Hello, whoever you are who happens to be reading this, and welcome! This is my first multi-chapter Newsies fic. This first chapter is on the shorter side, but I hope you enjoy it just the same. Things start to get really interesting in the next chapter, which I hope to have posted by next Friday, which is December 8th.

I am a fourteen-year-old aspiring author, and I've always been extremely timid of sharing my work. If you read this chapter, please, please leave a review, whether you loved it, despised it, or had mixed emotions. I'm always looking to grow as a writer. If I can get three reviews before I post the next chapter, I'll be delighted.

So now, before I bore you to death, I'll finish this by just saying thank you for reading, and welcome to "Night is When the Stars Shine Brightest"!

William Snyder had no idea how, or why, or even really when, the youngest generation had gotten soft and cocky and pretentious. All he knew was that sometime, between when he was a child in the 1850s and now, any sort of self-discipline and respect had been completely lost. When he was a child, their attitude, so full of themselves and bursting with conceit, would never, ever have been acceptable. None of these children of the 1890s had any respect for any figure of authority, be it a streetsweeper or the owner of the greatest newspaper in the country. And to rub it in further, they went around stealing food to stuff their faces with. Never mind that most of them made decent wages doing one of the many jobs that was available for children in nineteenth century New York City. They took apples off carts and bread out of bakeries and didn't look the slightest bit sorry for it. Not even when they were caught outright.

Snyder had stolen exactly once, when he had been seven years old. The welts from his father's belt, which had lingered on his back and legs for weeks, had made it completely clear to him that such behavior was totally intolerable. And he had not once shoplifted ever again. The same went for respect for authority. As a boy, he'd learned early and well that elders, whether they were five or fifty years older than you, were expected to receive absolute obedience, submission, and trust. They had lived more years, they had more experience, and they just knew better. You would respect them or you would feel sorry.

Somehow, though, those lessons - which had seemed to clear and obvious just forty years earlier - had been lost on the children born in the 1880s. They were disrespectful and cocky, sauntering around the streets like they were the kings of New York. As if they'd done anything - anything - to earn those titles.

Snyder tried to help them. He really, truly did. At first he'd spoken to them gently, told them why they were wrong, quietly insisted that they apologize to those they'd hurt. But the kids just laughed and tore themselves from his grip, darting down side alleys before he could turn and chase after them. Snyder quickly became a laughingstock of the street, just as much as the street cleaners they shoved to the side as they sprinted down the alleys that had been cleaned by those same men not an hour before.

Spare the rod and spoil the child. The words whispered in Snyder's ear every time he calmly tried to make the kids understand where they went wrong, every time they laughed at him for it. Clearly, none of them would listen to his words. Some of them, at least, would surely listen to his belt.

And so, it was with the governor's approval that, in, 1891, the Refuge was opened in Manhattan. It was originally intended to be a place of rehabilitation. The governor at that time, David Hill, fully agreed that sometimes corporal punishment was needed to get through to the youngest generation. And so he gave Snyder the permit, advised him not to mortally injure any of the children or leave them crippled for life, and left him alone.

And still, Snyder tried to help them. He did. He wanted them out of his hair, back on the streets as mature, respectful citizens of New York. And yet none of them ever seemed to want to comply. When the Refuge opened, they all blamed him. They called him the antagonist, the enemy. The bad guy. Never mind that he'd asked them politely to respect their elders for years and was now simply trying to get them to obey in a more drastic manner. No, it was his fault. It was always his fault.

Over the years, nothing changed. By 1895, everything was exactly the same as it was four years prior. No, to be fair, not the same, Snyder admitted. Worse. Far, far worse.

Because now the Refuge was billed as a jail - a juvenile jail - and the kids outright called Snyder the warden. Their behavior was worse than ever. Levi Morten, the current governor, still left Snyder alone, and that's when the Refuge got out of hand. Because suddenly, it became less about rehabilitation, and far more about punishment.

The kids already hated him, and it was beginning to get to Snyder. Now it was time to make them fear him as well.

Snyder became crueler. And every time he released a kid to go scampering back to their titchy friends with horror stories and warnings to not cross the law, he saw terror crop up in more young eyes when they looked at him. And it pleased him. It pleased him immensely.

Because when they were afraid of something, it made them less likely to break the law. And that, for whatever reason, was a step in the right direction.

