin’ can be woise." She moaned weakly, her fingers tightening on the stained towel.

~*~

None of the newsies could stay that night, since they had to sell papers in the morning, but as they left they were extremely jumpy. The carriages and carts were scarce that night, and the whole process involved many of them waiting in the dark, listening to the noises of the city. Killer was too nervous to be held, despite Skitch’s best attempts, and Mush was holding Button’s so tight, he didn’t realise her arms were going numb.

Skittery was on the back of one carriage, squeezed next to Sling, Scratch, and Spades, watching the Brooklyn lodging house disappear from view. He could swear it was Harlem’s face at the window. His heart sunk, realising that in the light of the attacks, how scarce their time together was. Sling and Scratch were both talking in quiet voices, and Spades thoughts were with Racetrack. Her heart was jumpy, and the only image that played in her head was a sudden attack on him.

‘Let him be alright,’ she prayed silently. ‘Please, Jesus Christ, let us all be alright.’

~*~

Shingles had gone to the hospital. They didn’t know how long she was going to stay there, they even added ominously "we have a lot of patients. I don’t know if we’ll have time." As though she didn’t matter.

"Slick?" A small voice asked through the darkness of the night. Slick sat up in bed. Killer was whispering.

"Yeah?"

"Are we gonna lose ‘er?"

"’A coise not." Slick said, her voice high. "Shingles…" she was about to say "is tough", but then realised she wasn’t. No matter how fast she had been forced to grow up, she was just a little girl. A little girl with a lot less blood in her body than the night before.

"I couldn’t stand it if she…I mean, foist Rosie, then her sidekick." She smiled into the darkness. "Rememba how we used ta call ‘er sidekick?"

"Yeah." Slick replied sleepily. "She an’ Rosie."

"Yeah."

"Killa?"

"Uh huh?"

"Ya think things are gonna toin out okay?" There was a pleading quality in Slick’s voice that Killer had never heard before. Sure, Slick wasn’t exactly the bravest newsie ever, but she never begged. Nothing ruffled her sarcastic demeanour.

"Whaddaya mean?"
"I mean, it’s been twelve dead and two attacked." She said, her voice light and very un-Slick like. "What’s gonna happen to us?" Killer didn’t want to think about it. A long silence issued.

"Go to sleep, Slick." She said softly, turning on her side and closing her eyes.

~*~

Spot lay on his own bunk, thoughts swirling in his head. Shingles description had painted a picture in his head that he was eager to erase very quickly. Dark eyes. Greasy brown hair. Narrow face. And a gun clenched in one hand, possibly a blade in the other. And after the newsies! Why?

That was the question on everyone’s mind. The reports of the twelve deaths all couldn’t be a coincidence. They were all newsies. Spot couldn’t sleep.

~*~

The next morning, instead of going to sell papers, although he needed the money, Spot took off for the Bronx, the information center of New York. Somehow it seemed they always knew what was going on. He needed facts, and he needed to do a little sleuthing.

He cut through an alley way and kicked aside some junk, moved some boxes. His search proved false. Nothing was there. Sighing in disappointment, he moved on to the next alley, stomping through the junk, trying to find what he wanted. He didn’t know what he was going to prove, only that if he found something, and he wasn’t even sure what, it would make sense, and it would help.

It was the fifth alley that he did.

As he pulled a garbage can away, he caught the figure under countless paper bags. Hesitantly, he pulled those away too, chunks of hair falling out from under his cap, and unearthed him.

It was a boy, maybe six or seven, curled around a wound in his stomach. A bullet hole wound. Not a newsie, he was dressed in grey rags and his feet were bare. A beggar.

Spot’s head reeled. Hastily, he covered the boy again and ran, kicking aside more garbage. How did that help? Now it was a man killing beggars and newsies. Were the two connected, he thought carefully. They were both poor, and usually orphans. A man who hated poor orphans?

"Yer goin’ round in coicles, Spot." He murmured to himself. "Think." But it only made his forehead ache. He decided to go back to mindless work. Searching.

As though given a new strength, he moved more of the trash around, searching.

By the end of the day he had found seven bodies.

All shot.

He sighed and passed a hand through his hair on the way to the Bronx, thinking the entire way. He had something to tell them this time. But would it help? Would anything help? What if they found out who it was and his intentions? There was no way to stop him. Pushing the thought out of his head, he walked the streets of the Bronx, searching for the lodging house. He hadn’t frequently visited the Bronx in a while, they were friendly, but very enclosed in their own sort of clique. They didn’t like those who tried to work their way into their ranks.

He found the house and knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately, and, even though Spot wasn’t as tall as Jack, for instance, he found himself looking down. A boy with dark curls and big blue eyes was staring up at him. A grin spread over his face.

"Spot!" He cried. "How ah things in Brooklyn?"

"Okay, Loopy." He said, remembering the kids name. "Hey, is Splinta around?"
"Splinta? Yeah, I’ll get ‘im for ya." Loopy said, with unhidden enthusiasm. He worshipped Spot, and would have gone to Brooklyn himself if it weren’t for his older brother keeping him in the Bronx. He turned around and ran up the stairs, screaming "Splinta! Splint, it’s Spot Conlon! He’s visitin’ us!"

Splinter appeared. He was a lanky youth, with dark curls, like Loopy, but this time black eyes, that twinkled constantly, even though he hardly ever smiled. He wore thick glasses, on account of reading so much.

He came down the stairs now, his long legs moving like blades on a pair of scissors.

"Conlon." He nodded, spitting on his hand. They spit shook, and then Spot ruffled Loopy’s curls, before motioning outside.

"Got some info for ya, Splint, an’ some questions." He said, his commanding air taking over. Loopy disappeared, and the lack of joy was extremely obvious.

"Shoot." Splinter said good-naturedly, climbing down the stairs with Spot.

"Well, I’m assumin’ ya hoid about everythin’ that’s goin’ on."

"The moidas?" He said, smirking. "A coise I hoid, who ‘asn’t?"

"Yeah, dat an’ da fact dat dey’re all newsies."

"Uh huh."

"Didja get any oddah news?"

"Oddah news?"

"Bout any oddah moidas?"

"Whadda ya gettin’ at?" Splinter asked, sitting down and leaning against a building.

"I’m gettin’ at da seven dead begga’s I found taday." He said. Splinter stopped completely, gaping at him.

"Seven dead beggas?"

"You hoid me. All shot. All hidden."

"Makes no sense." Splinter said, one hand on his chin. "Why would a…OH!" He jumped up so suddenly that Spot stumbled backwards slightly. "Neva mind, makes poifect sense!"

"What?"

"C’mere!" He took off running in the direction of the Bronx Distribution Center. Spot had no choice but to follow, on account of he had no recollection of where he was. They reached the building, and he watched as Splinter walked to the counter.

"Can I getta pape, please?" He asked, holding up a penny.

"One?" the man sneered.

"Jus’ one, wanna bit a information." He said evenly. The man glowered at the extra work, and then slapped that days paper on the counter, and held his hand out for the penny. "Actually…" Splinter wheedled, sliding the paper back and closing his hand around the penny. "I was wonderin’ if I could get one from exactly a month back."

"A month?" The man asked. "Jeez kid, whaddaya think this is, some kinda archive?"

"Jus’ see if ya have it." Splinter sneered. He took another penny from his pocket, and held the two pennies in his palm. "I’ll even add extra. Comon…" He pleaded. The man growled something, and then disappeared. Splinter turned around and winked at Conlon, who raised both eyebrows, having no idea to what was going on. Finally, the distributor reappeared, clutching a worn looking paper in his hand.

"Very good headline." He said, slapping the paper down. "Dat was a good sellin’ day. But why do ya wannit now?"

"Ain’t nona ya business." Splinter snapped, taking the paper and putting the two pennies down. "Thanks for the pape. See ya tamorrow."

"I got the woise job in da woild." The man said in reply, opening the paper he had originally been reading. Splinter rolled his eyes, and grinned and Spot.

"I don’ get it." Spot said. "Was der anythin’ in the pape? I would have seen it, I comb all my papes!"

"Ya sell da Woild?"

"Uh huh."

"Dis is da Journal." He said triumphantly. "An’ I do believe…" He continued, his voice racked with concentration as he flipped through the paper to the last page. "Yes! I got it right! An article I came about last month that might just prove ta be very substantial to yer evidence."

"Well what’s it say?" Spot asked impatiently.

"Patience, my friend." Splinter said, folding the paper under his arm. "We gotta take dis back to the lodging house. It’s gettin’ dark." He added ominously. Spot sighed and followed Splinter to the lodging house.

They opened the newspaper and spread it across one of the bunks. Spot caught the title immediately, even though the article wasn’t large.

"Policeman’s Views On ‘Cleaning The Street’ Turned Down." Splinter read, imitating an educated accent. A picture was under the headline of a man. Spot had to blink a couple times to make sure he was seeing things properly. There was no way in hell it couldn’t be the same man that Chaos and Shingles had described.

He read on. Robert Hatching was the man’s name, and he had been a policeman for twelve years. Recently he had submitted an overlook on the recession that had been on and off ever since the newsies strike a year ago. His only solution was to eliminate the beggars living on the street. It had been turned down, seen as "inhuman" and "cruel", but the article went on to make claims that the mans sanity was clearly in doubt. Spot couldn’t tell if it was the newspapers way of "improving the truth" or an actual fact. His thoughts were sincerely tempted to the latter.

"Ya think dat’s our man?" Splinter asked, already knowing the answer.

"Widout a doubt." Spot said bitterly. He grabbed the newspaper. "I gotta take this back ta Brooklyn wid me. An’ I had betta head back now before dey declare me dead and Bruisa declares himself new leada."

"Aight. You take care a yaself." He said, staring out at the setting sun.

"I ken run fast." Spot assured him. He spit shook with the boy, and then left the lodging house, feeling he could hardly wait to show Brooklyn and Manhattan.

~*~

Meanwhile, most of the Brooklyn lodging house, except for Wolf, had gone to visit Shingles at the hospital. The nurses weren’t pleased when twelve street rats showed up, but were obliged to let them see their friend.

"Fella’s!" Shingles grinned weakly from the hospital bed.

"Heya runt." Spikes said affectionately, ruffling her friends hair. "How ya been? Dey been treatin’ ya aight?"
"Jus’ fine." She said. She smiled at her friends surrounding the bed.

"So." Trip said eagerly. "Der any pretty nurses heah, Shingles?" Some of the boys laughed. Harlem smacked Trip over the head.

"She’s jus’ a kid, Trip." She growled. "Don’ go corruptin’ her mind so oilly in life."

"Can’t blame a fella." He protested, straightening his cap. Shingles struggled to sit up, but her face paled and she started breathing hard.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Spikes said, laying her down again. "Sounds like you lost a lotta blood, kid. We can’t risk ya overtirin’ yaself, undastood?"

"Aww, Spikes." She groaned. "How ken I get betta if I’m just layin’ in bed all da time? Last time I checked, exercise was good for ya."

"Not if half ya blood is on cement half a mile away." Pockets said, raising an eyebrow. She scowled and crossed her arms.

"Aww, don’t go all pouty on us, runt." Bones said, tugging on her hair. "Weah heah ta cheer you up."

"Well you ain’t doin’ a very good job." She said, but gave in and let a grin shine through. "How ah things?" She asked, her face straightening seriously. They all knew she was talking about the murderer.

"We don’ know yet." Slick said, her pockets loaded with bandages that she had stolen since they arrived. "But Spot’s been gone all day. He probably knows somethin’."

"Hey, yer right." Pockets said, his face growing solemn. "Where’d Conlon get ta?"

~*~

Spot came back to find the lodging house empty. He cursed silently, then saw Wolf stretched out on a bunk.

"Heya. Wolf." He asked, jumping up onto the lower bunk so he could see his friend. "Where’s everybody?"

"Ova at da hospital, visitin’ Shingles." He replied. He continued counting the change from his pocket.

"Got some valuable information." Spot said, slapping the article down on the bunk. He watched Wolf’s apathetic expression change to one of anger as he read it.

"Dat’s him." He said decisively. "Now what?"

"I don’t know." Spot said, beginning to pace. "We can’t jus’ sit back an’ let it happen."

"Well obviously."

"Shaddup a minute, give me time ta think." He said, sitting down and putting his chin on his fist. "We could find the guy…"

"An’ get shot." Wolf quashed the idea immediately.

"Well whadda you wanna do, smart guy?" Spot snapped.

"Lay low. Wait till the police find him, or…" He slumped. "He is a police man."

"It only makes things harda." Spot said, pacing. Suddenly, the door burst open, and Killer and Skitch tumbled in, their faces attached, taking no notice of the two friends. Wolf and Spot exchanged a look. Finally, he cleared his throat.

Killer jumped and fell away. She saw them and groaned.

"Poifect." She mumbled.

"Sorry to distoib ya." Spot said sarcastically. "But bring everyone up heah, will ya?"

"What’s happenin’?" Skitch asked, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face.

"I think we’ve found our moiderah." Spot said grimly, his eyes flashing.

~*~

"Well what ken we do?" Slick asked. Her face was dead serious, but it was hard to take her earnestly, she was covered in bandages.

"We could take it ta court." Pockets suggested. "An’ give it back, Slick." Slick sighed in aggravation and grudgingly handed him his watch. "Thanks."

"Der’s an idea." Spot said, his amazing eyes lost in thought. "Yeah, we could take it ta court…an’…"

"Who’s da judge gonna believe." Wolf said. "A bunch a’ street rats, or a police man?" All eyes drifted to the floor, spirits downtrodden. "Let’s face it. Sure, the strike got the price a’ da papes lowad. But oddah dan de cost a’ ink and paper, we ain’t got no voice."

"Well let’s have anoddah strike." Prowler suggested.

"On what?" Wolf retorted. "Stop killin’ da newsies?"

"Yeah, let’s all gaddah in one place, dat’ll sure be difficult for ‘im ta kill us den." Chaos snapped, taking Wolf’s side, for once. She looked up at her enemy, still shocked. She had been so sure it was him. The way he hated women, had disappeared when Shingles was attacked and reappeared later, the way Shingles was hesitant in her description, the way he was never around when anyone was attacked. All the evidence was a coincidence, and she had jumped to conclusions. Feeling especially gullible, she lowered her eyes.

"Let’s sleep on it." Spot finally said, slicing through the silence. "We all need rest."

"Jus’ not de eternal kind." Slick said, wrapping a bandage around her head.

~*~

Killer and Skitch climbed up the fire escape to the roof.

"Jeez, dat was embarrassing." She murmured, laughing slightly. "Stumblin’ in on poor Spot an’ Wolf."
"Yeah." He grinned. "Ya wanna finish off where we started?" She smiled and kissed him, but then leaned against his chest.

