This story was written for the second circulation of the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. The task was to write about a movie newsie meeting their musical counterpart and having to fix the continuum. I'm not going to lie, I had problems. I also didn't use a prompt. Word Count: 2370

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies!

Spot wadded the worn strip of paper in his hands and moved past the door to the next one. Taking a deep, shaking breath, he attempted to steel his nerves as he checked the brass plate on the door standing ajar. 206. Mentally he told himself that he belonged here, and in a way, he believed it. All his life, he'd worked hard, and here was his break.

In a strange, Dickensian turn of events, a robber baron, one Mr. Phineas Loveless, had stumbled upon him one day while at Sheepshead with Racetrack, and deciding that Spot had a sharp mind in need of proper molding, had taken him under his wing. Having only one female child, Loveless had told him he hoped Spot would take on his empire. But only after a real education.

That was how he found himself standing outside the dormitory in St. John's University and trying to convince himself to go in, that all of this was happening. He pushed back the door with a hand that didn't quite look or feel like his own and let himself in. Across the threshold, there was a plain room with two twin beds, two bare wooden desks, and who he guessed was his roommate.

On noticing Spot's entrance, the other boy turned from his place at his claimed desk and sized up the newcomer. Spot did the same, noticing his mop of dark curls, tanned skin, and long nose. He could have been attractive had he smiled, much like people told Spot, but he didn't, only stared, and deciding Spot wasn't a threat, merely twitched the sides of his mouth upwards.

What Spot noticed was that the boy in front of him was bordering on arrogant, and when he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, his every arm muscle popped, which was undoubtedly done on purpose; his modest shirt seams screamed. Rising to his feet, the boy held out his hand, and in a strong Brooklyn accent, said, "You must be my roommate. I'm Spot Conlon."

Spot was at first startled by his height and firm grasp, but then he was really taken aback. The smile he'd given shrunk by a molar. "W-what's your name?"

"Spot. Spot Conlon." The handshake slowed. "You are?"

"Spot Conlon."

The boy by the desk put his hands on his hips, chest muscles threatening to tear his shirt, and studied the boy in the doorway carefully through narrowed eyes. "Huh," he finally grunted. "And here I was thinking I was unique."

"No kidding," said the Spot in the doorway. "You been Spot Conlon long?"

"Only eighteen years." He chewed on his lower lip. "Say, what did you do before this?"

"What do you mean 'what did I do?' I'm—I was—the leader of the Brooklyn..."

"Newsies," they finished together.

In that moment, Spot in the doorway had a feeling of dread wash over him. He would have thought this was just someone else pulling a prank, trying to break the ice with their roommate, but this didn't feel like normal circumstances. This felt like the boy across from him was dead serious, and he wasn't the only Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, anymore. He whispered, "If you're a newsie, how'd you get here?"

"Rich man decided I should become his heir and decided to endorse me. Goes by the name of..."

"Phineas Loveless."

"Conlon! Hey, Conlon," called a voice across the grounds.

Spot turned mid-stride towards the source and found a stick-thin boy sprinting across the green towards him: Cornelius Ryan, a first-year with a sharp mind and an even sharper athletic ability. He was clothed in tight white pants and a red sweater.

"Hey, Conlon, where are you going?" Cornelius asked in his nasally tone, catching up to him. "We have practice in ten minutes, and the lacrosse field is that way."

"You have a mouse in your pocket, Ryan. We both know I don't play lacrosse, so you better hurry and let me get to class."

"Good one, Conlon. Come on."

The next thing he knew, Spot found himself being towed towards the lacrosse field and a stick shoved into his hand. His reaction would have normally been quicker, but he was so stunned that it seemed his mind went blank.

"Conlon!" Bellowed an upperclassmen when the ball clipped his shoulder for the fourth time. "What in Creation are you doing? Get your head in the game, or get off the field."

Spot threw down his stick and rubbed his aching shoulder. In the thirty minutes he'd spent playing, he'd been hit by more sticks than he could count, and his head was throbbing. It must have been a joke, he reasoned, or some mix up.

That night, while he was trying to study, Spot couldn't get the lacrosse incident out of his mind. He kept staring at the textbook on the pillow in front of him, but the words were blurred from his vacant gaze. His roommate was stationed at his desk, studying too by the looks of.

"You play lacrosse?" he finally asked.

The tall Spot looked up from his papers. "Yeah."

"It was weird," Spot continued. "Cornelius Ryan dragged me onto the field today. He must have gotten us mixed up."

There was a moment of silence before the tall Spot said, "I was forced to go to Latin today. Professor said it was on my schedule. I've never had Latin."

Neither of them spoke, and when Spot looked up, he found the other biting his lip in the same way he was. He wanted to say something but was unable to find the right words, and before he could do so, Racetrack burst into the room.

"Oh, man, Spot, you're never gonna guess what happened! I won! I actually won!" Racetrack laughed. "You should have seen it, greatest thing in the world! They came out of the second turn and—and you mind if I smoke in here—and the beast just took off. Won by a whole head."

"That's great, Race—"

"Oh, I wish you could have seen it. Say, when you coming to poker night?"

"I might be there Thurs—"

"All the boys've been hollering, 'Where's Spot?' and 'Why don't Spot come no more?' It'll be nice to finally shut them up."

Spot huffed, already tired of Racetrack's incessant jabbering. "Race, can you even hear me?"

But Racetrack wasn't looking at Spot. He was looking to the right, at the tall, muscled imposter who only stared blankly at the chatterbox in the doorway. Finally Racetrack pulled his cigar from between his lips. "Say, ain't you gonna answer me?"