Snyder didn't take kids in for first-time offenses. Despite everything, he knew the Refuge was a rough place. Keeping dozens, even hundreds, of rowdy teenage boys locked up behind bars for months didn't exactly create a pleasant environment, and Snyder was, albeit reluctantly, willing to give first-time thieves the benefit of the doubt. He'd try to talk to them, tell them he didn't mean to lock them up yet. He'd even put in effort to try to reach out to them through some of their friends. If he saw them selling papers for the Journal, well, then, he'd tell some of their staff members to remind the kids that stealing was wrong and reiterate the several local soup kitchens where they could get food if they needed it. It was only the third or fourth time he saw a specific kid rob that he would move to arrest them.

First-time offenses were fine, but repeat thieves just infuriated Snyder. They knew stealing was wrong - they knew it, damn them - and it wasn't as if they were broke or had no other places to get food. He'd told them they were in the wrong and he'd warned them. Now, if he didn't follow through on his threats, they'd never respect him or any other adults ever again.

It was the blond boy - the newsie from the World - who really pushed Snyder's buttons. Strutting around the street like a peacock, like he owned the entire city, that expensive - and obviously stolen - cigar wedged, eternally unlit, between his clenched teeth. Snyder had seen the boy since he was so young he could hardly walk or talk, always hanging around on the streets, playing marbles with the rest of the youngest kids. Marbles that Snyder knew very well had been stolen weeks ago from an expensive children's toy shop around the corner, frequented only by the richest parents of the city.

Snyder had watched the boy, observed how, as he grew, he only became cockier. By the time he was nine, he clearly considered himself one of the best newsboys on the street, despite the fact that Snyder watched him clam up and stare reverently up at that other boy - Jack - who was just a few years older than him. Two years, in fact; just that. Snyder saw him as he grew, saw as he celebrated his eleventh birthday by stealing a brownie from a bakery window, despite the fact that the treat cost just two cents and he easily could have afforded it. Snyder watched him as he grew and changed and became so much more obstinate than the man could have thought possible.

Snyder kept trying to arrest him, but the boy was slippery. He was cocky and pretentious and he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't hold still. So many times Snyder had promised to let him go if he just stopped struggling, but the boy never heeded.

By the time that boy was fifteen, Snyder hated all of the newsboys with a burning passion. They'd all stolen so much, and rubbed it in people's faces so consistently, that if Snyder could manage to get even one of them in his grip he'd keep them locked up for a year. And yet all of them were so cunning, and got away from him so easily. Sure, he'd managed to take that little boy, the eleven-year-old, to the Refuge for a few weeks a year or so ago, but since then his trail had mostly been dry. And Snyder wanted to hear their screams again. Sure, he had other inmates to deal with, but none so satisfying as the newsboys, who had done so much wrong.

So when he saw that older boy, the fifteen-year-old, the one with the cigar, leaning against a street-corner in the early morning, all alone, Snyder pounced. And the boy didn't know what hit him. Snyder just laughed. Ten years after he'd met the boy and he finally had him, for once, in his grasp.

And he was going to pay. He was going to pay for every single time he'd stolen from someone, every time he'd taken a treat from the baker who was one of Snyder's best friends, every time he'd pushed an older homeless man to the side, every time he'd scoffed at authority. He was going to pay. He was going to scream and cry with the pain of it, and Snyder was going to enjoy every second, every sound, every moment when the boy was finally put in his place.

Just you wait.

The day when fate turned brutally against Race - October 7, 1898 - had started out remarkably pleasant for an October day in New York City. The sun was actually shining, which was a miracle in itself; and when Race had gotten up that morning, he hadn't even bothered to put on his sweater. Yes, the air was crisp, but there was hardly a breeze blowing, and it would be nice to be outside without bundling up too much.

Race was out of the Lodging House by seven in the morning, far ahead of several of the other boys, just taking a quick walk. It was bright and shockingly clean on the city's streets that morning, and, despite everything, it felt like early spring. Race loved the feeling of the air on his upturned cheeks, the gentle breeze ruffling his golden curls. It was so nice not having to worry about anything, at least for a few moments snatched in the early morning.