"Sorry. I’m too noivous." She said, sighing. "I mean…we have ourselves a bona fide moiderah loose, wid de intent a’ shootin’ us all, an’ Conlon wants us ta sleep?" She sighed sleepily. "It’s gonna take me a lotta time to…" She suddenly dropped off into slumber, nodding against his chest. He grinned and stroked her hair softly, not wanting to wake her up. Even though the night was crisp, it was comforting being up on the roof. It gave him an idea of what Shingles felt, as she clambered from rooftop to rooftop. Safety, and the feeling you get from a high building, like your God, watching over your children.

He yawned, and he too, fell asleep.

~*~

"Papes! Papes!" The rough voice from downstairs proclaimed. "Come on! Papes! Papes!" Pockets groaned and rolled over. The morning had come to quickly, along with its caution and suspicion. He felt so insecure, not wanting to step outside into the sunlight. "Pockets! Papes to sell! Come on!"

"Ah, give it a rest Papes." Prowler murmured from his bed beside Pockets. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Slowly, the boys climbed out of bed.

The girls woke to the craggy voice of Papes, and the muffled thumps and laughter coming from the boys dorm. Slick rubbed her eyes, and looked over at her friends bed, to see that it was empty.

"Killa?" She asked in a small voice. "Killa! Where’s Killa?"

"She’s up on da roof wid Skitch." Harlem murmured, her voice clogged by the pillow. "Go an’ check fer yourself if ya like, jus’ be quiet. Dey probably don’t wanna be distoibed."

"Just as long as she’s aight." Slick said, sliding down onto the floor. She still had bandages hanging from her skinny arms. She peeled them off and stuck them to the wall, then began to get dressed.

Killer and Skitch had woken far before the rest of the girls, as an almost white sun rose over the sky scrapers of New York. She had smiled and poked him playfully, letting him wake. They were both cold, and rather damp, for it had drizzled last night.

"We should probably get back an’ get changed." He said, shivering slightly.

"But no one’s awake yet." Killer had protested, pouting, and snuggling against him. He sighed and kissed her head through her hair. They had fallen asleep again, both consumed by feigned normalcy.

When they woke, it had to be past the afternoon. The sun was high in the sky, and they could hear the slightly more exhausted voice from down in the house.

"Ah, shit." She grinned. He pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. "We been sleepin’ all day."

"Ain’t complainin’." He said, their eyes locked. He kissed her, then looked down at the street. Together, they climbed back into the dorm room, to the teasing of the boys. He rolled his eyes and took her hand as they walked towards the door.

"Where ya been all day, you love boids?" Bones grinned from the top of bunk. They ignored the comment and left, heading down to the main room.

Spot was sitting there, with the newspaper spread out in front of him. He was studying the mans picture, rotating it in his brain, memorising the face so he’d know it anywhere. It hurt Killer to see the newspaper. The whole day had been just like before Chaos was attacked, and the whole of Brooklyn was pulled into the mystery.

"Heya." He said, without glancing up.

"What’s rollin’?" Skitch replied, sitting across from him, Killer sitting on his lap.

"No papes in da aftanoon taday." He said, his eyes never leaving the mans face.

"Seriously? Why not?"

"Da printin’ press is down. I don’t know ‘bout you two, but I’m goin’ down ta Manhattan, clue dem in on…" He motioned to the paper, finally looking up.

"We’ll go too. I ain’t seen Boin an dem in a long time." Killer said. Chaos appeared, her face paler than usual.

"Spot." She said gently. "You been perusin’ dat pape fa hours. That text ain’t gonna be changin’ any time soon." She took his arm. He looked up at her, sighed, and closed the paper. "Comon. We’re all goin’ ta da candy store lata on." She led him upstairs. Killer grinned.

"Slick may be da only one who can annoy Spot an’ get away wid it, but Chaos shooah undastands ‘im."

"Ain’t dat da truth." Skitch agreed.

The newsies grouped around the table at a small soda shop. The outing had proved to be joyless, since a storm had opened up on them on the way there. Every customer seemed to match the face in the picture. Spot stood.

"I’m gonna catch me a carriage ta Manhattan." He said. "Might as well leave oilly." He slapped down a couple coins for his contribution.

"Me too." Skitch said, standing. "We all should. No sense in waitin’ till it gets dark."

"S’already pretty dark now." Lashes said, her voice nervous.

"Don’t worry. He can’t shoot nobody off da back of a carriage." Spikes replied, putting down a few more coins. They all paid for their lunch and stood inside the diner, watching the few carriages go by.

"Der ain’t much choice." Slick grumbled as Killer and Skitch left. "Not many people ah out on a day like dis."

"Don’ worry." Killer said. She smiled at her disgruntled friend. "See ya in Manhattan."

"Happy voyage." She said sarcastically. Killer smiled and placed her hand in Skitch’s. Together, they jumped onto the back of a carriage, and waved goodbye to the newsies.

The carriage took them for a couple blocks, then suddenly turned the wrong way.

"Aw, damn." Killer murmured. She and Skitch both jumped off, feeling their stomachs twist. "Dat one was a dud." They watched the carriage go down the alley. Killer clenched Skitch’s hand. Her voice was a lot higher than usual. "Skitch? Ya think we should head back ta da soda shop?"

"Yeah." He whispered. "It ain’t too fah.."

"Were ya lookin’ how fah we were?"

"Nah…I was lookin’ at you." He grinned sheepishly. She laughed, despite her fear, and elbowed him.

"Lady killa." She muttered. Then her grin dropped. "Comon. Lashes wuz right. It’s dark." The two walked, but the lashing rain and sudden darkness made it hard to determine their way. Skitch could almost feel Killer’s heart pounding as the blood journeyed through her hands. He pulled her towards him, trying to expel the cold and fear from her body.

"Hey, don’ worry." He said softly. She nodded. "You got me heah ta protect ya."

"Whaddaya, a bullet proof vest?" She teased. But the fun was gone. She felt her heart speed up as she heard someone walking behind them. She held her breath, and Skitch could feel it. He could feel her respiration stop, he could almost feel the presence of the person behind them, even though the footsteps were soft.

"Skitch…" She said, her voice small and afraid. He hugged her close, and started praying.

He turned a sharp corner, then another, Killer tight in his grasp, hoping the footsteps would veer in another direction. But they were steadfast.

"Skitch…whadda we do…" Killer breathed, her voice hardly audible.

"Jus’…Jus’ don’ think about it." He said, trying to protect and inform her at the same time. "Weah gonna toin ourselves around and go the complete opposite way."

"What if he’s still followin’ us?"

"Den…den we run." He concluded lamely. "We run as fast as possible, undastood?" He repeated, trying to make it better.

"Yeah." She was shaking, almost as though she had a gun pressed to her back. Skitch slowly steered her around and walked in the other direction, down the same sidewalk.

Killer looked past the man’s face, trying not to make eye contact with him. She was afraid if her clothes touched him as he strode past them, that he would explode, killing them both. She held her breath, and couldn’t risk a glance at his face.

It was the face she had seen in the paper, and the beady black eyes were trained on her.

She quickly averted her own, but knew that her heart had skipped many beats. She knew Skitch saw him too. The way his ribs expanded as he breathed in sharply told her. They continued walking, their prayers building.

The footsteps faded. Killer squeezed her eyes shut, when she heard them again. She kept telling herself that he had kept on walking the way he was walking, that he hadn’t simply stopped, and turned to follow them. But the sounds didn’t lie. Tears streaked down her face. Skitch’s hands tightened on her arms. He lowered his face to her ear.

"Do exactly as I say." He ordered softly. "Yer in danga now. You gotta do what I tell ya too. Aight?"

"Uh huh." She said, gasping for air as though it was scarce. A silence followed, broken only by the sinister footsteps. They crossed a small street. Skitch’s heart sunk. No one was around. Not even a beggar or street rat. The street was empty, stretching on for miles. But off to the side, there was a dark alley. They could hide.

"We gonna run into dat dark alley an’ find ourselves a hiding spot." He said, hardly letting his words rise above the cruel wind. He was taking no chances with Hatching hearing them. Killer nodded. It seemed as though time stopped, for one harsh moment, her foot halfway from the ground, the footsteps finally silenced, and the dry sound of their breathing, the scraping sounds of heartbeats, all stopped, just for a moment. But then everything hit her again with a vengeance.

I have to protect Killer. Skitch thought, his very insides quickening. Whatever happens, I can’t let her get shot. He took a deep breath.

"Run. Now." He hissed in her ear. She immediately broke away from his grasp, feeling as though she was having part of her torn away, and sprinted for the alley, Skitch close behind her.

She heard the footsteps speed up. The alley seemed so far away, like a hallway that only stretched farther no matter how hard you ran for the door at the end. Like the glass ceiling.

Her heart was pounding dryly in her throat, and her hopes soared as it finally relented and came towards her. She was alright. Skitch was alright! They were going to make it! She let out a jubilant cry as she dodged into the alley. Skitch skidded into view, and she smiled, a wild crazy smile. She felt like laughing with happiness, turned, and ran farther into the side street.

She dodged another street, sure that it was Skitch’s footfalls behind her, and not Hatching’s. It was his breath that poured desperately from between his lips, his tiny yelps as his feet jarred him, slamming against the cobblestone. She ran through a veritable maze of alleyways and tenement spaces, just feeling it being left behind her.

She finally ran into another and stopped, letting Skitch appear. He caught her around the waist and twirled her around, before pulling her towards him in a burning kiss.

"Weah alive." She whispered, as his lips travelled down her cheekbone and to her neck. "Skitch! We’se alive!" The shock of the sudden occurrence made her feel weak. "We beat ‘em! We beat ‘em, Skitch!"

"Killa…Killa, I love you."

"I love you too." They were almost one person, the way they clung to each other. Skitch’s heart was beating so fast, he thought he was going to lose her that night. He thought, instead of flying away from him, onto better things, she’d fall, a bullet hole in her throat. But here she was, pulsing and twisting in his arms. He grasped her sopping, stringy hair in his fingers and thanked God again and again, for keeping his girl safe.

She drew her arms around him and let his fervent kisses come. She couldn’t even sense it before it occurred. It happened so unexpectedly. She was sure she could remember the fizzing of the bullet before the actual bang came, she could feel her back tense up, ready to take the hit. But at the time, all she heard was the horrible gun clap, the sound of an evil triumph. A cry rang through the air, and a thud. She opened her eyes to the blurry darkness in front of her. She couldn’t see. It was as though someone had flicked off her vision. And she hurt inside. The anxiety made her ache. She distantly wondered if the cry had been hers, but she wasn’t sure. Her brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. Maybe it was this fear, this growing dread…

"Skitch?" She asked softly. She squinted, not wanting to see, but needing to know. She slowly, painfully, began to make out his face. Each new edge that was discerned wounded her deeper. "No." She breathed. "Oh God…please no…" His eyes had gone blank.

She felt him slump and stumbled down overtop of him. Desperately, she turned the face over. His eyes were open, but his lips were parted slightly. There was no breath flowing between them. The only sign that he had just been killed was the fresh blood flowing from the wound in his side. "Skitch? Skitch, answer me." She pleaded. But Skitch wasn’t there. She stroked his cheek softly with her finger, then turned, to see the gun at her head.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the blast. Ready for the blast. There was no reason for her to live anymore, remembering the way the morning had gone from heaven to hell. It was only a few hours ago she and Skitch were basking on the rooftop, their lips pressed together. Only a few hours ago? How had this happened? She wasn’t sure she wanted to live anymore, if life was cruel enough to turn the day upside down like that.

Tears flowed freshly down her face as the gun was cocked. Hatching’s finger pressed down on the trigger, and finally pushed it all the way back.

A tiny click sounded.

A shocked silence filled the air, washed away by the waterfall of rain around them. Desperately, he cocked the gun again, and pulled the trigger. Only another click. He was out of bullets.

He sighed and slid the gun back into his pocket and walked away. Killer stared after him, rainwater pouring into her eyes, and a putrid anger hit her. So hot that her breath was choked off. The casualty of the sighing and walking away that he performed. And the injustice. The one time she was ready for death, she was denied.

"Hey!" She yelled, her voice laced with white hot pain. He didn’t ignore her. "Ansa me!" She yelled standing up, and running after him. He turned around and regarded her coldly. She stopped in front of him, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t know what to say, how to translate her anguish and rage into words. She opened her mouth, but he pulled back his hand and struck her to the ground. Sparks danced before her eyes. She jumped up immediately and ran at him, but he turned and began to walk away, already tired of the fight.

"You bastad!" She screamed through her tears, jumping at his back. Easily, he brushed her off and continued walking. She hit the ground hard, jarring her bones. She stood up again and ran after him. He groaned when he saw her chasing him, and hailed a carriage. Before she reached him, he was in the back, and riding off through the rain. Pulled on by wrath, she ran after it, her long legs sliding past each other jerkily as she raced after it. He didn’t even look back.

She finally stopped, hands on her knees, panting hard. She suddenly straightened. She had to find Skitch. She had to make him better. As though moved by a second wind, she ran in the direction she thought she had come from. Countless streets and countless dark alleyways flew past her, as though she was running in circles. Her hair streamed back from her face, ghostly in the rain. She searched for hours. She looked up, and saw the Brooklyn bridge leading into Manhattan. Slowly, and gulping back tears, she crossed it, with a destination in mind. The Manhattan lodging house.

She never found Skitch.

~*~

She reached the Manhattan lodging house, and was surprised to hear no laughter, no yells, no words. It was as silent as a morgue. She saw the shaded figures behind the curtain sitting like statues, except for one that paced relentlessly.

"Dey’re waitin’ fa me." She whispered. "Me an’…me an’…" She walked around to the side of the lodging house and saw the fire escape, slippery with rain. It was hazardous, but she didn’t really care. Heedless to the urge to live, she grabbed a rung with one hand and pulled herself up.

Usually the dorm rooms weren’t completely empty. A sore loser, a couple, or maybe Chaos (due to her incessant headaches) would be sitting on a bed, whittling or playing solitaire. But, to her relief, as her face appeared in the window, the room was blissfully empty. She squeezed through the window and dragged herself towards a bed hidden in the shadows, almost invisible. Kicking off her shoes, she crawled under the sheets, choking on her own salty tears. She lay her head down on the pillow, then turned her face to the wall, and tucked her hair closer to her, hoping that everyone would think she was a boy. Then, softly and hesitantly, she fell into a sleep teeming with nightmarish horrors.

~*~

  When she woke, a soft grey light filled the room. Around her were the quiet, snuffling snores of the Manhattan Newsboys. She groaned, and felt her face. It was sticky with tears. Silently, she swung her legs to the floor and approached the nearest bed. A black haired boy with a narrow face was sleeping on it, oblivious to her hidden pain. Gently, she took his shoulders and pressed them softly into the mattress, trying to wake him up silently. It wasn’t going to be easy.

"Killa!" He accused louder than she would have hoped when he opened his eyes. "Where ya been? What’s happenin’?"

"Itey." She said evenly. "Ya gotta help me out."

"Whaddaya talkin’ about?" He asked sleepily, pressing a hand over his eyes and letting it slide to

his chest. "And whaddaya doin’ heah?"

"Did I ask fa questions? No. I need help an’ I need money, an’ chances ah ya won’t be gettin’ it back."

