Ah, hello my faithful readers. Yeah, I haven't written anything in a while (lie... I write, I don't finish, I don't publish). Anywho, I blame the Strogue contest for this, and the 1kaday challange. I wrote most of this in one week (very difficult considering how much stuff happened this past month). I had some people beta some of it a long, long time ago, but most of it is brand spankin' new. The second paragraph is the one that was required for the contest. Anywho, have fun, and as always, reviews are loved and appreciated.

Prologue:

His face was pressed against the dirty glass, the coolness radiating off it in sharp contrast to the sweat-laden forehead. His hair was still wet from the long sprint through the downpour, and droplets raced and slid down the arms propped high on either side of the windowsill.

The rain kept falling. It was a monotonous sound, the continual dripping of the steady rain, and it was enough to drive any of them mad. With every raindrop that made contact with the ground, it was another newspaper that was not sold. Because, obviously, who would go out and sell in the rain?

"Spot?"

The Brooklyn leader turned his head to look at the voice. Defeat was etched across every crease in the young man's expression. His eyes, once full, vibrant, and challenging now showed only emptiness. The blood that filled his head during the run was the only sign of color in the boy who had aged fifty years in less than a week. Spot—the same Spot who once wore bright red suspenders now stood before his second-in-command, weak and gray.

"Mince."

"It's…" Mince cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's time to go."

Spot's expression didn't change. His blank eyes seemed to stare through Mince.

"We didn't know if you were going to make it," Mince said, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

Spot's eyes flickered slightly, and he blinked. For a second, Mince thought he saw a hint of the Old Spot. The hope faded as Spot cast his gaze downward.

"Let's go," the King said dully.

Mince walked ahead of Spot to the main room of the lodging house. He made eye contact with half a dozen newsies scattered around the chilly boarding room. They stood, knowing what an honor they were being granted to escort their leader. As Spot walked out of the back room, each step seemed to weigh down on him. Still staring at the floor, Spot dragged himself slowly out the door, back into the rain, not seeing the handful of newsies following him. Not seeing those left behind standing tall in respect, tears falling silently, matching the rain sliding down the windows.
"We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a young man whose life was taken from this earth far too early. Let us all remember the good times with the young man, and let his death remind us that life cannot last forever, and teach us to appreciate the time we have left."

The preacher closed his Bible and nodded to the crowd of young boys. The previous downpour had slowed to a lazy drizzle, the sunless sky matching the expressions on each newsie. As he turned away, Jack stepped forward to the simple wooden coffin. It was obvious to all surrounding that it was difficult for him to find his voice. He looked helplessly over his shoulder at Spot. Spot's gaze was empty and hollow. He couldn't meet Jack's gaze for long, and he soon was staring at a small patch of red on Jack's bandana. The other boy's slowly started to break away, some walking alone, others in pairs, clutching one another for support. Finally, only the Brooklyn newsies remained near the two leaders, but even they stood half a dozen graves away, watching anything but the boys in front of them.

"Who's the parson?"

It was the first thing Spot had spoken since he was back in Brooklyn.

"Friend of Kloppman. Owed 'em a favor."

"Figures."

The teenagers were silent, each examining the plain casket resting on the ground at their feet. Suddenly, Spot shook his head violently.

"It's all my fault!"

The Brooklynites started at the loudest noise they'd heard their leader make since the incident. Jack, too, was startled. His face crinkled in surprise, smoothed in understanding, and then creased again in anger.

"No it ain't Spot. It's my fault. He was my boy. I should have watched out for him better."

"But he was hiding in my territory. And I let those monsters get to him!"

Spot spat the word "monsters" as if it were poison. Jack looked as if he were about to argue, and then paused, and nodded slowly.

"You're right, Spot. It's all your fault," Jack slowly moved away from his friend, inching to the other side of the coffin. "I trusted you with my boy. And now he's dead. Dead. Because you couldn't stop him. Because you ran away."

The energy that had rushed into Spot seeped back out just as quickly. His shoulders sank as his knees fell to the ground. Laying his hands on the casket, he took in a deep, shuddering breath. Jack shook his head angrily and twisted around to walk away. Before he'd gone a dozen feet, Spot looked up.

"Jack?"

Jack paused, and tilted his head to indicate he was listening.

"Where's your hat?"

Slowly, Jack moved his feet so he was facing Spot.

"Right where I left it. The alleyway where Boots was murdered."