Race sauntered along in the middle of the street, laughing a little at his own cocky air. He was only walking like that because the street was deserted, of course; if anyone had been around to see him, he'd have slunk back into the shadows. But hardly anybody was out and about, not on this street, anyways.

There were people, of course, milling about on the block Race turned the corner onto. It was a rickety, impoverished marketplace set up every Saturday for the mostly dirt-poor residents. They sold their wages much cheaper than any of the well-off, pretentious vendors on the next street up, who counted themselves infinitely superior.

Race stole from those vendors, yes, simply because they stuck their noses so high in the air. He made a point to frequent the 82nd Street market - the poorer one - when he could, though. And he always paid fairly. He, at sixteen, made more money than most of them did, and while he didn't often have a lot to spare, he wasn't going to swindle them. They didn't deserve that.

So Race made his way up to a boy selling apples. The boy, fifteen and a newly-arrived immigrant from China, had become fast friends with Race over the past few weeks. He was just learning English, and Race knew exactly what that felt like, having struggled to learn it himself when he was younger. They made a point of chatting with each other, gradually improving the Chinese boy's broken English and making Race feel like he was doing something positive in the world, for once.

"Hello, Jiao-long!" When Race spoke to the boy, it was always in a clear, deliberate voice. And Jiao-long appreciated every bit of it. The smile that widened his face brightened Race's own mood as he replied, in a heavily-accented but clear voice, "Hello, Race."

"How are you today?" That had been a phrase Race taught Jiao-long the past week, and Race was eager to see if the other boy remembered it.

Jiao-long thought hard, his face contorting, but finally responded, "I am good, thank you." Race's mouth fell open in a delighted grin. Grammar had been a major challenge for Jiao-long, but that sentence had been brilliantly crafted.

Race swore his heart was about to burst with pride. He knew he was grinning stupidly, but he really didn't care. So he just reached into his pocket, fished out a penny, and said, "One apple, please."

In reality, Jiao-long sold two apples for a cent, but Race had the extra cash and had no qualms about giving the younger boy something extra to take back to his family. Jiao-long knew it, too. So he handed Race a single apple, served with a broad grin, and told him, "Thank you," sounding remarkably sure of himself.

Race smiled. "You're welcome," he said slowly, watching Jiao-long's eyes light up as he understood. Race shot the boy yet another grin. "I'll see you next week," he promised gently, and Jiao-long smiled and agreed, "Yes." Then, tossing his apple as his blood ran with joy and pride, Race turned and made his way back the way he'd come, back to his customary streetcorner.

Alone on the corner, the sun starting to shower him with more warmth now, Race bit down hard into the apple. It was good, too; Race allowed himself to savor the moment as the juices ran down his throat. And Race wished it could stay that way forever. Standing in the crisp, early-morning air, biting into an apple, feeling the cold but strong sun grace his shoulders. In a few minutes, he knew, he'd have to go meet up with Jack and buy his daily allowance of papers. But for now, he was content to wait and finish his breakfast in the sunshine.

The possibility didn't even enter Race's mind that the moment could be suddenly, brutally shattered by something other than the bell signifying that his peaceful morning spent in blissful solitude was over. But it could be, and it was. It was fate's doing, Race reflected later. Because right then, the moment was broken.

"Higgins." The word - Race's last name - was growled suddenly in his ear, and Race, horrified, spun to see a face leering at him, smiling in satisfaction and eagerness and what Race could only describe as pure evil. A face he knew well, even though he'd never been that man's captive himself. Race had sat awake with and comforted enough of the smaller boys to know Snyder when he saw him. And despite the fact that he wanted nothing more to be brave and strong and confident, Race would be lying if he said he didn't feel a jolt of terror pang in his heart, if he said he didn't, in that moment, clam up and freeze, unable to do anything else.

And then, without any warning, there was the sudden, overwhelming pain of a fist colliding with his right eye, and Race choked out a broken cry as his entire face, including his throat, was suddenly jerked to the side. When the spots faded from his vision, Race found himself on his knees on the ground with no idea of how he got there. And then, suddenly, to his horror, he felt his arms being pulled roughly behind his back.

Race struggled. He fought and screamed and tried to lash out, but whoever was holding his arms had them in an iron grip. Race didn't even know who was grabbing him; he only knew that it couldn't be Snyder, because Snyder stood over him, smirking down at the boy, a triumphant gleam in his eye. Race's eyes found the man's gaze and quickly shot back down again, instinctively, in horror. The look in Snyder's eye terrified Race, and he was fighting a losing battle trying not to show it.