"Why…I mean…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Finally, he looked up at her. Her eyes were pleading, and stretched from tears. He softened. Then he cocked his head towards the bedside table. "Der’s bout two dolla’s in dat der li’l blue box." She gave a weak smile and moved towards it, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist. "But foist ya gotta tell me whatcha gonna use it fa, goily."

"I’m gettin’ a ticket an’ movin’ ta Vermont." She answered without hesitation. He sat up completely.

"Whaddaya, mad?" He accused, his black eyes sparking.

"Shh…keep it down." She hissed. "I don’ wan’ da whole home hearin’, thanks."

"Sorry…but…does Skitch know ‘bout dis?" He asked hesitantly. Killer paused, while rooting the money out of the box.

"Skitch knows." She replied quickly, her voice high pitched. "Yeah…Skitch knows. Righ’ now ‘e’s back in Brooklyn."

"He’s okay wid dis?"

"I toldja not ta ask questions!" She snapped, as softly as possible. "Please, I know dis is real weird…but…" She sighed and threw her hands up in the air in a gesture of desperation. He sighed and slowly crawled out of his bed, careful not to wake any one else.

"Here’s da thing." She said, half smiling at him. "I need a train ticket an’ some clothes. I don’ wanna go all da way back ta Brooklyn. I know dis is real quick an’ all, but I’m real frantic."

"I’ll help ya, as long as it ain’t because ya moidahed someone or somin."

"It ain’t dat bad." She grinned.

~*~

  She opened the door of the lodging house. Kloppman was still asleep in the back. She turned to Itey and tried to smile, but it didn’t come.

"I hate to impose dis on ya." She said softly. "An’ you don’ know how thankful I am."

"I jus’ wanna know why ya leavin’." He said, glancing up at her. She turned her face to the wind, and watched as light sprinklings of rain began to fall.

"You’ll find out." She said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Dey’ll all find out. Rememba me an’…rememba me?"
"Aight." He agreed. She nodded to him, then left, the bag swinging at her side.

~*~

Racetrack and Spades walked towards The World Building, they’re arms around each other. The newsies were following close behind, laughing and joking, pretending things were normal. Except for Itey, who looked lost in thought, a troubled expression worn on his features.

"Oh poifect." Spades groaned as she saw an extremely mad looking Oscar. She nudged Racetrack. "Looks like Weasel’s got somebody woikin’ a double shift or somin. Look at ‘is face. Da big lump." She smiled prissily at him when he caught her last words. Racetrack couldn’t help but grin. Oscar was already working, and thankfully, didn’t have enough time to go over and pick a fight. Racetrack was glad. Although the whole situation was amusing, it was too early in the morning for a good brawl.

A couple minutes later, he was walking alone. Spades had refused to show him her new selling spot, and he had held a bet with her that he would sell more papers than her, but he was in doubt when he saw her evil grin as she ran off to the spot. Vaguely wondering where it was, he didn’t notice where he was going.

He walked past a fruit stand when he noticed Morris tailing him. Sighing, he took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, even though the air was cool. Taking off around one corner, he performed a pattern of zig zags, hoping to lose the thug, for god knows there were probably Oscar around somewhere.

He turned a corner, and ran right into the Delancy Brother in question, who wasn’t looking too happy. Oh boy, he thought. He was doomed.

"Whoa." He said, feeling if he was going to die he might as well die laughing. He stepped back slightly and waved his cap under his nose. "’Scuse me, but I thought da scent was bad when you’ze was a foot away. But whew…"

Oscar grabbed the collar of his blouse and slammed the Italian newsie against the wall. Racetrack felt his head spin, but didn’t let it show.

"Whassa matta, Oscar?" He grumbled. "Did we get up on da wrong side a’ da bed?"

"Yer girlfriend’s a real smart aleck, rat." He snapped.

"Oh, so dat’s what dis is all about." Racetrack rolled his eyes. His heart quickened when he saw Oscar’s brother step in behind him. "What’s wid dis lovely lady you got tailin’ ya?" His reply was a harder slam against the wall. He couldn’t help but groan slightly. His head was pounding. Oscar let him go and he slumped to the ground, but stood again, trying to keep his eyes open. He didn’t know how hard he had been pushed against the wall, but it seemed to have hit a spot on his head that made the world tilt.

"Where’s ya girlfriend, Race?" Oscar asked menacingly. Racetrack bristled immediately.

"Ain’tcha got nuttin’ betta ta do dan ta beat up goils?" He spat. Oscar grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him into a small lane between two stores, littered with garbage cans and broken bottles. His brother stood behind him. Racetrack regained his balance as soon as Oscar let go of him, but was immediately slugged in the face. He fell against a wall, then launched himself at his opponent, and knocked him to the ground. He was dragged up and held there, his arms behind his back. Oscar stood in front of him, his dull glare ominous.

"I’m gonna ask again." He said softly. "Where is she?"

"Leave ‘er alone." Racetrack replied, real menace shining through in his voice. "Ya hear me?" Oscar laughed.

"Don’ worry, I ain’t gonna hoit her too bad." He said, smiling sickeningly. Racetrack felt his blood heat up. Using the support of Morris behind him, he lifted his feet off the ground and kicked between Oscars legs. His reward was a punch at his jaw. He fell down against the cement and cried out as he felt a piece of glass slice into his back. A figure was on top of him, slamming his fist into the boys face. Racetrack felt the world blur before him. He tried to move his fists and legs, and realised he couldn’t. It was as though they were numb, and lifeless. He didn’t know what kept him hanging on, maybe it was the thought that soon it would be over.

His face was bruised and stretched, and his eyes were barely open. He knew he was bleeding a lot, he could taste it as it trickled through his lips. He felt dead. The figure rolled off of him, and he found he couldn’t stand.

Why can’t I stand? He thought vaguely. Oscar was above him

"We’ll find your girlfriend." He said, breaking out into a sinister smile. "And we ain’t gonna leave her as pretty as we left you." He and Morris left the alley, leaving Racetrack on the cobblestones, splintered glass framing him like a mosaic.

~*~

  Spades burst into the lodging house, and took the stairs two at a time. Clover and Harlem followed her, their minds bursting with questions.

"Spades!" Clover called. "Slow down, will ya? What’s happenin’?"
"Where’s Racetrack?" She shrieked, bursting into the boys dorm. Mush hastily pulled up his pants. Spades paid no attention to him, and scanned the room. "Where is he?"

"Race?" Jack asked, looking around. "I dunno. S’e still out sellin’?"

"I think he’da finished by now." Specs said, brushing his hair behind his ear. Spades whirled around and ran down into the main room of the lodging house. Kid Blink jumped down from his bed and followed her.

"Spades?" He called. "S’matta?"

"The Delancy’s got ta him!" She was yelling. Blink slid down the railing and ran towards her, taking her shoulders in his hands.

"Calm down." He said urgently. Mush, fully dressed, appeared beside them, his face curious. Clover and Harlem gathered too, panting from the chase. "Whaddaya sayin’?"
"I’m sayin’ dat I was sellin me papes, an’ Oscar an’ Morris come up ta me an’…" Her blood was boiling. "An’ dey shoved me an’ Oscar sez dat I should loin ta talk betta an’ I can’t rememba what I sez…dey said somin ‘bout how dey had left Race all bloody…"

"Whaddid dey say next?"

"I dunno, dat’s when I ran." She said, viciously swiping at her eyes. "Where is he?"

"I don’t think ‘e came back." Mush volunteered. Spades moaned and covered her face with her hands.

"I knew I shouldn’ta mouthed off dis mornin’…" She wailed. "I don’t know what I was thinkin’…"

"Calm down, calm down." Harlem said, immediately taking control of the situation. "Racetrack ain’t dumb, if he’s beat up real bad, he’d probably go to da hospital."

"But what if he didn’t make it to da hospital?" Spades demanded. "What if ‘e ran inta Hatching?"
"Well what can we do? Comb da streets a’ Manhattan? We don’t got time." Harlem said firmly. "Comon. I’ll take ya der." She wrapped an arm around Spades. Mush put on his cap and followed, trailed by Kid Blink and Clover.

"We’ll all go." Clover said. "Like you said, Hatching may be out. I’ll go get Jack." She added as an after thought, then ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

~*~ 

The group was a mile away from the hospital when she heard it. It was a tiny groan, but loud enough to reach her ears.

"Stop." She said suddenly, freezing. The moan sounded again. "Dat’s Race." She whispered. Then she took off running.

"Spades! Wait up!" Clover yelled, leaving Jack’s side and chasing after her friend. Spades didn’t stop, or even slow down. She ran so fast, it was like a magnet was pulling her forwards. She stopped, and then slowly glanced down an alley. Then she gasped, and disappeared into it.

When the rest of the group rounded the corner, they saw her kneeling by Race, who was struggling to sit up. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him upright. Then she slowly traced the wounds on his face in shock and anger.

"Race!" Harlem said, running towards the loveable newsie. The rest followed. She was about to say "you’re okay", when she realised how not okay he was.

"Spades?" He asked, his vision blurred. "Did they hoitcha?"

"Hoit me?" She laughed weakly. "Dey can’t hoit me." Her eyes burned as they slipped over the wounds on his face. "I’m gonna hoit dem."

"Spades, don’t you go lookin’ fa trouble." Jack cautioned. He hunched down beside Racetrack and looked over his wounds.

"What am I? An article in da Woild?" He finally asked, the remnants of his old grin appearing. "Get me back to da home, will ya?"

"You ain’t goin’ back to da home." Mush said. "Yer goin’ to da hospital."

"Why?"

"Because yer arm is twisted outta shape." Clover said softly. Racetrack glanced down at his arm, which indeed, was curved into a strange angle.

"I’ll be. I didn’t even notice it." He said, with a mix of wonder and rage in his voice. "Musta been when they were holdin’ me down…Aight, you win." He conceded. He let them help him up, but then he insisted on walking without support to the hospital. It didn’t stop Spades arms around him all the way there.

~*~

"Whaddaya mean she left?" Slick screamed in an outlet of pent up feelings. Scar, a minion, placed his hands on his hips and stood his ground.

"I mean dat tiny kid wid da black coils told me dat he helped Killa. She’s on ‘er way ta Vermont."

"Was Skitch wid ha?"

"Nah." He turned and started to leave. Slick could feel the combined vision of all her friends on her back. She turned, and they were surprised to see her eyes very red.

"Skitch is probably dead." She spat bitterly. "An’ Killa’s in Vermont. Poifect. Now I really am a lone criminal."

"Slick…" Lashes said, reaching out to the girl. Slick turned and stormed up the stairs. Lashes had tears in her eyes. She turned to Spot.

"Things ah fallin’ apart real bad now, ain’t they?" She choked.

~*~

A month passed. No one had the heart to suggest a poker night. Racetrack was still in the hospital, his arm mending. Even though Spades pleaded with the nurses, they were stubborn, refusing to let the boy try and sell papers with a healing arm. Spades had lost control and swore at them. She was now banned from the hospital.

She sat on her bed now, letting the tender fragility of the last month seep into her bones. Nothing had happened. They had no news from The Bronx, and no more dead bodies had been found. No one had dared suggest that Hatching had been apprehended, afraid to raise false hope in their companions. Only Wolf remained unruffled, the world barely denting his calm demeanour.

Muffled laughter and yells floated from downstairs. A poker night had finally commenced, a week after she had been kicked out of the hospital. She was too crushed to go down and join the celebration. What was there to celebrate?

Kicking off her shoes, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Her head was pounding, and the air seemed to tingle with suspense or anxiety, but she didn’t know why. She tried to imagine Racetrack bursting through the door with the news that he killed Hatching on his way back from the hospital. A perfect solution to all problems. Well, if Hatching had killed the Delancy brothers first…

The door did open, and she opened her eyes eagerly, but it wasn’t Racetrack. It was far from Racetrack. Bruiser was standing, his eyes looking diminished and hungry. She sat up, very conscience of herself, and tucked her knees up to her chin.

"Heya Bruise." She said softly. He nodded and closed the door behind him. Her fingers tightened over her legs. The way he was staring at her made her really uncomfortable, and the closed door wasn’t comforting. "Can I help ya?"

He didn’t answer. She shifted slightly. A long silence stretched from newsie to newsie. She had to wet her lips before she spoke again. "S’matta?"

"Nuttin." He finally replied. She nodded.

"Dis is da goils dorm." She said at last.

"I know."

"Den whadda ya doin’ up heah?"

"Well…downstairs…dey said you was up heah." He said, his eyes never leaving her face. She groaned and rested her head on her chin, her brain pulsing harder than ever. So it was that again. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly.

"I’m sorry Bruisa." She whispered. She didn’t know why she said that. She didn’t know why he was up there. What was his problem? She felt the mattress move slightly, and when she opened her eyes, he was sitting on the foot of the bed, facing her. She moved backwards, abandoning all pretence.

"Whaddaya want?" She asked, her voice pinched with fear. He moved towards her, and she shifted away until her back was against the wall that the bunk bed was propped up against. "No. Go away." She said, trying to sound firm. "Go downstairs, Bruise." He suddenly lunged towards her and knocked her head against the wall, stunning her. Her eventual cry was muffled by his hands. She bit at his finger viciously, and he pulled it away, but he had her pinned. His muscular form was no match for her slight one, even though she sent all the energy she had into her fists, it was like little rabbit paws, thumping harmlessly against his chest.

"Get da hell offa me!" She hissed at him.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"I’ll scream an’ all a’ dem’ll be up heah quicka den lightenin’." She threatened. He laughed and kissed her, forcing his lips onto hers. She tried to fight back, but he was so strong it was unbelievable. She could hardly breathe, let alone scream.

She felt her shirt buttons slide open and tears burned in her eyes. She couldn’t do anything. She was trapped. The flannel shirt that Racetrack had given her fell open, and she could feel his hand on her collarbone. She grimaced in disgust.

Oh, God help, she thought desperately. Please pull me through this. Let me get away

His hands nudged at her belt, pulling her pants down over her hip bones. Her skin was burning with embarrassment. Please…

The door crashed open and Bruiser’s mouth left hers as he turned to stare over his shoulder. She took the moment to sit up, rolling him off her. The sight that met her eyes hurt her so badly she felt like a knife had been shoved through her stomach.

Racetrack stood at the door, his face blank with shock, as he stared at Spades with her shirt unbuttoned, and Bruiser, at the foot of the bed again.

"Race…" She said, standing and pulling her shirt closed. "It ain’t whaddit looks like." He turned and walked away. "Racetrack!" She called. She stood and ran after him. He was walking down the hall, like a soldier fresh off the battle field. She grabbed his arm, and he turned. His eyes were like the ones of a puppy dog that had just had its legs broken by its master. Lost, afraid, and not comprehending. She bit her lip, forcing back tears. She had to be strong and get him to understand.

"I thought you’d be glad ta see me." He said in an unbelieving tone of voice. His eyes dropped from hers to a corner. Then he shook his arm out of her grasp and walked down to the boys dorm, his shoulders slumped.