"I'm right here, and if you'd have shut up long enough, you would have noticed that."

Racetrack only waved his hand in front of the other Spot's face. "Anyone home?"

Before the butler could reach the door, Spot had it flung back and was already in the entryway of the massive house. His shoes squeak on the polished floors, but the sound fell upon deaf ears. All he could think about was the task at hand—not the ornate décor on the walls, nor the rich carpeting, only his mission. Throwing open the next heavy door, he found himself in the middle of the lounge and facing a very startled girl.

She nearly dropped her book at his entrance, but she regained her composure just as quickly, as any girl of her standing should and was taught to do. "Oh, Spot, it's you...dripping all over the floor." She took in his ragged appearance and sopping wet clothes. Finally, closing her book, she must have realized he was out of place. "What—what are you doing here?"

"I need to see your dad. Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, tell me that he's home."

"Taking tea and business in the library, but whatever do you need?"

Before she could realize what was happening, he had her hands in his own and had pressed a kiss to her lips. "Thank goodness."

Spot bolted from the room, partially out of his desperation and partially to keep from seeing her face. In more ways than one, he thought, college had been bad for him; he never would have even thought about such a thing two months ago.

Then again, he reasoned, stopping in front of yet another thick oaken and steeling his nerves, this is probably my last chance. Rapping twice, he admitted himself when a deep voice from behind the door called.

It was a stunning library, with shelves from floor to ceiling and filled with every type of book possible, from those on astronomy to foreign novels and Shakespearean plays. Plush upholstered furniture was scattered about the room, and the eastern wall was comprised solely of French windows, which lit up the room in the early part of the day, but made it seem dark and wearisome in the evening. In front of the bay window was a massive, polished mahogany desk where Mr. Loveless was seated. He glanced up upon Spot's entrance.

"Spot, my boy. What brings you here?" His peppered mustache quivered when he spoke, and there was a slight comfort in his reverberating voice.

"Something's wrong, Mr. Loveless. At school, there's another Spot Conlon."

For the briefest moment, the older man's pen halted in his writing, but then it continued as if nothing had happened. "Oh? And how could that be?"

"I don't know, Mr. Loveless, but there is. He's huge, and muscular, and he's the complete opposite of me, but everywhere I go, people can't see me, or they pretend not to or something. They get me mixed up with him, and they act like he doesn't even exist. We can be in the same room, and people will only acknowledge him, no matter what I do or say." Spot wrenched his cap from his head, shoving his disintegrated paper into his pocket. "I know I sound crazy, but please, Mr. Loveless, you've got to believe me. It feels like I'm losing my mind."

He said nothing but continued writing, and more than anything, Spot wanted to rip the paper from his grip if it meant he would pay attention. Finally he put down his pen and leaned back in the leather chair. "Spot, do you want to know why this has happened?"

"Are you kidding? Of course I want to know! It's been messing up my life for the past two months."

"There is an order to this world, boy. There is a balance to it, and when that balance is thrown off, the whole function is skewed. Everyone plays their part in the order. Boy, what are you?" When Spot didn't answer, unable to comprehend exactly what he was asking, Mr. Loveless waved his hand and continued. "You're a newsboy. A newsie. Bottom of the hierarchy. Factory workers do better than you. You sell newspapers and hope to one day get lucky enough to land a place in a factory. Me-what am I?

"I own the factories. I own the railroads, and the politicians, and the city. I own racehorses and golf courses for my leisure time. I own the railroads, and oil, and politicians. I own this city. Hell, I own half the country!" He pounded the desk emphatically. "You would be happy to own your own boots and a rat hole like the million other people in the city. Did you honestly think that you, no formal education to your name, would be qualified for college? That you would be fit to take over my companies and profits? That you could ride my coattails into society and be privileged enough to mingle amongst us?

"Let's get this clear, boy: this should be possible."

Feeling his face red, Spot clenched his jaw, fists balled tightly by his side, and tried not to let the other man see his anger and embarrassment. Newsies were subjected to ridicule, but never before had he experienced something like this; he hadn't even thought it possible. His ire flamed as he continued to stare down Loveless, who seemed so calm. Perhaps he had heard of Spot's temper, and he was only waiting an outburst that would never come.

In a few quick strides, Spot was back at the door and heaved it open. A deafening crash came seconds after, and he was met with a wide-eyed Lydia, who reeled backwards as if she had been struck. At her feet was a pile of shards that had most likely been a glass. Both of them halted, Spot's shoulders rising and falling from his deep breaths in attempt to conceal his rage.

Standing face to face with her, more thoughts than ever rushed through his mind. She was beautiful, clothed in a fine silk dress despite having mingled about the house all day, hair perfectly coifed; he'd found her reading a book in what was probably French. She was the epitome of every part of this lifestyle. And for a moment, he'd thought that would one day be him. He'd imagined himself in a luxurious house with rich clothes and enough food to eat. He had just kissed her, thinking he had the right to even look her way. Now he remembered differently.

She was babbling something to him rapidly, but whatever it was, he didn't hear. He only saw a girl and a life which would forever be out of his reach, and he was crushed by that because he'd forgotten his place. He'd forgotten his own rules, and he'd let himself get up his hopes that one day he could catch a break.

Spot brushed past her and out to the cab. Returning to his dorm, he found his roommate already in the middle of packing his own bags. They didn't speak.

He took his battered, light suitcase in his hand and closed the door behind him. It was eerily silent in the hall, dark and empty, and his footsteps echoed off the wooden floors. Though the rain had stopped, it was dark outside, and cold; Spot pulled his worn coat tighter around his body and his cap down his forehead.

He didn't look back.