"You."

Race couldn't help but look up at Snyder's voice. His entire head was throbbing, and despite everything he wanted to emulate, despite the image he wanted to present to Snyder, he could feel tears from the awful pain welling in his eyes. Blink, Race coached himself. Blink the tears back. And whatever you do, don't let them fall. Don't let him see.

Snyder could not only see the tears glittering in Race's eyes, but he could also see the way Race was trying to bite them back. He was blinking too rapidly, trying to clear his vision. And Snyder couldn't help but let out an enormous laugh at the mask the boy was trying to draw over his clearly petrified features. Wow, but he looked pathetic. Weak. And it just made Snyder all the more eager.

The apple that had clearly been stolen - that much was obvious in Snyder's mind - was still clutched tightly in Race's fists, his knuckles turning white. Snyder just glanced down at it, and Race, following his eyes, could only wait nervously.

"Who did you steal that from?" Snyder's words were dangerously quiet.

Race glanced up in total fear, still trying not to let it show. Yes, he'd stolen food in the past, but today he'd paid for his apple fair and square. So he knew Snyder hadn't been watching him, knew Snyder didn't know the full story. And yet he clearly didn't care. He pegged Race as a delinquent thief anyways. Which Race couldn't stand for.

"I didn't steal it. I bought it." Race could hear clearly that his own voice was thick and woozy, and he cursed himself. Why couldn't he keep his voice strong? That reflection was cut short, though, with yet another painful blow to Race's body, this one in the form of a crisp, stinging slap against his right cheek.

"Of course you didn't," Snyder mocked, dangerously, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "And you think I never see you, when you dart around and take things from the carts without leaving so much as a penny? Day after day? You think I don't notice?"

Race, who had let out a gasp at the heavy slap, shook his head desperately, trying to articulate his thoughts. How he only stole from the vendors who deserved it, who felt superior, and how he paid fair and square from everyone, including Jiao-long, who had less than he did. But Race couldn't get the words out in his addled state. "I - that's different," he choked desperately, trying to make Snyder understand. Trying, and failing.

Snyder actually laughed that time. "Different," he repeated, and his words were still frighteningly low. "Theft is theft, boy. One is no different from the other. And it's always inexcusable."

"Not sometimes," Race protested desperately, still trying to make his point; "not if - "

Suddenly there was a hand in his scalp, gripping his hair, forcing him to look up. And Race gasped. Snyder's eyes were black, flashing with malice.

"That's what you think, is it?" The words weren't even a question. They were an affirmation. A promise. A threat.

Race just shook his head helplessly, unable to do anything else. His heart was pounding painfully and he was still - still - trying to force back tears. "I - " he managed desperately, finding it simply impossible to choke out anything else.

But Snyder just laughed, shaking his head. "I think it's time for you to learn a proper lesson," he said softly. And with that, he grabbed Race's collar, hauling him to his feet, and, with practiced ease, easily snapped a pair of handcuffs around Race's wrists. The boy's knees were weak and shaky, and he could only stumble along as Snyder dragged him to the Refuge wagon parked around the next corner. Race tried to shout for help, tried to struggle, but it only earned him another smack on his already-bruising cheek. Race found he couldn't even fight anymore as his thin frame was tossed roughly onto the floor of the wagon, and the doors were chained behind him.

The last thing Race saw before his vision went black was a split-second glimpse of Jiao-long's terrified face, staring at him through the bars.

And then Race saw nothing at all.

If you're still here, well, then, thanks for sticking with me through that chapter! I promise, things start to get really intriguing in the next chapter. I don't exactly have that written yet, but I know what's going to happen and I hope you'll find it exciting! (It starts to tie into the Newsies universe from the musical that we all know and love, and I think you'll enjoy the characters who show up in next.)

Please tell me what you enjoyed and what you didn't by leaving me a review! I always love to hear critiques and praises. I am constantly looking to grow as a writer. Thanks for reading, and see you guys next time!

(PS. Somedayonbroadway: thank you so much for the ideas and the encouragement to write this. I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for constantly inspiring me with your writing!)