"I am!" She replied desperately. "Race, ya gotta heah me out on dis one!"

He slammed the door behind him. She felt the tears slide down her cheeks and didn’t wipe them away. Then, sobbing, she buttoned up the shirt and turned, walking slowly back to the girls dorm. Bruiser had gone back downstairs. The window was open. Rain was falling, smashing against the sill, spilling into the dorm room. Kloppman wouldn't be happy about that, she realised dully. She climbed up onto the roof and lay there, arms spread to the wind, feeling the rain soak her, trying to wash away Bruiser’s touch.

~*~

Spot was outside. He doubted even if Hatching was walking up the steps of the refuge he’d be able to see him, for he was tucked away in the corner where the stairs meet the outside wall, with shadows covering him completely. He felt an urge to find Hatching, for some reason. What could a seventeen year old newsie with a sling shot do to a full grown man with a gun and a sincere hatred for newsies? Maybe get him in the eye before he got a bullet through the stomach.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His cap was next to him, sitting on the glistening grass, gathering moisture. He picked it up and set it on his knees, falling back into deep thought.

"Heya Spot." A soft voice said. He jumped, and looked up. Chaos was standing in front of him, her eyes burning like two candle flames shielded from the wind. Her pointy hair fell down to her shoulders, and her cap was jammed firmly on her head. She sat down, facing him, and rested her chin on his knees. "Whadda ya doin’ out heah?"

"Thinkin’." He said softly. She nodded, her eyes falling on the grass beside him. She looked sleepy and apathetic, but restless. And she was. "An’ why am I graced wid ya presence?" He asked.

"I can’t relax in der." She said, cocking her head towards the bright light shining through the windows.

"You can neva stay in one place too long, can ya?" He smirked.

"Nah." She tilted her head and used his knees as a pillow, and closed her eyes. She yawned, and almost fell asleep, if it weren’t for the fact of his knee caps jutting into the side of her face. She grimaced.

"You got uncomftable knees, Conlon." She murmured sleepily. He didn’t reply, but suddenly pushed them up, expelling her onto the grass. She cried out in surprise, and then somersaulted upwards, glaring at him. He grinned at her. She rolled her eyes and changed tactics, lying with her back pressed against his shins instead.

They talked quietly for hours, their clothes soaking in the long grass. A figure silently moved up the steps while they spoke, but they hardly noticed. Upstairs, thumps were coming from the girls dorm. Laughter exploded from inside the house. Someone was singing.

Spot finally kicked his legs impatiently, wanting to move. Chaos groaned and shifted herself upwards, letting him stand up. He moved in front of her and took her hands, pulling her to her feet. As she sprang up, she lost her balance and fell backwards slightly. Impulsively, his arms moved around her and pulled her back up. Then they stayed there.

Chaos waited for his hands to leave her. But they didn’t. Slowly and hesitantly, almost as though it was an inquiry, he pulled her closer. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes from his, which were bewitching. He tilted his head to one side, and leaned towards her. His lips touched hers, and she couldn’t help but shudder slightly. Sweat broke out on her palms as he kissed her more deeply. Then he pulled back and stared at her eyes. A long silence passed.

"Spot?" She said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Get yer hands off my ass." He grinned and held them up. She stepped back. "Da last thing we need between us is a romance. Undastood?"
"Yeah, yeah." He said, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

"An’ it betta stay dat way." She said turning and stalking up the steps. He rolled his eyes and ran after her.

~*~

The guys had tried to talk to Racetrack, upon coming up to the dormitory and finding him sitting dazed on the bed. He wouldn’t say a word.

"Jeez." Skittery had joked, already missing Harlem, who had gone back to Brooklyn. "Whaddid they do ta ya at da hospital?" He had smiled half heartedly and then gone off to the bathroom to change.

Spot lay in his bed, tossing and turning, unable to get to sleep. He remembered the way Killer loved to stay up on poker nights, bugging all the other girls, until a massive pillow fight ensued, and the boys were forced to go down to the girls dorm, and be dragged into the fight, one by one, until Papes finally came up and told them all to shut up, because hey-guess-what, we got papes ta sell in da mornin’. But no one had really gone to sleep. Skitch and Killer would be laughing over the new found ways to see each other more, Pocket’s would be chasing Slick, who would be laughing, and Spot would be sitting in the corner, aiming his sling shot at various newsies, just to scare them.

But now Killer wasn’t here. She was in Vermont. And Skitch? Skitch had to be dead. Slick no longer laughed, and no one was up for Spot to aim at. Lashes was right when she said things were falling apart.

Shingles was back. She had returned a long time ago. It was nice, having the little imp run from room to room, being innocent and fun. Reminded them of times long ago.

We have to stop that! Spot thought firmly. We have to stop thinking about what things were like and start thinking about what things are going to BE like. And how we can change them for our favour. In poker, it’s all luck, luck and a good face. But with this we have the ability, no matter how small, to cheat.

No matter how hard he tried to think up a plan, all he heard in his head was "Da last thing we need between us is a romance, undastood?" He felt like tearing out his hair. Trust women to mess things up for him. He didn’t know why he had kissed Chaos, it just seemed right at the moment, and he thought she’d feel that too. He wished he could read minds, it would make things so much easier. Maybe he needed to see Splinter again. Maybe he just needed a break.

~*~ 

Spot walked down to the Bronx the next day, eager for information, eager for some sort of solution. He wanted to tear apart the man that had torn apart his life, but had no means by which to do so. He knocked on the door of the lodging house and waiting until it opened.

Splinter himself was standing there, a weary look on his brow. He greeted Spot cordially and let him in.

"Heya Spot. How’s it rollin’?"

"Na bad." Spot replied automatically. "Actually, real bad." He corrected himself.

"Really."

"Yeah. Rememba Killa? Remember Skitch?"
"I remember Killa vaguely. An’ Skitch. Where is he?"

"Dead."

"An’ Killa?"
"In Vermont."

"Uh huh." He sat down at a table and motioned for Spot to take a seat as well. "So why ya heah?"
"We need ta stop all dis once an’ fa all." He said. "You should see my newsies. You should see the way dey think ‘bout life. It ain’t pretty."

"It’s not just you guys." He said, his poker face in position, his voice business like. "But we can’t do anythin’ Spot."

"We can’t do anythin’, or we can’t do anything sensible?" He asked shrewdly.

"Can’t do anythin’…well…sensible, I guess." He admitted.

"If it means da lives of thousands of begga’s, I think a little risk is in orda." He said evenly. "An’ besides," a grin graced his features. "a life widout danga is a waste a’ air."

~*~

Spades sat at the table in the lodging house. Her fingers were curled around a cup of coffee, trapping the warmth into her flesh. She had been that way since six, waiting for Kloppman to wake them up.

Finally, she saw his aged form climbing the stairs. She waited half an hour for the boys, her fingers tightening with anxiety around the mug. She had to talk to Racetrack. She had to make him understand.

He came down first, but stopped when he saw her.

"Uh, hi." She said, standing, knocking the chair over. Fumbling, she pushed it up again, and by that time he was almost at the door. "Racetrack, wait." She pleaded. He didn’t even look back.

~*~

Racetrack walked down the streets, clutching a stack of newspapers. He was soon joined by Specs.

"Heya Race." The older boy said, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose with his finger. "Whassa matta?"

"Nuttin." Racetrack glared. "Things ah just peachy."

~*~

"You believe me, dontcha?" Spades asked through her tears. Clover nodded.

"I don’t see how anyone can’t. We all knew about Bruiser bein’ crazy about you." She hesitated. "You should talk to Spot."

"Who’s ‘e gonna believe." She asked practically. "His trusted minion or dat crazy broad from Manhattan, who allegedly was wid dis guy when her own boyfriend was in da hospital for a month?"

"I see your point, but we can back you up!" Clover said, rubbing Spades hands between hers, trying to warm her friend, wanting to take her in her arms and whisper things would be alright, but knew that Spades would only shun her sympathy.

"So what? It’s a simple case a’ our woid against his, an’ Bruisa has a betta position to win heah." She looked up at Clover. "We can’ do nuttin. It’s like Hatching all ova again." She sighed and dropped her head. Clover didn’t know what to say. For once, her Irish voice was silent.

"I don’t feel like sellin’ papes taday." Spades said finally. "You go. I’ll jus’ stay heah."

"Alone?"

"Bruisa’s in Brooklyn an’ Hatching can’t get past Kloppman." The heartbroken girl whispered. "I think I’m okay."

~*~

  Killer stared up at the worn, wooden building in front of her. A brutal carving of a crucified Jesus was nailed to the door, and no matter how much she tried to avoid it, her eyes kept flicking towards the blood of lumber that spilt from his wrists.

A large sign proclaiming "St. Mary’s Orphanage for Girls" hung above the door. She pressed her face to the window, and was surprised to see a pair of bright blue eyes staring cattily back at her. She drew away, but was comforted slightly when the face split into a grin. Then it disappeared. Orphanage for girls.

She stared at the quarter she had clutched in her hand. It was all she had left. The food, shelter, and train ticket had eaten away at her money like some kind of animal, denied of food for days. She couldn’t go anywhere with a quarter. They had delivery carts and newspaper stands in Vermont. No newsies. No jobs.

What could she do? She didn’t even know how to count to twenty. Even the factories that seemed to dapple Brooklyn were sparser around Vermont.

She could have sat on the pavement and sobbed. She missed Brooklyn so much. She missed Skitch so much. Sometimes, she could swear she was crazy, spotting him in various places around the crowd. But when she ran to him, it was just another nameless, blurry face, that didn’t need to buy a paper. That didn’t need her. She wanted to be needed, and all that it would take would be a letter from a friend, or Skitch. But her friends didn’t know where she was. And Skitch was dead.

"Dat’s crazy." Splinter said, leaning back in his chair. "Yer crazy, Conlon."

"If it woiks…"

"If it woiks I won’t say anythin’ against ya for da rest a’ my yeahs." Splinter promised. "But it won’t."

"An’ who ah you ta tell me fucha?" Spot snapped, his hand on his cane tightening.

"I ain’t tryin’ ta predict da fucha, but it’s like marchin’ ya troops off a bridge."

"It’s gonna have ta be someone swift, an’ real spry." He said, speaking as though Splinter had never interrupted. The lanky boy sighed and crossed his arms, deciding to humour the leader of Brooklyn. "Jus’ ta lead Hatching der."

"An’ what if he has a gun?"

"Don’ worry. One a’ me men…ah…goils. She can take care a dat." Spot said, a smirk appearing on his lips.

"An’ how would she do dat?"

"Splinta, Splinta…" Spot soothed. "I got da details all woiked out. Now all I need is information." He leaned forward, his eyes focused. "I need ta find out where Hatching is, an’ how we can get der. If we can’t get der, we’ll wait till he comes ta Brooklyn. Eider way, this plan is gonna go through." Splinter sighed and Spot could almost see the painful resolves articulating in his mind. Finally, he put both hands on the table.

"Yer on, Conlon. Jus’ don’t trust yer own strength too much. Heah?"

"Yeah, I heah." He smirked. "An’ don’t worry. Hopefully, things ah gonna be smooth."

~*~

Dear Slick

I know you’re probably real mad at me for moving, but I had to. Some times you just have to do things that you know feel right at the moment, no matter how weird it is later. And I know it’s weird now. I’m in Vermont, living at one of the orphanages. St. Mary’s. You ever heard of it?

I wish I was back there with everyone. Even though things are so weird. You’ve probably figured out that Skitch is gone, right?

Give my love to every Brooklynite you can get your hands on.

Love

Killer

Her hand was shaking violently as she wrote the letter, trying with all her will not to send huge inky blots across the page. She wanted it to be perfect. She was going to write the whole story of that hellish night, but couldn’t get the pen to move when she wanted it to. Why wouldn’t it? She tried desperately, but the words weren’t coming to her. There were no words for that night. The face of her old boyfriend still haunted her, and she woke up one morning, crying, even if she didn’t remember her visions.

She kissed the letter, then folded it, and tucked it into an envelope. She didn’t trust the nuns, and had a gut feeling they would read it, and her past would spill out. She didn’t want that. But she had to get the letter to Slick.

She hoped that Slick would read in between the lines, and see how wretchedly sorry she was, and how much she wanted to drop everything and run back into Brooklyn. She suddenly stiffened. That’s what her dream was that night she had woken up with sobs on her lips. She had been running through the streets, her hair flying back, stumbling into Brooklyn. She was crying and laughing at the same time, and someone was whispering in her ear that Skitch was waiting for her in the Brooklyn lodging house. She had ran faster on dream light feet, faster and faster, the wind making her eyes burn with unshed tears, as she ran towards the lodging house. A feeling of joy swamped her so powerfully, she was afraid she would freeze, completely petrify in her rapture. Then the gun had stopped it all.

And she was crying.

Trying to forget the sudden memory of this nightmare, she hastily scratched the lodging house address on to the back of the envelope and stood, wondering if Sister Marilyn was in enough good humour to mail it for her.

~*~

"Racetrack. I know you’se thought dat I was bein’ unfaithful to ya, an’ dat I didn’t love ya no moah, but you got it all wrong. Bruisa was all ova me, an’ I couldn’t stop him. It was what dey talk about in da news…" she paused a moment, trying to remember the dry, severe word they used. "Rape." The word fit the meaning perfectly. Biting and hard. She blinked, trying to shake off the sick feeling that had clouded her mind. "It was rape, Race. I didn’t want no part of it whatsoeva, an’ I know it hoit ya real bad ta see dat, but I am so glad dat you walked in dat very moment, oddahwise I would have…" she deliberated, trying to find the right word. "I’d a’ broken. You can’t believe what Bruisa’s been sayin’. I’m tellin’ you da truth, dat I will neva love anyone as much as I love you."

Her reflection blinked and trembled along with her. She placed both hands on the counter and sighed, letting her head hang. ‘I can’t do this’. Her whole body was swamped with anxiety, almost aching from the feeling of it. The slow, dull pain spread through her, and she clutched her stomach and moaned.

"Spades? That you?" Clover looked in. Spades immediately straightened, and dropped her hands.

"I’m aight." She replied immediately. Then she took a deep breath and strode from the room, not bothering to brush the hair away that was hanging over her shoulders. She was going to do it. She was going to do it before she thought about it, and convinced herself not to. She left her logic behind.

Her white shirt was tied up at her elbows, and she was wearing long black pants, and her cap tight on her head. Her black eyes were glittering, not with recklessness, or fantastic daydreams. All the traces of laughter and twinkling smiles had been wiped from her pale face, and were replaced with grim determination. And the black irises of her eyes were glowing with conviction. Snoddy and Swifty were strolling down the halls, and nervously moved out of her way. She felt like Moses, parting the waters of the Red Sea, stubborn and obstinate, but knowing that her task was right. Knowing she was going to end the pain in a few seconds, or less.

She walked to the boys dorm and wrenched the door open to come face to face with Bruiser. She froze. Absolutely petrified. He gave her a slow smile, then reached out to her face. His hands…She stumbled backwards and her back hit the wall.

