Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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The Lark

The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.
If, of course, he can…

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She heard footsteps approaching—quick footsteps, light footsteps, the sort that seemed to suggest that, whoever it was, someone was dancing down the stairs.

Her stomach turned at the sound and she wondered bitterly who was visiting her in this dark, dank prison she'd been thrust into. She had been alone for awhile now, although the carefree footsteps informed her that, to her chagrin, that would not be the case any longer. She actually preferred the solitude. It was easier to pound the dirt and cry out in frustration without anyone else there to see.

Not that she needed someone to stand guard over her. In the last few hours, ever since she'd been caught leaving her family's apartment and unceremoniously escorted across town to this strange and awful place, she had made quick work of her surroundings. There was nowhere to hide in the cold, musty cellar and no way to escape except for the single staircase on the opposite side of the room.

She didn't need a guard but she was entirely sure that there was one standing at the top of those stairs.

The cellar was small and cramped with only a single half-spent candle to shed any sort of illumination on it. Up top, there were a pair of windows coated with enough dirt and grime that it was nearly impossible for anyone to peer in and see her huddled helplessly in the corner. She'd already cut the tips of her fingers trying to climb the brick wall but it was no use—if the windows provided any hope for escape, the cellar had failed to provide anything to help her reach them.

In all, she'd spent much of her time staring at her bleak surroundings. Almost right away, she'd been reminded of the cellar of the World building. She'd visited it once, during the newsies strike last summer, when Jack Kelly had been occupying it. But at least Joseph Pulitzer kept a cot and various odds and ends in his cellar—this place was absolutely bare.

"Sarah? Where are you hiding, my dear?"

Her visitor stood on the bottommost step as he called out to her, his voice lighthearted and cheery. He blocked the candlelight with his body, and the flame's reach gave him quite the glow as it acted almost as an undeserving halo. But he didn't need that solitary candle to find her, nor did he expect her to answer his calls. In his hand, the Sparrow held a blazing oil lamp. He lifted it up high and, immediately, he spied her in the corner.

"Ah, there you are."

No doubt about it. It was him again. She had to work to fight back the rising bile in her throat. Just the sight of him made her sick to her stomach; his voice, cocky and sure, was even worse.

And it wasn't as if he was unpleasant to look at, not like the tramps and vagrants she spotted on some of the less favorable corners. Even now, with the lamplight lighting up his features, she was hard-pressed to deny that he was handsome. With his devilishly angelic smile, curly blond hair and knowing dark eyes, he was good looking enough in his own way. But his actions and his attitude were nothing sort of repulsive, so she had to turn her face away.

Using the guiding light of his lamp, he crossed the gap between them in no time. He set the lamp down beside her so that she could have the benefit of the light as well—then again, Sarah thought ruefully, it was probably so he could get a better look at her. It was much darker now than it had been when he met her earlier; the blaze of the oil lamp was definitely needed as night fell.

If it even was night. Without the luxury of a watch, she'd lost all sense of time. Only the setting sun and the accompanying blackness revealed how much time had passed since she'd left home.

What she wouldn't have given just then to be home.

He'd known her all too well. She'd run at the first sign—his Sparrow sign, actually—and he, counting on her cowardice, had gone after her. The chase ended before it had truly begun and he'd won; but, though he won, Sarah was not about to let him gloat.

Still wearing a satisfied smile, entirely aware of her stubborn streak, the Sparrow loomed over her. He extended his hand but, of course, she refused it. If he wanted her on her feet, she would remain on the dust-covered floor, her legs tucked under her dirty skirt, forever.

He barely raised an eyebrow. Cocking his head towards her, nodding briefly as if conceding a point to a worthy opponent, he hiked up his worn, patched and holey pants and squatted so that they were almost eye to eye.

It took everything she had, and then some, not to lean forward and shove him squarely in his chest.

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah… how is my lovely little lark?"

She frowned, not even bothering to fake a grin. There was no reason to fear the Sparrow any further—what else could he do to her beside throw her in a cell and take away her freedom?

Though she'd sworn to herself earlier that she wouldn't even give him the benefit of acknowledging his existence, she couldn't help it. The words, snappish and quick, were out before she knew it. "In a cage."

He showed no remorse. In fact, he seemed amused at her reaction. "Well, of course. You must remain a lark in captive until you've agreed to be mine," he told her, his smile widening. "I'm only doing what's best for you."

In the most unladylike fashion possible, Sarah snorted. She was glad her poor mother wasn't anywhere around to hear it. "And how is this best for me?"

"A lark is too precious to fly free."

"I'm not a lark, you stupid ape! I'm just a girl and I want to go home!"

Her voice broke on that last word; her cry came out more like a sob than a demand. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. What use was there in crying? The Sparrow was heartless, accustomed to control. Emotion wouldn't set her free; if anything, it would probably make her appear all the more delicate. Fragile.

A lark, he called her—but she would never agree to be his pet.

Very few had ever refused the Sparrow something he desired and, as such, it was unthinkable to him that he would not get his way. If Sarah rebelled against him now, it was only because she didn't understand her own worth. Beauty, he believed, ought to be tamed, and free spirits captured and trained until they willfully returned to their perch.

He saw the tears she so desperately tried to hide but ignored them. "Home? This is your home now, Sarah."

Her brown eyes opened wide and he could see the fear reflected in the light. Her lips began to tremble and, when she spoke, so did her voice. "You don't honestly expect to keep me here forever, do you?"

"That depends."

"Depends? On what?"

"On how long you plan on fighting against me."

His words hung in the heavy air. She didn't know what to say in response; she wasn't even sure if she could anything at all without calling him a few names that she had picked up from Spot's boys.

