Chapter 1: A Not-So-Chance Meeting

It was a hot day, for an October in New York City. The newsies had been treated to a freak heat wave, bringing temperatures close to the nineties for what was now the fifth day running. Selling was slow, as selling sometimes was in the heat, and SlingShot was annoyed. Last night she'd made the trek across the bridge to try her hand at selling in Brooklyn, and quickly realized it as a terrible mistake. It was even slower here than it had been in the Bronx the day previous, and in Manhattan the day before that. Hell, even Bottle Alley had been practically deserted last time she'd been through there with a stack of newspapers and a will to sell.

"Well, at least it ain't snow," she muttered to herself, glancing down in disgust at the day's headline. Absolute shit. She'd never been good at "improving" the headlines, as Jack Kelly has endlessly attempted to teach her when she'd lived in Manhattan for a time. In fact, she was rather hopeless. Sometimes she heard what another newsie was hawking and used that, but then she had to find another selling spot entirely if she wanted to avoid confrontation. Then again, she wasn't always trying terribly hard to avoid it.

"FIRE BLAZES IN MANHATTAN! CITIZENS FORCED FROM THEIR HOMES!"

Well, she supposed she could have done worse with the story, a bunch of homeless men setting fire to a pile of old newspapers in the street in Hell's Kitchen.

"Really? That the best ya can come up with?"

SlingShot, rarely one to be surprised by much, simply shook her head at the smirking voice behind her, not yet bothering to turn around as a woman clutching a small boy by the hand handed her an extra penny with a sweet smile. Sling pocketed her tip and turned around with a self-righteous smile on her face.

"Seems to be working out pretty well for me, Conlon."

The Brooklyn leader shook his head, taking a relaxed drag from a newly lit cigarette and shrugging with good nature.

"Beginner's luck."

"I ain't exactly a beginner," she shot back.

Spot arched an eyebrow, the smirk turning slowly into a rather suggestive grin.

"No, I don't suppose any of you Bottle Alley girls is suffering from lack of ... experience."

SlingShot, annoyed at being outwitted, simply scowled. Spot took this as an invitation and pressed on with a wide grin.

"Ya know, I should soak ya for sellin' around my parts. Takin' business away from my boys, ain'tcha?"

"Maybe it might be more of an issue if there were any business to take away. Besides," she turned to face him squarely, a light of mischief dancing in her eyes, "you're welcome to try."

It was a challenge, and Spot knew it. But he'd never been one to run about looking to beat up women. Ain't no girl ever got the best of me, and ain't none ever gonna."

she grinned, stepping closer to him, holding her papers to her side.

"Why, Spot Conlon, I'll betcha five cents ya ain't even got the guts to hit me."

"Well, I wouldn't want to hurt ya."

She crossed her arms. "I didn't think any of us Bottle Alley
girls was important enough for Brooklyn to get his panties in a bunch about our safety."

"I just wouldn't wanna be responsible for ruinin' such a pretty face," he said, lifting his hand and slowly tracing her scar with the very tip of his finger. She blushed for a brief moment, but quickly replaced it with a scowl as she pushed his hand away.

"I assure you that someone has already taken care of that rather completely," she responded in a low voice.

"Sling-"

"Fight me." The change in her voice was abrupt and forceful.

His eyes, which had softened for the briefest of moments, darkened and narrowed as she took a defiant stance, letting her papers fall to the dusty ground.

"Is this why you're on my turf, SlingShot?" His voice came as a hiss between his teeth as he took a last drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. "You come into Brooks for a soakin'?"

"No. I came to win."

"Win what?" He demanded, the tone in his voice almost indicating the need for a childish stomp of his foot.

"How many girls-or guys, for that matter-can say they went up against the famous, feared Spot Conlon - and won?"

He growled, fists clenched. She was playing with his reputation now, trying to needle him into fighting her. It came closer and closer to working with every word that fell from her over-confident mouth.

"What, you want to fight me for your damned reputation?" A growing one, if the rumors Spot listened to were true.

She shrugged. Whatever reputation she'd developed around New York, she sure as hell hadn't been trying for it. Not that she was complaining about it or anything.