"Bruisa?" Swifty’s voice came from behind them. His stricken face appeared, along with Racetrack. His eyes hardened when he saw her. "What’s takin’ so long?"

"Whaddaya doin’ heah?" Spades whispered.

"Bruisa came ta give Jack a message." Racetrack said softly. "You two happy ta see each oddah?" Swifty glanced back at him, and fell silent. The quiet stretched out long and tough. Spades couldn’t answer. It was as though someone had taken a needle and thread and had stitched her lips together. Brutal feelings fought to escape her, but had no outlet. Bruiser absolutely terrified her. He sighed, then left the doorway, with Swifty following. The Asian boy gave Spades a dirty look as he followed the minion. Manhattan knew all about her and Bruiser.

Racetrack was standing there, looking smaller than ever. She wanted to speak his name, and reach out to him. Racetrack. I know you thought I was being unfaithful, and that I didn’t love you any more. You got it all wrong. Bruiser tried to rape me. I didn’t want any part of it. I know it hurt you to see it, but if you hadn’t walked in at that moment, I would have broken. I want you to know I love you more than anyone. Please come back to me. Racetrack. She tried to move, but Bruiser’s face, so near, had shocked her. She didn’t feel safe anymore. The lodging house used to be her castle, her fortress, where she could stand at the foremost tower and overlook her life. But now it had been brutally invaded.

She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. He looked so injured, so hurt.

‘He’s hurt.’ She thought bitterly. ‘I was the one with that boy on me, tearing off my clothes, kissing me. Against my will. And I was too weak, to stupid to see it coming, and too feeble to even fend it off when it did. What am I thinking, the lodging house, a castle? I can’t even defend myself. I’m just a girl who he happened to find pretty. And he hurt me. And now my own boyfriend won’t even hear me out.’

"Go follow him." Racetrack said bitterly. Then he reached forwards and closed the door on the pale skinned, black haired girl he had named Spades.

"Why does Spot wanna talk ta me?" Swifty asked, a little nervously. Bruiser shrugged. Swifty sighed and didn’t ask any more questions. Any of his inquiries had been replied to with grunts and shrugs. He figured that Spot’s minions weren’t big on words.

Personally, he wondered what Spades had seen in Bruiser. Or maybe she was just lonely. Maybe with Racetrack at the hospital, she had wanted…well, maybe she just wasn’t a good person from the beginning. He decided not to puzzle over it anymore. It wasn’t any of his business.

He felt slightly jumpy. With so many newsies everywhere disappearing and dying and getting injured…well, it was enough to make anyone nervous. Even the fastest of newsies, which he was, he didn’t like the idea of running from a bullet. It was pure daylight, but that didn’t mean a thing.

When they reached the Brooklyn bridge, Swifty was astonished to see Spot Conlon himself waiting halfway across the bridge, staring out at the water, moving slowly, like a weighed down train. The factory smoke stacks of Brooklyn fumed in the background, sending up thick grey clouds. Not healthy, Swifty thought morosely. That’s got to be bad for the blue of the sky.

"Thanks Bruise." Spot said shortly. Bruiser nodded and began walking across the rest of the bridge to Brooklyn, feeling slightly down. Spades had been so scared looking, so afraid, when he had first appeared in front of her. He had secretly wanted to meet up with her, but not like that, not with her being so terrified of the very first glimpse of his face. He hadn’t meant to intimidate her, he thought she would enjoy it when she got into it. That’s what all the other girls had been like. But to him, Spades wasn’t just another girl. She seemed to shine, like a coin dropped onto a muddy sidewalk, someone too great, too beautiful to be kept in New York, caged, like an animal.

It was out of his hands now anyways. He had his shot at it, and he messed it up.

Spot was still looking down at the water. Swifty, still slightly nervous around the awe instilling leader of Brooklyn, passed time by staring intently at his shoes. Brown, with lots of scuffs on them. A long scratch down the side when he had accidentally tripped near that broken bottle. Usually he was so sure of his footing, it puzzled him. Soon, he became completely engrossed in thought, oblivious to the world around him.

"So. Swifty." Spot’s voice startled him back into reality. He looked up, slightly panicked at the sudden snap into actuality. "Got a job fer ya."

"Fa me?" He replied, his voice higher than he meant it to be. Silently cursing himself, he cleared his throat and lowered his octave purposely. "Fa me?" Now it came out low, like the sound of a boat’s horn blaring across the water. Way to mess up royally.

"Yeah. Fa you." Spot smirked. "Got some infamation from our friends at da Bronx. Dey has records of Hatching. The man lives in Brooklyn." He paused. "But we’se gonna take care a’ him tanight. He’s gonna come straight to us."

"How do you know dat?" Swifty asked, with baited breath. Spot fingered the tip of his cane.

"Because you is gonna lead ‘em ta us." Spot looked up at him, any traces of the familiar smirk gone. No humour or sympathy was apparent on his chiseled features. "Dat’s yer job."

"Me?" Now his voice was high, but he didn’t care anymore. "Why me? How?"

"As he’s leavin’, you gotta run." Spot said, dropping his hand from the top of his cane. "He’s gonna follow. We’ll make shooah he don’t got his gun."

"How?"

"Just trust me. You’ll lead him down Duane Avenue, right into da alley behind dat junk shop, undastood?" Swifty couldn’t believe it. Was this some kind of joke? Him? Lead Hatching? He didn’t think so. But Spot’s voice was incredibly serious. He had never seen him so stubborn, so determined, since the strike. And even the strike was no match for the look in his eyes.
"I…" Swifty stuttered.

"If you have any problems I’ll show ya around." He said, crossing his arms and leaning backwards. Typically Spot. "But I trust you know wheah I’m talkin’ bout."
"Well shooah, but I…"

"Whassa matta?" Spot leaned forwards. "Scared?"

"No." Swifty lied. Even though he was jumpy, he wasn’t about to let that much pride leak out his mouth. "Jus’…it’s sudden, dat’s all."

"You’re ready?" He took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Shooah." Spot smirked, then spat in his hand and held it out. Swifty obliged.

"Good man, Swifty." He said approvingly. "You’ll stay in Brooklyn tanight."

~*~

Slick balled the letter up in her fingers and tried to stop the angry waves that crashed over her. She missed Brooklyn so much? Why didn’t she come back? No one was going to be mad at her, and…

Against her will, she unfolded it again and smoothed it out as firmly as she could on the bed spread. Some times you just have to do things that you know feel right at the moment, no matter how weird it is later, she read, her lips silently forming the words. You’ve probably figured out Skitch is gone, right?

Slick had figured it out.

She conjured the image of Skitch to her mind, the stringy dirty blonde hair, twinkling brown eyes, finely chiselled face, and thin lips. He had reminded her of a stray dog, that just happened to wander its way right into Killers arms. And now he was, like she said, gone. So easily. So fast. Slick felt like burying her head in her hands and crying, but she didn’t want to let life defeat her, like it had defeated the others. She had seen them walking around like terrified, hollow bodies. She hoped Spot figured out what he was going to do soon. He had too.

Her wish was instantly gratified.

The door burst open and she looked up, before crumpling the letter into her fingers and pressing it into the mattress. Spot strode in, his cane swinging by his side, his eyes fierce and determined. This didn’t faze Slick. Happened all the time. But a few feet behind him tip toed someone she didn’t expect to see at all. Swifty, the Asian newsie, was there.

"What’s he doin’ heah?" She asked, already kind of grumpy because of the short news from Killer. She missed her. "Ain’t he sapposed ta be in Manhattan ah somin?"

"Slick, cut da chatta." Spot ordered. She sighed and leaned against the bedpost, unwilling to start up their usual bitter jesting. Resigned, she let him continue. "I know ya miss Killa…" he said, amazingly accurate. "An’ dat things ain’t lookin’ dat great for you an’ yer…" he smirked, softening his look slightly. "Talents, shall we say?"

"I can’t steal stuff good Spot anymoah, you know dat." She snapped, hurt because of the slight. So this was the reason. To make her feel worse than she already was.

"I didn’t come heah to insult ya." He said, crossing his arms. Swifty was looking very out of place as he sat uncomfortably down on a nearby bunk. In a girls dorm room. In Brooklyn. The Manhattaner nervously pressed his fingers into his thighs. She returned her gaze to Spot.

"Den what? Can’t ya see I’m kinda busy?" She lied. Spot wasn’t fazed.

"You gotta pull yerself tagether." He said, his seriousness harsh and biting. "An’ fast.

"Why?"

"’Cause we’se takin’ down Hatching. Tanight."

~*~

Spades stared out at the noon sky from the lobby of the lodging house and wondered if she chanced a journey to Brooklyn. Her entire being wanted to be there, even though she wasn’t very well acquainted with Spot Conlon, he seemed to be wrought iron. Made of steel and safety. And she figured that safety is what every newsie in New York was needing now, something that even the lodging houses didn’t seem to give them. The lodging houses didn’t keep out the chill of the coming winter, didn’t keep out the rain that occasionally leaked through the ceiling. It didn’t keep out the people, the criminals, no matter how much Kloppman lied and lied, and the newsies joked and laughed, no matter what front. It didn’t stop the robbers, the swindlers, or the rapists.

The only two people holding her back from Brooklyn were Hatching and Bruiser.

She couldn’t go to Brooklyn, Bruiser would be there, smiling. Like he was this morning. Like he was in front of Racetrack. She crumpled her hat in her hands and growled. How dare he smile at her, after what he tried to do. What he did. She rubbed her fingers over her collarbone. She had never lost the disgusting feeling of his fingers on her skin, the way his lips had caught hers, like slabs of meat. Like he was hungry for something. The thought of him, underneath a bridge, in the lodging house, by the docks…anywhere in Brooklyn, it only lessened her feeling of security.

She was half relieved as Racetrack came down the stairs.

She turned and saw him there, and as he caught sight of her, he spun around and started walking back up the stairs.

"Race." She said softly. He paused, then turned to her, looking as cold and shut off as ice. She took a deep breath. Forget Brooklyn. Forget Bruiser. You’re going to tell him now. I was almost raped. Bruiser tried to do it. Please don’t hate me. I didn’t want it.

She was about to say the words, when sudden footsteps on the stairs told her that more newsies were on their way. She turned back to the window, turning her back on him. She could feel his discontent in waves.

"Heya. Spades." She looked up. It was Jack. "Weah all goin’ down ta Brooklyn. Ya comin’?"

"Brooklyn? Why?"

"Bruisa told us somin’ big was goin’ down tanight." Jack smirked. "You know Brooklyn. Home a’ da big brewin’ trouble. Figah we can ketch ourselves a show."

"Yeah, aight." She said, straightening. "I’ll go ta Brooklyn."

~*~

Trip, Prowler, and Bones sat on one of the beds in the boys lodging house and prolonged their dirty conversation about one of the women they had seen on the streets while selling newspapers. They were completely unfazed when they heard the familiar, cracking pattern of rain emit from the shingles. Rain was common around this time of year, the beginning of fall. It was hard to believe summer was almost over. Things had been absolutely packed, what with the strike, and then Hatching appearing.

Though Trip didn’t like to admit it, the thought of Hatching petrified him. ‘Hell, dat don’t mean nuttin’.’ He told himself once. ‘Gimme a newsie dat ain’t petrified a’ him, an’ I’ll give you our man Denton wearin’ a plain bow tie.’ Denton and his bow ties had been somewhat of a joke between the Brooklyn newsies, all of them oblivious to how the Manhattan newsies could follow this…this reporter…so blindly, like sheep to a shepherd. Even though they couldn’t have done it without him.

But Trip had a feeling that his terror went deeper than that…maybe it was the deal with his father…But he didn’t want to lengthen on that point, and instead, tried to concentrate on the talk, which wasn’t hard, but wasn’t easy either.

"She weren’t big." Bones was scoffing. "I’se seen bigga."

"In yer dreams." Prowler laughed. Bones scowled and smacked him over the head. Prowlers laugh disappeared, and mock outrage stole across his face. He tackled Bones right off the bed.

~*~

Killer lay down on her dirty cot, and ran her hands over her stomach, pretending they were Skitch’s fingers. Then she touched her face gently, and ran them through her hair. If she tried hard enough, she could imitate his caress perfectly. But it only made the tears start anew. It didn’t bother her to have them run down her cheeks, because the tears she had shed the night he had been shot…they had been angry and insane, tearing out of her in ugly wrenching sobs that destroyed her insides. She knew her later tears would never compare.

She had told the nuns that she often fell asleep like this, running her hands over her stomach, collarbone, or face. Through her hair. Just feeling the bones through the skin, the brittle feeling of them, the fragility. They had reminded her that lust was a sin, and had given her a long lecture. It wasn’t lust in that manner, it was lust in the sense that she loved him, and that was all she had left. His touch.

She wondered if Slick had the letter yet. She hoped so. She wanted some sort of daring escape, or rescue, have her friends drag her back to Brooklyn, because she knew that was the only way she could ever go back there. She had started having dreams now, that it wasn’t Hatching that killed Skitch, but her. Not so much that she had taken a gun and shoved it down his throat, but she hadn’t saved him. She had run from him, trying desperately to save herself, trying to put distance in between her and Hatching. And then she had stopped, she had waited for him, before stalling him there, long enough for Hatching to shoot a wrought piece of metal into his stomach. Then she had left him, she had lost him. What if he was still alive? What if he had lain there for hours of pain and agony, moaning, his hand at his ribs, and his eyes filled with tears? She couldn’t live with herself. She wanted to die, she wanted to beg on her knees for Skitch’s forgiveness. She didn’t care if she would be sent to hell, as long as she was able to explain…

She heard the nuns coming in for afternoon prayers with the orphans, and hastily lay her fingers by her sides. Last thing she wanted was more lectures. It didn’t matter. She didn’t deserve to remember someone as beautiful as him.

~*~

"You three. Get outta heah." Spot snarled as he strode into the boys dorm. Prowler, Trip, and Bones all groaned simultaneously.

"You don’t own da joint, Conlon." Bones said boldly. Spot narrowed his eyes, as though he was immediately suspicious of anyone who dared to contradict him.

"But I own Brooklyn." He replied smugly. Then he turned and crooked his finger at the door. Slick, Swifty, Wolf, Scar, Rafter, Docks, and Skull appeared, the last four being the strongest of his minions. Prowler eyed them shrewdly, then stood.

"Comon, fellas." He said, resting his arm on Trips shoulders. "Let’s get outta heah. Ordas from Conlon ‘imself."
"Dat’s right." He watched them file out with the menacing look on his face. He then turned around to talk to the rest of them, when Trip interrupted.

"Give it back, Slick." He said, in a bored tone. Slick looked at him, completely shocked, then pulled the pack of cigarettes from her own pocket. They were resting in his small bag a few seconds before she had silently pulled them from his own pocket.

"I can’t do it." She said, in a dazed and terrified voice. "Spot, I can’t do it no moah!"

"Trip, get outta heah." He ordered.