The Sparrow, reveling in the silence he caused, leaned in closer to her, chuckling when he saw the sudden realization on her face that she couldn't jerk her head any further away. He ran his tongue carefully along the edge of his slightly elongated canine; his teeth were bared in a smile that seemed more predatory than anything.

Sarah gulped.

The Sparrow grinned.

And a second set of footsteps—louder than the Sparrow's had been, and more frantic—thundered through the dank cellar, interrupting what might have been and probably wouldn't.

"Alf—I mean, Boss. Ya here?"

Sighing under his breath, closing his eyes against the brusque female voice, he slowly leaned back and away from Sarah. Almost begrudgingly, he rose to a standing position before wheeling around just in time to face another girl.

Curious against her better judgment—and admittedly jealous that this girl had her freedom—Sarah glanced up at the newcomer. She was a very tall girl with thin features that were set and determined. Her blouse was faded in the lamplight and her dusty skirt almost as patched as the Sparrow's pants. In the glow of the oil lamp, Sarah saw the girl's eyes dart to and fro; however, she noticed, she was very careful not to look at Sarah.

She had long, light brown hair that was plaited and resting over one of his shoulders. Anxious fingers fiddled with the end as she looked down on the Sparrow.

With his back to her, Sarah couldn't tell if he was pleased to see this other girl or not. His words offered her no insight as he said, "Why, Pidge. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"I know, but he's here. I've brought," she paused, before finally glancing over at Sarah and saying, "the boy here."

Sarah didn't know the Sparrow well enough to judge his mood but he suddenly sounded a lot more serious. The cheeriness was gone. "What does he know?"

"Not much, really, but that don't mean he ain't willin' to try. When I found him, he'd already followed her clue all the way to Madison Avenue."

In an attempt to stifle her cry of utter disappointment and surprise, Sarah had to bite her tongue. As the tangy rusty taste of warm blood dribbled in her mouth, her thoughts were already on Jack. He'd received her note, that was good, but what was he doing in Midtown?

The signal had been Spot's idea—when she heard from the Sparrow, it was up to Sarah to alert either him or Jack. The written address of the great St. Patrick's Cathedral served as a sign to the two Irish Catholic boys that it was time to pray; it was supposed to send one to the other, either Jack to Brooklyn or Spot to Manhattan. It would be foolish, Jack told her a few weeks ago when the threat of the Sparrow began, for one of them to attempt to go after the elusive king of the streets. The two of them, with the combined might and ingenuity of the two boroughs, might stand a chance.

The address and the sign of the Sparrow were supposed to be a clue for Jack to head off to Brooklyn and get Spot. Why, then, had he actually gone off to Madison Avenue?

Her heart beating double-time in her chest, the hope of help arriving quickly vanishing, Sarah returned her attention to the conversation going on around her. She was just in time to hear the Sparrow say "—who do you think gave him the way?"

The girl huffed. "I don't understand why you've got me tailin' this kid if you've already got it in ya to help him."

"You wouldn't, Pidge."

"My name ain't Pidge."

Though the girl muttered her response so low that Sarah barely made it out, there was no denying the resounding slapping noise or the loud thud as the force of the Sparrow's smack sent the girl tumbling down to the floor.

Upon landing, her right hand breaking her fall, her left already rubbing the obviously sore cheek that had been struck, not-Pidge didn't say another word. She let her piercing glare do the talking for her.

But the Sparrow wasn't listening.

He shook his hand once before gesturing at Sarah behind him. He didn't have to turn around to know she was quailing behind him; in that moment, as the girl fell, Sarah's fear came rushing back. As, of course, was his intent.

"Now that my guest has arrived," the Sparrow began, addressing both girls in a different sort of voice. It was slower, more commanding and deliberate. It was almost as if he was choosing each and every word carefully before he said them, "I should go upstairs and greet him." He turned on the not-Pidge. "Do you think you could stay down here and keep my lark company?"

There was a lot that he was not explicitly saying—first and foremost, that she had no choice. No one in their right mind would assume that the Sparrow was actually asking for her help, despite the kind tone he was using.

It was all a front, a show, for the raggedy girl in the corner.

And she was center stage.

"Sure thing, Alf—Boss."

"Good." He bent down swiftly, using his right hand to push to oil lamp closer to Sarah; it wouldn't do if, while he was occupied, she caught a chill. Before pulling away, he took the opportunity to run the edge of his finger along the length of her cheek. Her head already pressed up against the brick wall, she couldn't move away. However, if looks could kill… "Take care, my Sarah."

Too repulsed by his sudden and unwanted contact, she just kept her dark eyes on the dancing flame of the oil lamp.

The Sparrow laughed confidently as he navigated his way over to the staircase. Choosing to leave the slim candle behind for extra light, he started up the stairs, feeling his way as he went. He didn't go straight up, though; he paused after he'd taken only three or four steps. "Pidge?"

She knew better this time than to talk back. As it was, she would already have one hell of a bruise on her cheek tomorrow. "Yeah?"

"Make sure you don't go telling our new friends things they don't need to know, alright?" Then, before she could response to this teasing tone, he added, "After all, it's what you do."

Teller waited until he'd ascended the last step of the Midtown Lodging House's cellar before she let loose with a curse that would have brought a blush to even Spot Conlon's cheeks.

Sarah liked her already.

Author's Note: Well, here we go. Like last time, the first chapter is a moment in time during Sarah's personal -- and not too pleasant -- adventure. After that, the story will resume in a first person POV with our poor narrator. Who, unfortunately for him, has no idea what is really going on.

I hope you guys like this beginning. I tried to tie it back to The Sparrow, answering some questions about who some people are and where their loyalties lie. But don't take things at face value -- you never know what's going to happen! Especially with the Sparrow involved ;)

-- stress, 10.12.08