"I'd call it something more like curiosity," she returned finally, sounding vaguely hesitant.

"You can't beat me, SlingShot"

"Ya never know till ya try."

"You're diggin' your own grave. Sure ya ready to lie in it?"

She grinned once again, "Or, maybe I'll just push you in instead."

Spot was at the end of his rope now. Girl or not, SlingShot had pushed him quite far enough. He was not responsible for his actions or their consequences once his pride took over. Which, now that he thought about it, wasn't an entirely uncommon occurrence.

SlingShot made the first move. Spot knew better than that. For all that everyone said she was a great fighter, apparently she didn't even know to follow the cardinal rule. Ether that or she was just too stupid. Spot was inclined to believe both as he easily dodged the straight punch she'd aimed at his jaw, landing a solid fist in her stomach. She grunted, staggering back several steps before recovering enough to try again, this time landing her originally intended blow to his jaw. The force of the punch made him freeze for a moment, staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. Until a moment ago, he'd been operating under the assumption that SlingShot didn't know how to throw a proper punch. That she might actually be a decent fighter changed the matter entirely. He narrowed his eyes. He might have to actually beat the hell out of her. Even worse, it might not turn out to be an easy task. All this flashed through his head in a split second, and he quickly raised an arm, blocking SlingShot's next assault at the last possible moment. Frustrated, she came at him again, and Spot couldn't help but wonder at the fire in her eyes. He'd heard she was ruthless in a fight, but had underestimated her as he did most girls who had the audacity to call themselves newsies. Now that he was close enough to see into her eyes, the anger and hatred there were as clear as day. He wondered what the beautiful girl before him had been through to put that look in her eyes.

He shook his head, driving away the thoughts that were causing his mind to roam from the fight at hand.

She deflected his next punch with skill, much to his unending surprise, and landed one in his stomach. As he doubled over only the slightest bit, she grabbed him by the shoulders, forced him in closer to her and rammed a knee up between his legs. Spot gasped and cursed loudly in surprise.

"You little-"

"I don't remember anyone setting down any rules," SlingShot cut his protest off with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Though I'd certainly understand if you've ... had enough."

Spot righted himself with a growl, not letting the pain radiating in the more sensitive areas of his body change his fighting stance one bit.

"Not by a long shot," he spat back, smirking. She wanted to play dirty? Fine, they'd play dirty. And no newsie in their right mind would want to go up against Spot Conlon once he'd decide to fight dirty. And no one was stupid enough to deliberately provoke him to.

Until now.

Her hair was tucked up under her hat as it always was, and now Spot shot a hand out and knocked it off with a quick flick of his wrist. As waist-length curls cascaded down, he used his other hand to grab a chunk of them and yanked back as hard as he could until he'd dragged her to the ground. He ignored her yells, keeping a firm grip on her hair as he roughly kicked her in the ribs. She managed to block his attempts on her face, but only barely, throwing up an arm to protect herself.

After taking another painful kick to the ribs, she managed to shove both feet up and into his stomach, kicking him with all the strength she had in her. He felt the wind leave his lungs with force and released her hair for long enough for her to scramble to her feet and get in a few vengeful shots to his ribs, her own throbbing with each move that she made.

Spot shoved her roughly away, taking the moment's advantage this allowed him to pull his cane free from his belt. He was sick of this, and clearly any inclination to fight fair had died early on in the fight. She came at him still, apparently unafraid of the weapon he held, and he brought it around toward her head, making direct and forceful contact. Her face, previously so void of emotion, contorted, and she let out a strangled noise of surprise before crumpling, unconscious, to the ground.

Spot took a deep breath, letting it out with a hiss. He replaced his cane carefully before crouching down next to the still girl, running a hand tiredly over his face. Had it been anyone else, he would have just walked away, but his body seemed to be acting of his own accord as he lifted the girl up, cradling her almost gently in his arms. He stood, and started a slow journey back to the Brooklyn Lodging House, ignoring the astounded looks of those newsies who had witnessed the fight.

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Thanks to we've all got our junk for being my beta read, that was awesome.

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