"I tried my best!" She was babbling. "A couple weeks ago no one would be able ta notice if I did dat! Dat’s my best move eva!"

"You’se always stealin’ stuff from everyone!" Trip accused.

"Trip!" Spot said, raising his voice slightly.

"I’m sorry." Slick said. "I jus’ can’t…" She turned back to Spot. "Yer gonna have ta get anoddah goil. It can’t be me."

"It’s gotta be." He said firmly. Then he shoved Trip roughly out the door and slammed it. Slick slid to the ground and crossed her long scrawny legs. Spot strode over to the window and checked the fire escape, and slammed that too. Swifty was very uncomfortable. The trauma that Slick was dishing out was unbearable enough, and Spot’s unendurable caution only made him more insecure. But he was silent as Spot sat down.

"Aight. We have a real important job in fronna us." He said. "Fa da good a’ newsies all ova New York."

"I can’t do it." Slick whispered. Spot ignored her.

"Hatching is in Brooklyn tanight." He said. Slick stiffened. The minions glanced edgily at one another, and Swifty started fiddling incessantly with his suspenders. His heartbeat sped up with the mention of the name. Him? Against Hatching?

"I’m serious, Spot." Slick said, pleading now. "Not tanight. Not me. Don’t make me. I can’t do it."

"Will you get it tageddah?" Spot snapped. "Look, if you feelin’ insecure ‘bout it, go to Pockets. Go to Trip. Go to Bones. Anyone! Jus’ practise until you got it back."

"But I lost it fa good dis time, Spot!" She moaned.

"Well you gotta. You’se protectin’ Swifty heah. If you don’t do yer job right…" He trailed off, and everyone glanced over at Swifty, edgy. He felt his heart beat faster, and sweat break out on his palms. If she didn’t do the job right…Slick glanced over at him and held him in her gaze for a moment.

"Comon." Wolf said harshly. "How hard can it be?" This broke her. She jumped up.

"Fer your information…"

"Slick. Wolf." Spot ordered. Slick glared, then sat back down. Swifty put a hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her, to calm her. She glanced over at him, then shook his hand from her skin. Then she returned her seething gaze to the floor.

"Slick, we need you ta do dis." Spot was saying. Almost in a pleading tone. "If you can’t…"

"I’ll give it a try." She said weakly.

Clubs appeared, bursting through the door without so much as a knock to warn them of his presence.

"Manhattan’s heah." He said shortly. Spot stood, his hand tight on his cane.

"What?"

"Manhattan’s heah." Clubs repeated, in exactly the same tone. If the consequences weren’t so dire, Slick would have laughed. Minions were so stupid.

"I thought…I tol’…why ah dey heah?" He snapped, angry. He stalked towards the door. The minion shrugged and followed him. Slick stood and, she too, trailed after them, feeling the empty space where Spot had left. Not so much an empty space inside of her, but around her, the feeling of forsaken safety. It chilled her to the bone. Her insides were jumpy, and she was afraid she’d throw up. She couldn’t take the pressure. Do it right, or Swifty here gets the axe.

True to Clubs word, the whole lot of them were grouped around the entrance, trying to shove their way inside. The usual chatter rang out, except the common nasal voice was missing. Racetrack. He and Spades weren’t talking. Spot raised an eyebrow at this, but realised that now was the time to be threatening and manly, not curious and inquiring.

"Whadda you punks doin’ heah?" He snapped.

"Heya Spot. Nice ta see you too." Jack smirked. Spot wasn’t amused.

"We have big plans tanight dat can’t be interfered wid!" he said, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the newsies, and to their dismay, Papes, who sauntered in, his face registering surprise at the sudden number of street rats in his lodging house.

"Oh Lord." He said in disbelief. "I’d better get the registration book…" He started tramping towards the counter. Spot dashed over and grabbed his arm. The old man glanced down.

"Don’t worry, Papes, dey’se jus’ visitors. Member poka night?" The old man didn’t want to bring back the visions of Shingles and her injury.

"Oh yes."

"Good. How bout you jus’ go back to ya room, an’ jus’ relax. We ain’t gonna do nuttin’." He ordered hurriedly. Then he turned back to the rest of them. "Of all da times fa you bumma’s ta show up…"

"Hey, we didn’t come heah ta be insulted." Boots said, slightly miffed. Spot glanced down at him and sighed.

"Aight. You know what? Upstairs. Now. If I find out dat one a’ you’se steps so much as a toe outside a dis lodgin’ house tanight, I’ll poisonaly hunt ya down and soak ya, undastood?"

"Yeah, yeah." Blink said sceptically. Then he paused. "Big plans tanight?" A murmur of curiosity wove its way through the crowd.

"What plans?" Mush asked.

"Upstairs!" Spot snapped, jabbing towards the stairs with his cane. "Comon! Da lotta ya."

"Fine, fine." Boots said, clearly offended. "Comon fellas. Let’s get outta heah." Spot sighed and turned, obliged to lead them up and fetch Swifty, and the minions.

Jack was confused. What was Spot planning tonight? It sounded big, something important, because even though Spot liked giving orders as much as the next egotistical guy, he was always very careful not to touch anyone’s freedom. But this crossed all lines. Stay in the lodging house? All night? Where was the fun in that? Whatever Spot was devising, Jack wanted a hand in it.

Clover stared at the muscular boys back as he climbed the stairs behind the leader of Brooklyn. His hair was slicked back from his forehead, as always, but she knew his expression was troubled. She could see how Spot giving orders for them to stay inside riled him, hurt his ego, which she had realised long ago was bigger than was good for the boy. Well, what with leading a strike of millions of child labourers, and succeeding, she figured he was allowed to be slightly egocentric. She wanted to wrap her arm around him so badly, and try to console him, but she was too shy. Too embarrassed to make any kind of move. She sighed and her vision flicked to Mush and Buttons, then to Racetrack and Spades. She had a feeling there would be a lot of emotional tension tonight.

"Skittery!" A new voice yelled. Skittery looked up in time to see Harlem fly towards him and nearly knock him down the stairs. Everyone made some crude remark about the couple, but she ignored it and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Missed you so much, ya bumma!" She grinned. He kissed her back, then wrapped an arm around her. "Whaddaya doin’ in Brooklyn? It ain’t poka night, is it?" Before he could answer, a new voice rang out.

"Gimme dat back, Slick!" Racetrack said suddenly, turning towards the pale girl. She let out a breath, then handed him the Cuban cigar he had saved up for so long to buy. He jammed it in his pocket and glared at her, having still not forgotten the incident with his favourite pack of playing cards.

"Spot?" Slick asked softly. Spot sighed and passed a hand through his hair. Then he took her arm and led her upstairs as quickly as possible.

~*~

They burst through the door and a pale faced Slick was returned to her spot beside Swifty. Her insides were churning worse than the Brooklyn river. The innocent, trusting look on Swifty’s face was undoing her faster than the fact she couldn’t steal any more. He leaned over.

"You okay?" he asked softly. She shook her head. He sighed and straightened, then hunched over. The trusting look was slowly beginning to disappear, and be replaced by terror and suspense. Slick moaned and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t do this. But soon it would be time. All seven of them would have to leave and confront him. And she knew she couldn’t do it.

Swifty looked up suddenly. "Wheah’s Spot?" He asked. Slick looked around, feeling sick.

"I dunno." She whispered.

~*~

Spot stood outside the girls dorm, and raised a fist to knock on the door. It swung open suddenly, and Chaos was standing there, exactly the girl he wanted to see. Her eyes flashed as she caught sight of him. Then she closed the door behind her.

"Heya Conlon." She said.

"Hey Chaos." He smirked. Then he took her hand and led her down to the end of the hallway, and around the corner, into a dead end, that was out of sight from the rest of the corridor. There he sat down and motioned to his side, for her to sit as well. She raised an eyebrow.

"I know what dis is all about, Conlon." She said. He smirked.

"Den you got da wrong idea. All I wanna do is talk." He replied. She hesitated, then collapsed next to him, feeling slightly relieved. Things had been tense between the two since the last poker night, even though Chaos had tried to forget the incident. She knew he hadn’t forgotten, but didn’t know what he thought, or what he felt. And she wasn’t going to be the one to ask. But if she could read minds, it would make it all a whole lot easier.

"’Bout what?" She asked.

"Anythin’ ‘cept what’s happenin’ tanight."

"Things ain’t goin’ so good wid da Hatching stompin’ crew?"

"I said anythin’ ‘cept what’s happenin’ tanight." He repeated. She turned to him.

"Conlon? Can I go?" She asked hopefully. If she wasn’t so proud, she would have shut her eyes tightly and crossed her fingers. She was Spot’s right hand woman. She was with him, almost always. Tonight was probably going to be the most important night of his life. And she wanted to be there, she wanted to see Hatching. She wanted to pound his face in.

"You?" He sneered. She glared, and he changed his tune slightly. "I don’t want ya ta get hoit."

"Da last time I ran inta Hatching, I escaped fine." She said, dismissive.

"Yeah, wid bruises up an’ down yer arms, an’ yer face nicely rearranged." He shot. She punched him on the shoulder, a little harder than just a play hit. He winced inside, but it didn’t ruffle his calm, sceptical demeanour.

"Conlon, I’ll jus’ hang around wid da minions, I won’t even go so far as ta show me face when you don’t wan’ me to. Jus’ lemme be der." She pleaded. She wanted to make him see how much she desired to be there.

"No." His eyes turned hard again. "Da only goil comin’ along is Slick, an’ dat’s because a’ her talents. We don’t need no oddah women on dis mission." His words hurt her, and she sat back, bitter. He glanced over at her and sighed.

"Look. Chaos. I want you ta come along, I really do, but it would…"

"What? Distract you?" She raised an eyebrow. He was about to say no, then faltered. As usual, his brain went ahead to make assumptions without his permission. Would it distract him? Would he be more eager to protect her than the rest of his crew?

"No…" He said, almost stuttering. He hastily cleared his throat and tried to gain control of his actions. "Jus’ I don’t want no one ‘cept fa da crew outta da lodgin’ house. No moah against Hatching den necessary." He smiled, proud of himself for an unswayable reason.

"But what if somin goes wrong?" She asked practically. "What if da minions get shot?" Spot didn’t know how to answer. Why was it Chaos was always able to make his unswayable resolutions suddenly swayable?

"Dey won’t."

"Well you don’t know dat. Whaddaya, some kinda gypsy?" She rolled her eyes. "Can you see inta da fucha?"

"Dey won’t get shot." He said, irritable. He stood. The conversation was getting too strange for him, and it was getting dark. In half an hour, (only half an hour!) he had to be ready to go. He sighed and slid his cane back into his belt loop, and reached down to help Chaos up, but she was already on her two feet, and brushing the dust from her trousers. Then she looked up at him.

"I’m gonna hate you foreva fa makin’ me miss dis." She warned.

"You gotta stay heah tanight, Chaos." He replied, firm as ever. He was going to add "please", but realised it would only make him look softer.

"Ah, you know me." She said, serious as ever, but with the slight tugging of a smirk in her eyes. "I can neva stay in one place too long."

He couldn’t help but smile at this. Even though he tried to wipe it quickly from his face, the grin showed, and Chaos’s cocky attitude went full scale. It was nice to know that she, however young, could somehow get the leader of Brooklyn amused once and a while. Spot trailed a thumb down her arm, then caught her fingers and held them before she could snatch her hand away. He leaned down slightly, so his eyes were right by hers, and gave her an amused, appraising look.

"Yeah. I know." He smirked. She yanked her fingers away and stepped backwards. The last time his face had been that close, they had kissed. She didn’t want that to happen again. He reached over and took her hand, and she growled threateningly at him and pulled it away again. Then she stalked off, trying to stop the flush that wormed its way up her neck.

Spot walked back down to the boys dorm and stuck his head in.

"It’s yer hour." He smirked.

~*~

Silently, though pulsing with a secret, writhing energy, the Brooklyn newsies streamed out into the night. Slick ran alone, her blonde hair flying back from her face, her blue eyes scared, and determined. Even though the half hour had flown by so fast, it had been enough time for her to think. She thought back to that one day, when she had tried to push the blame of the stolen pocket watch to Killer. Then to Harlem. What was it that she had in abundance? Concentration. And it’s all she needed. She couldn’t think of the dead beggars, the shot newsies, or Skitch. She couldn’t think of the image of Swifty, dying, her fault, her fault…She could afford to only think of the gun. A strange, sick energy filled her, and she jumped over a post, landing with an almost silent thump.

Spot glanced over at her in appraisal. Her face seemed wilder, more audacious, and though he hardly dared to believe she was back to her old self…well…he smirked over at her, and she grinned back.

Swifty was letting out pent up energy by twisting. He turned one way, then another, until he leapt into some sort of dance step, whirling down the streets, his black hair flopping out around his face.

Spot jumped from post to post with nimble agility, and at one point, leapt up onto the drivers seat of a carriage, where the chauffeur was still sleeping lightly. Then, hardly making a sound, he jumped off again, down onto the cobblestone, swift and silent, like a cat of prey. Slick joined him, and together they ran after Swifty, Slick’s hollers ringing out in the night.

Spot smacked her over the head and pressed a finger to his lips. She nodded, suddenly serious again. He wished, in a way, he hadn’t told her to be quiet. Now she was looking as pale and as strained as ever, her face like the sheets of newspaper they carried every day, that suddenly didn’t seem so important anymore. How was it important to sell as many as you bought when your best friend died? How was it important to get a good selling spot when you didn’t know who was waiting for you there? How was it important to get the right amount of papers when a killer is out on the bloodshot streets of Brooklyn?

None of them noticed the green eyed, cat like girl, tearing silently along, behind them.

~*~

Spades was furious with herself. Absolutely furious. It had been weeks and she never had the courage or the confidence to tell Racetrack about what happened between her and Bruiser. She wasn’t afraid he wouldn’t take her back…she was afraid that he wouldn’t believe her, that he’d think she was trying desperately to cover up the fact that she was unfaithful to him.

Well she was, wasn’t she?

Sometimes, she could read the look on Bruiser’s face. ‘You wanted it as much as I did.’ It seemed to accuse her, wherever she went, the wet dark eyes…She tried to shake the image out of her head, but a fact still persisted. What if she had wanted it as much as he did? What if what they whispered about her was true, that she was crazy about it, and with Racetrack in the hospital…

Spades didn’t have a clean past. She grew up in the orphanage, and was constantly disobeying the nuns, wearing boys clothes, never combing her hair, never washing her face, never arriving for meal times. She was never in bed, always sneaking out to the boys orphanage. She was never the good girl. What if that trait stuck? What if she really wasn’t good at all?

Steeling herself, she saw him sitting on the bed, reading the cheap "Three Musketeers" novel he had stolen when he was wearied of the daily routine. His brows furrowed as he struggled along with it. She took a deep breath, sat down across from him, and placed her hand firmly over the book. He glanced up at her, sighed, and tucked it behind him.

"Lemme guess. We need ta talk?"

"Bang on." She said grimly. He gave her a slow, calculating look.

"Der ain’t nuttin’ ta talk ‘bout." He said finally, glowering. She sighed.

"How long is dis gonna take?" She said. "Look. I know you’se mad about what you saw dat day, but you neva took da time to actually heah da whole story." She said, trying to keep her temper under control. For a moment, she saw a flicker of reflection in his eyes, possibly even regret, if she dared hope, but a second later they were back to their original, bruised distress.

"I saw da whole story." He replied, the ache showing through his otherwise coldly casual words. "Do I really gotta heah moah?"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath and tried to let the words spill out. But she couldn’t. It was as though her lips were sewn shut again. What was the matter with her? She expelled the air and tried again, but it wasn’t working! She tried to wrench her lips open, but they were frozen.

"What?" Concern trickled into his glacial voice. "Spades, you’se lookin’ real pale."

"I’m fine." She replied, almost scathingly. "Racetrack, Bruisa came up ta da dorm dat night, an’ he…" She paused. "I was der…an’ he jus’ appeared an’…"

"Hey! All a’ you’se!" A new, familiar voice blared. Spades whipped around to face the door, and turned even paler when she saw Bruiser. She had been hoping he had been involved in Spot’s plan, and wouldn’t be staying at the dorm that night. But she was unlucky. His eyes caught on her, and he smiled. ‘You wanted it as much as I did.’ She felt like crying. How long would this torture hold out?

"Whaddaya want, Bruisa?" Asked Lashes.

"Spot an’ his gang ah out puttin’ da plan inta action." He said, sounding as though he was reading lines from a play . "None a’ you’se is ta leave da dorm room. Not even to go up on da roof. We got guard everywheah."

"What?" Blink protested. "Dat’s unfair!"

"What’s so bad about gettin’ some fresh air once in a while?" Mush grumbled. Bruiser ignored the protests, and with a spark of life in his eyes that none of them had ever seen before, shuffled across the room to where Spades and Racetrack were sitting.

Spades, with a terror Racetrack had only seen in her eyes once before, jumped off the bed and ran towards the bathroom, as though the devil was on her heels. Racetrack watched her go, then saw Bruiser coming. He stood, menace lined on his face. The entire room went silent, as each newsie turned to see the ordeal. Everyone knew about the whole Racetrack-Spades-Bruiser triangle, and those that didn’t, could see it immediately, the way Racetrack looked ready to tear the minions head off.

"Ah, jeez Racetrack." Snoddy whispered. "Don’t do it. Bruisa’s twice yer size." Pie eater nodded in agreement. Racetrack stepped towards the minion, but Bruiser held up his hands.

"I jus’ wanna talk." He said, a sentence that surprised everyone, including Racetrack. He scowled, then glanced around at every newsie staring. They quickly averted their eyes back to their poker games or bedspreads.

"Den make it quick. I’m really gonna enjoy beatin’ you to a bloody pulp, an’ I don’t wan’ nuttin’ delayin’ dat." Bruiser laughed roughly, then the both of them walked out of the boys dorm, business on their minds, though each a different sort.

As they stepped into the hallway, Racetrack had to ball his fists to keep from lashing out at the unsuspecting boy. Bruiser pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Racetrack, but even though his nerves were jangling faster than the strings on a piano, he declined. He didn’t want to take anything from the boy he had seen his girlfriend with. Bruiser shrugged and lit one himself, the flame lighting his face for a moment, putting a gleam in his eye for him. But as he flicked off the lighter, the gleam stayed.

"Yer goilfriend’s real good." He said. Racetrack jumped at him, but he could easily hold the boy off. "Real fiery."

"Don’t talk ‘bout her like dat." Racetrack growled. The anger that gnawed inside him as soon as he had seen the minion slowly started spreading, like a cancer, like a bruise, consuming his insides as though a hungry animal was eating away at his brain. He swung his fist, but Bruiser caught it and held it there effortlessly. The red glow of the cigarette was near Racetrack’s face, and he could feel the sickening heat, reminding him of how badly he wanted a cigarette at the moment. He tried to calm himself. Another trip to the hospital would not be good. He yanked his fist away and suppressed the desire to spit in Bruisers face. The minion, however, wasn’t fazed.

"She liked it." He smiled.

"I said don’t talk ‘bout her like dat, ya heah me?" Racetrack yelled. Bruiser rolled his eyes.

"I can always tell." He continued, despite the short, Italian, gamblers flaming protests. "When dey like it."

"Dey?" Racetrack asked. For all the people Spades had to choose…it had to be a minion. Why? So she could just have on throw away night?

"Yeah. All of ‘em." He smirked. "Dey’re all da same."

"I sweah, if you keep goin’ on like dis, Bruise…" He said, curling his fingers into fists and out into flat palms again, growling. ‘Spades wasn’t just another girl’, he thought viciously. Bruiser laughed, and carried on like he didn’t hear. Angering this Italian was amusing. And it gave him something to do, what with the fact that Spades disappeared every time he showed his face. He was angry at Racetrack for having her. Angry with him that he had the beautiful creature all to himself. He decided to thrust the knife a little deeper.

"A’ coise, she screamed a li’l at foist." He said evenly. "But in da end, she started enjoyin’ it. Dey all do."

"What?" Asked the boy, who suddenly went pale. "She…what?"

"You hoid me." Bruiser lowered his face so it was level with Racetracks. "Or do I need ta repeat it to ya?"

"You don’t need ta repeat anythin’." Racetrack replied. His insides were slowly freezing. Screamed a little at first…screamed…he looked at Bruiser again, and suddenly he was frozen no more. He was an angry boy, filled with fire. "She didn’t want it."

"Yeah she…"
"She didn’t." He cut him off. "You…" He tried to gain control of his actions, and remembered, with a sudden flash of pain, Spades leaning over him in the alley, trailing her finger up and down the scars on his face. The Delancy brothers. And some of Spot’s minions have been known to leave those tougher than the Delancy brothers begging for mercy. It wouldn’t be smart.

Instead, he turned and stalked back to the boys dorm.

"Wheah do ya think yer goin’?" Bruiser asked harshly.

"Back ta Spades." He shot over his shoulder. "Back where I’m wanted."

~*~

Clover had been sitting across the room from Jack this entire time. She studied, carefully, the outline of his face, his sloping cheekbone, against the whiteness of the wall by which he sat. He was concentrating on a game of black jack, a few strands of hair falling adorably before his face. Everything about him was so worn, so stereotypical, and she loved it. She loved the hair, the face, the cowboy hat, and the bandanna. She wanted to possess him, but she wanted him to be free at the same time. She wanted herself and him to be like…like Skittery and Harlem. Already her best friend was in the Manhattaners arms, looking a bit quieter and subdued, since the last warning not to leave. She was whispering something to him, and he smirked, leant over, and kissed her forehead.

Clover looked back to Jack. As though he could sense her stare, he jerked his head up and saw her. She gave a quick smile and looked away, her grass green eyes flicking back to…what? Skittery and Harlem? What did she think she was doing, spending this time staring at those she wanted to have, wanted to be like?

She then felt a hand of iron clench at her stomach. She knew what she wanted to do, but didn’t sustain the though that she could. How could she talk to him like that? This perfect, golden boy who had led everything with achievement and flawlessness. She picked at the threads that poked out of the sheets with her long, pointed nails, and thought things over. She really had nothing to lose. His respect? She never had it in the first place. Other’s respect? She wasn’t going to blare it out to the whole world.

Her brain was racing along, picturing her and Jack together, cuddling at poker nights, walking around, selling papers together. Even though something told her not to do it, that she would be stupid to even think…

She did.

She stood up and walked towards him, feeling silly. ‘So many people have died.’ She thought bitterly. ‘And I thought that was the hardest thing in the world. But the hardest thing in the world is telling someone that you feel something for them.’

"Jack." She said softly. Jack knew of the familiar Irish accent. He looked up to see Clover standing there, her face flushed, and her eyes shining.

"Heya Clova. S’matta?" He asked. She shook. The three words seem to undo her, or maybe it was hearing his voice. She was such a wreck.

"I have to talk to you." She said lightly. He gave her a stare, then shrugged, put down his cards, and stood.

"I’ll pass on dis one, fellas." He said. Blink, Mush, and Jake nodded. Then he took her arm and led her out into the hallway. A little ways down, Bruiser was walking away.

"S’matta?" He asked again. She took a deep breath, trying not to let her chest move, letting him know how nervous she was. The grey look in his eyes was so appealing, she wanted to throw herself into his arms. But chances were he’d probably drop her.

"Well…" She began. "I really, really like you." She said, wishing suddenly that her accent would disappear. She felt suddenly alien, foreign. Something someone could never like. "And…sure there are probably lots of girls that feel the same but…well…" The look in his eyes never flickered. "I was wondering if maybe…I could be your girl or something." She dropped her gaze to the floor, unable to watch the shifting of emotions in his face.

A long, silence passed. Jack gave half a smirk, half a grimace, and kept his gaze fastened on the floor as well. Specks of dust and grime were flecked across the tile, not a sufficient excuse to not look at her, the stains not being exciting in the least. But he could feel her eyes hesitantly flick up to him, ready to dart away the moment he returned her stare. She was awaiting a response, and he knew he had to give it to her, but it was actually getting the words out of his mouth was the problem.

"I…" He stared at a point past her shoulder, trying to think of what to say. Seriously, what did you say to someone who had liked you ever since she had set foot in the lodging house? And you weren’t ready? "I can’t do it."

"What?" She narrowed her eyes, but kept the uncertain smile on her lips, as though she was hoping she was mistaken. Wrong.

"I can’t do it. I’m still kinda…" he looked down again. He didn’t feel tough saying it, but he still missed Sarah a lot, and the sudden move to Jersey had left him without his friend, who had stuck by him through thick and thin during the strike, and his girlfriend. He could hardly remember the way Sarah’s voice sounded any more, but he could remember the fall of her hair, the set of her eyes, the smile that often trickled onto her lips. He still wasn’t over her, and couldn’t pretend anymore, like he did around the rest of the boys. "I’m still kinda missin’ Sarah."

"Oh. Right." She let the smile drop, and for a moment, her face filled with such despair and utter hopelessness, Jack wanted to take back what he said, but he couldn’t keep changing his mind. He’d only confuse more people, only mess more things up. So he said nothing. "Sarah Jacobs."

"Yeah." He replied, the only word he was able to say. What was he supposed to say, to comfort her? To console her? Maybe to go talk to Lashes. She had lost someone too. Jack wiped it from his mind. No one could really love him, Jack, that much. She’d get over it. She’d live. He thought of the dead beggars, the living, pale shells of newsies. You live. You always live. It took a lot of doing to die. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Sorry ‘bout it. I guess."

"Sure, I really have no reason to be mad." She lied bravely. "I didn’t mean nothing from it really. I’ll…" She glanced furtively up and down the hall. "I’ll go back inside. We’re not supposed to even leave the dorm." Before he could reply, she walked past him, her sleeve brushing his, and disappeared inside.

She went back to her bed, and sat next to Harlem. Her shoulders were slumped and she was viciously fighting the lump that scaled up her throat. She didn’t know if she was going to cry or throw up, though either seemed extremely possible.

‘I should have left well enough alone.’ She realised, only making herself feel worse. ‘If I had just left it, I could still dream that he secretly liked me. Now there’s nothing.’

~*~

The eight of them arrived in front of the rickety house and glanced at each other in anticipation. The windows were dark, except for the top one, which glowed steadily. A shadow danced across the light for a moment, before disappearing. Slick gulped. Behind the walls, if Spot’s information was flawless, which no doubt it was, coming from The Bronx, rested Robert Hatching. She curled her fingers into fists and shook.

"Well, gentlemen." He said, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Slick didn’t bother to correct him. She didn’t want to be a lady tonight. "Heah we ah."

"So now what?" Wolf asked. Always the negative input. "We knock on da moidahers door?"

"A’ coise not." Spot said. With a grim tone, he added. "He should probably be startin’ his rounds soon." As though rehearsed, the light flicked off, and footsteps sounded within the house, towards the door. Spot pushed Swifty.

"Go. Now. Wait der. You’ll see ‘im." He hissed. Swifty nodded, his face pale as the full moon, which was thankfully blotted by the dark clouds, and took off, almost a blur in the dark night. The minions and Wolf hastily followed. Slick and Spot turned to face each other.

"Dis is it." She said. He nodded, then placed both hands on her shoulders.

"If it don’t woik, delay him." He said softly. "Push him. Ah somin. Jus’ make shooah he ain’t carryin’ dat thing when he goes afta Swifty." She nodded, and bit her lip. Then she wrapped her arms around him in a swift hug. He was surprised, for a moment, then hugged her back. She felt the wiry muscles in his arms against her skin, and grinned mischievously. He pulled away, suddenly aware that he, the great leader of Brooklyn, was hugging a girl, smirked, and turned to take off. She felt the warm wooden weight in her hands, and felt satisfied.

"Spot." She called softly. He turned, confused. She smiled broadly and lifted his sling shot. "You might be needin’ dis."

Relief, pure relief, exasperation, and gratitude flashed across his face as he jogged back and snatched it out of her hand.

"Doity thief." He smirked. She grinned back. The small moment of satisfaction was broken as the door to Hatching’s house smashed open.

Spot's eyes flashed angrily, then he turned and ran off into the night, his cane bouncing beside him. Slick abruptly dove to the ground and hid herself behind a bush, her heart pounding against the inside of her rib cage. She wasn't apathetic enough to not hide herself the moment she heard so much as a creak coming from that house. And now, the man who had killed her best friend's boyfriend was stalking down the walkway from his door to the street. A slow carriage clopped past, the lantern glowing against the night sky.

She hid herself deeper into the bushes as the huge figure appeared. The glow of a cigarette lit up the face, including the dark eyes that she feared so much, but the wide brim of the hat and the upturned collar kept the rest hidden. Like some kind of wolf, some kind of huge beast, he turned and started walking in the direction that Spot had run off to.

Slick waited a few seconds before slowly crawling out onto the street and nimbly darting after him. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she was panicked that her heartbeat would give her away. She could see the gun idly at his side, and knew how much was at stake. It was so close, with a bit of desire in her blood she moved closer, so close…but she couldn't. Her fingers were shaking, and she didn't know how far ahead the others were. Timing mattered. It was so crucial she could feel the pressure down on her shoulders.

'One minute.' She told herself. 'Give yourself one minute, and it will all be over. You'll have it, and the rest is up to Spot and his gang. Come on.' She fell backwards into the shadows, and followed at a bit of a distance. She wanted to run, her legs were aching to move, to move faster than they ever had, but she had to make sure he didn't have the gun when he rounded the corner, and Swifty started running…

Finally, gathering her courage in both her hands, she flew forwards, like some missile bent on putting things right, and fell into step behind him. Luckily, he hadn't heard her shoes against the cobblestone. She slowly, with her heart drumming louder than she felt comfortable with, she extended two fingers, trying desperately to avoid his arm, which was swinging back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. Even though the street was empty, she could feel the entire weight of the newsies eyes on her back, their breath bated, just like hers.

She hooked them around the gun and bit her lip when she found it was warm. Like the heat of a rabid dog in a muzzle and chain. Begging to be used, to be set free. She couldn't gasp, couldn't cry out, she constantly reminded herself. She withdrew slightly, and felt something sky rocket inside her when it pulled free. Easy does it…she slowly eased the gun out of its holder, sweat running down her neck and her sides, soaking her clothing. Get the gun…

She fumbled with it, and it was in her hands, heated, but out of his. Until he swung around and rammed his fist into her gut, adequately knocking her backwards.

Slick had no time to think, no time to form a good plan, as Hatching's muscular form swept over her, and his grimy, outstretched fingers reached for the gun. She rolled over, and fumbled with it, realising she had absolutely no idea how to use a gun. How could she threaten it with him? She could be pointing it at herself and have no idea whatsoever. Her stomach was aching, and she felt like throwing up, and would have, except for the fact that it would slow her down. And basically, of all times, now was NOT the time to get sick.

So she stumbled to her feet, turned and threw the gun, as far as she could, watching the thin black form spin through the muggy night, little shoots of light glinting on the warm metal. It hit the ground with a clank, and skittered forwards a few times, before finally resting.

She whirled around in time to see him smash a fist into her temple, sufficiently knocking her out.

~*~

Spades jumped as she heard the cry echo through the night. The first thing that came to her mind was; Bruiser. But whenever she thought of cries, screams, or even pain, she automatically thought of Bruiser anyways. But she was alone, in the washroom, weakened by Racetrack's disinterest and the whole sombre mood the night seemed to possess, she was incredibly jumpy.

The door suddenly slammed open, and she yelped a little as she spun around. Racetrack stood there, his hat tilted slightly on his head, a small red spot on his face, that looked like a cigarette burn.

"What did you an' Bruisa talk about?" She asked. He crossed the room and enveloped her in his arms, much to her surprise. She froze for a moment, then slowly placed hers on his shoulder. His face was buried in her neck. Faintly, she could hear him whisper; "I won't eva let it happen again."

~*~

Chaos ran to Slick and saw the thin line of blood that leaked sickly from her forehead and trailed teasingly along her cheekbone. She allowed no thought, no horror, but simply hoisted her up onto her shoulder and dragged her to the nearest alley. She tried to get the girl to stand upright, but a girl of fourteen trying to support an unconscious girl of seventeen was a ridiculous act. She ended up dropping her beside a garbage can and building up a sort of wall around her with boxes and bits of broken trash.

"Sorry 'bout dis, Slick." She whispered, glancing behind her hurriedly. "But I gotta do what I'se gotta do. An' I gotta go help Spot now." She finished putting the last box up and admired her handiwork briskly. It wasn't four foot thick brick walls, but it would do for now. She then crept to the side of the alley and peered out to see Hatching turn the corner.

She turned and sprinted to the other end of the alley, to the place where they'd be running past, and was surprised to find Spot and his gang positioned at the end of it. Spot was waiting with tense apprehension, his slingshot hanging out of his pocket at the ready. Wolf was curling his fingers into and out of fists, his teeth clenched. Chaos paused, realising that she was the last person he wanted to see, and vice versa for a matter of fact, but this was no time for old grudges. She heard the patter of feet, and knew that Swifty had begun running, and that Hatching was, no doubt, following him. She saw the importance of Slick and the gun.

"Spot." She hissed. He jumped, much to her amusement, and caught sight of her. His face didn't even register anger or shock, just a grim satisfaction in knowing that his suspicions were correct.

"Couldn't stay away, couldja?" He asked harshly. She shrugged, a slight smirk in her eyes. Wolf, however, was beside himself with anger, as soon as he caught sight of the wiry, fourteen year old.

"What's she doin' heah?" He spat. Spot put a hand on his shoulder.

"S'okay Wolf. I didn't think she'd stay at da lodgin' house anyways."

"Well I shoulda figad. You'se always makin' exceptions fa her. S'like livin' wid da queen a' England."

"Jus' concentrate, aight?" Spot said, a little louder than was wise. "Dey should be heah any moment. If Swifty's able ta get heah fast enough." A flash of worry gleamed in his eyes, before it disappeared, and he was back to being cool and calm again. Chaos admired his front, but knew that inside, he was a bundle of nerves. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he was gracious enough not to shake it off. Then they both turned towards the mouth of the alley, and waited.

Even though the familiar fall of the shoes was repetitive, it seemed they didn't get farther or closer. Just the same sound. Chaos was almost combusting with nerves. It seemed they were frozen, like Hatching was chasing the speedy, Asian newsie on a sidewalk that never ended. Finally, they were able to hear the desperate breath of the boy. Spot wiped the sweat off his brow, and Wolf moved to the side of the alley, the minions silently following his example. Chaos waited. What stretched on forever only minutes before took a few seconds to blow up in their faces.

Swifty whipped around the corner, his hair flying back from his face, his cap half on half off, and his face paler than the whitest linen. He practically dove towards a garbage can and collapsed, his chest rising and falling with the utter weariness of being chased by a wild murderer. That's when time stopped officially for Chaos, as Robert Hatching burst into the alleyway.

Although she would have suspected that she'd remember the eyes most of all, that wasn't it. She remembered the cruel, thin lips, surrounded by the month old stubble. She had never seen his eyes, except for the blurry, newspaper photograph, which Spot had been studying most of the time. The lips split into an O shape of terror as Wolf, and the minions leapt at him.

At first, Chaos thought it was all over as he swung his arm and sent Clubs and Skull rolling over down the alley, and turned around and smashed Wolf in the jaw. Spot growled and leapt at him, angry over the injury to his best friend. Wolf rubbed his chin, then attacked with a renewed vengeance.

Chaos stood in the center of the alley, watching the seven boys go up against one man. Even though they were strong and irate, it seemed as though Hatching knew their every move, and was able to block it, or repay it doubled. She watched as Rafter got a kick to the stomach and fell backward, almost unconscious, clutching his stomach and moaning. Spot was trying to block Hatching's punches, unsuccessfully. Chaos wanted to run in and tackle Hatching, but she knew it would injure herself and her friends more than it would injure him. She would get trampled. So she could only watch in helpless suspense as the fight wore on.

Wolfs face appeared on Hatching's shoulder, and she watched the boy grab a fistful of the mans hair (the cap had been lost long ago) and yank it to the side. She heard the brutal rip as most of it came free, and the cry of pain that came from the man. She couldn't miss Spot's brilliant smirk, that disappeared instantly as Hatching threw Wolf backwards. Wolf's eyes widened as he shot threw the air, then dulled as his head cracked against a brick wall, with a sickening splintering noise that echoed throughout the alley. His eyes fluttered weakly as he slumped down next to Skull.

Despite her hatred for him, she flew towards him, hair streaming out behind her, and knelt at his side. She pulled his head away from the wall, almost frightened, and saw the mass of blood that was caked around his hair. Her stomach flipped over, and she gently lay him down again. Killer had been talking about this…what did she say…

"Wolf." Chaos hissed, as a particularly nasty cry from one of the minions reverberated through her head. "Don’t go ta sleep." But the boys eyes were already closing. "Wolf!" She slapped him, but his eyes only shuddered slightly, before closing. She moaned and laid him back, then looked up.

Her heart skipped a beat as Hatching flipped out a blade. The blade. The one he had used to slash Shingles stomach. Two of the minions fell back, leaving Spot and Scar against Hatching. With the knife.

Spot fell backwards as Hatching lunged towards him, and stumbled right into Chaos, who had run forwards to help. Scar jumped in and tried, unsuccessfully, to disarm the man.

"Chaos! Stay outta dis!" He spluttered furiously.

"It's two a' you'se against him! Whaddaya, crazy?" She yelled. "Der ain't no way!" To her surprise, Spot punched her, his raw knuckles crushing against her cheekbone. She spun around and fell, her face smashing against the hard cobblestone. Maybe it was the overload of violence. Maybe he had finally had enough. Maybe his concern for her ran so deep that he had to hurt her to get her to stay away.

"I ain't crazy. Go!" He yelled it so loud, and she felt the words at to the hurt just below her eye, that throbbed and pulsed like crazy. She cupped a hand over it, trying not to let it bother her, but almost giving into the rage that was building up in her stomach.

Spot and Scar were dancing around the murderer, while the other boys lay injured on the sidelines. Scar ducked as Hatching jabbed the knife at him, but didn't see the mans fist come from his side and smash into the boys throat. He clutched his neck and stumbled back, feeling the air leave him, and his blood run cold.

Hatching turned to Spot, who had his thumbs hooked in his pockets, in a huge effort to be casual. His slingshot was in his back pocket, and in incredibly easy reach. Hatching stopped, the blade glittering coldly in his hand, and let his eyes run over Spot's calm face for a moment. Then he smiled.

"It's you." He said softly. Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, what did ya expect?" He challenged.

"I've seen you skulking around." Hatching said, moving closer. Spot's hand strayed to his back pocket. "Alleyways…garbage bins…dumps…looking for something."

"Found somin too." Spot said, the smirk deepening. "You don't do too good a job a' hidin' yer victims, Hatching."

"You really did your research." He said, almost proud, in a sickening way. "And the awful thing is…" he smiled. "I'm going to kill you anyways." Without replying, Spot swooped down and grabbed a razor sharp piece of aluminium and loaded his slingshot with it. Realisation swept across Hatching's face, and he backed up, but Spot, with his fluid aim, had already let it fly.

Chaos watched as the glint of metal shot through the air and landed solidly in the mans eye. He opened his mouth and let out a cry to horrible to forget, as blood started dripping from his face. He bent over and clutched at the side of it, moaning in pain. Chaos covered her own eye. It felt horrible, and it didn't even happen to her. Part of her was disgusted with the way Spot was acting, part of her elated that Hatching was getting exactly what he deserved.

Spot reached into his pockets and pulled out a little metal shooter. Chaos had seen them in the windows of toy stores. Like marbles, but made of cruel steel. They could shoot through thick boards, the density of her own hand. He aimed one and sent it flying towards Hatching's head.

She could understand why Hatching was practically screaming in pain. Blood splattered the ground, and he was simultaneously clutching his head and his eye at the same time. Spot, relentless and uncompromising, fired metal shooter after metal shooter at that one point on his head. His eyes were dark with wild fury, and his face drawn into a tight mask of fire.

Spot was only feeling the fire consume him. Every beggar he had seen, every newsie he had heard reports from, they were all in his fingers, in the sling shot, in the shooter, as he relentlessly fired over and over again. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to murder the man that had murdered so many of them. But he wouldn't stoop that low. He couldn't kill him.

"Neva." He hissed as he let a shooter fly. And another. And another. And another. A small trickle of blood appeared from the bruise under Hatching's hair. He gripped the top of his head and fell to his knees. Chaos felt like grinning so wide her face would split in half, or laughing. Jumping for joy. But Chaos didn't smile. And now, with the grown man in front of her, almost sobbing in agony, she felt almost remorseful. But the reminder of Skitch and Rosie dead and buried brought her back to reality with a jarring thump.

Spot lowered the slingshot. His eyes still burned with the icy blue fire of a savage passion, and he breathed out slowly.

"Got dat Hatching?" He asked softly. "Don't eva touch us again. Eva." He stepped closer to the man, curled over, his hands over his face and head. "If I eva heah dat you'se hoitin' any of us…if I eva heah dat you is hoitin' anyone in Brooklyn, I ain't gonna stop firin' dese at yer head. I ain't gonna stop, ya heah?" He halted in front of the weakened man and stared down at him, the utter hate on his face and in his tone making Chaos want to fall backwards.

"I hear." The man growled. Chaos heard the menace in the tone. Her lips were frozen, she couldn't speak. Spot, move back. Get away from there, Spot. Spot, run! Run! She tried to call out, but her voice was cracked and parched, and she could only make a hoarse gasping sound.

Spot backed away slowly, showing he wasn't afraid. Spot. Run. She prayed silently, and watched in slow motion as Hatching lifted his head. His eye was filled with dark red-brown, and still pouring down his face. His other eye swivelled up to see Spot standing there, his hair hanging down from his cap, his eyes still glinting with merciless anger. His face was covered in sweat, and filled with pain and a fire that rivalled Spot's own.

A slight grin cracked his features, in spite of his obvious pain. His temples were throbbing, and fresh blood gushed from the wound. Abruptly, he pulled something from his jacked and lunged forward to Spot.

The leader of Brooklyn was not expecting this. His features widened in horror, and he stumbled backwards slightly, but not before Hatching was able to plunge the blade that had injured so many of them, right into Spot's side.

"NO!" Chaos screamed. Her cry echoed up and down the alley. Spot's eyes remained the same, wide and icy blue, as he clutched the knife in his stomach and slumped to the ground. Then his mask crumpled in a horrible contraction of agony, as blood drenched his shirt. She stood there, dumbfounded, rooted to the ground. Something inside of her buzzed. She had done nothing. She had done nothing. She had done nothing…

Spot wrenched his eyes open in time to see Hatching straighten.

"Maybe I should make myself clear." He said, grinning horribly, despite the ghastly wound in his eye. "Don't mess around with things that you can't control. What I'm doing is for the city's own good." He motioned to all of the newsies scattered around the alley. "These orphans are a waste of food. A waste of life." He sneered down at Spot, who was moaning with pain. "Everyone thinks I'm fighting because I'm sick. Because I'm insane. But I'm fighting for the good of the public." Then he turned and stalked away, aiming for the other side of the alley.

He didn’t suspect he'd have any trouble getting past the wiry, fourteen year old girl standing stock still in the middle of the alley.

"Chaos." Spot whispered. She glanced over at him. His hands were wrapped around the blade, even though the blood was spilling out onto the pavement. His eyes, though dulled, were still alive. "Just get outta heah. Don't let 'im hoit ya." Chaos looked at the knife in his stomach, and back to Hatching. He stood in front of her.

Without a moments hesitation, she ran forwards, and jammed her foot between his legs.

Spot blinked in surprise, and watched as Chaos crawled on top of the man and turned his face over.

"You may be fighting." She hissed, as she punched him. "But did anyone eva tell ya dat der are some of us dat fight doity?"

"Get off." He growled. She only punched him again. She was possessed by something that took Spot as he was firing the marbles at the mans head. She could see only red, but knew that her fist was connecting with human flesh, no matter how sticky with blood, and not cobblestone.

The red in her vision broke as he threw her off and she hit the wall. He rose to his knees and reminded her suddenly of a vicious wolverine.

"I've had enough of this." He growled. He lunged towards her, hands outstretched, ready to snap her neck.

"Spot!" She yelled. "Cane!" Spot glanced at her blearily, before painfully yanking the cane from his belt loop and throwing it blindly towards her. She caught it, swung it over her shoulder, and smashed it into Hatching's head, watching with satisfaction as he crumpled, his forehead hitting the cobblestone with a sickening crack, that told all of them, sitting injured, morosely in the alley, that they could let their guard down.

For a little while.

Finish