(N): "Written for Firefly Conlon, hope you like it J Also, big note here, in this universe instead of Spot being "Spot Conlon" his full newsie name is Spot On. If you don't like it deal with it."

[Disclaimer]: I don't own Newsies.

Patrick Conlon looked out his window, seeing the other children run free on the street reaffirmed his decision. Ever since that day…home hasn't been the same. He had to leave, it was the only way. Patrick went over to his father's writing desk and sat down. He then took out a piece of paper and a pen and got down to work.

For a boy of only ten years Patrick had a happy talent for writing and a wonderful grasp of literature. This along with his excellent penmanship was his claim to fame in his poor Irish family, but it wasn't enough now that… Patrick shook off these thoughts and focused on the paper in front of him.

"Dear Mama and Da,

I'm sorry that it has to be this way, I truly am, but we all knew that this was going to happen sooner or later. I can't stay here any longer, by the time you get home I will be long gone. I would consider it a personal favor if you don't try to find me, it would be nothing more than an inconvenience for all of us." Spot couldn't help but give a bitter-sweet smile as he wrote this, some how all of his brutish, arrogance melted away into flowered words. "I don't want you to think that I'm leaving because I'm mad or that I'm doing it out of foolish pride, neither of those are the reasons. Ever since Henry and Adam," at this point Patrick had to stop.

He had been ignoring his brothers absence for almost three months, it was hard to think about them and even harder to write about. Writing had always been his escape from the pains and hardships in life, so writing about one of the most painful things he had ever gone through was a hellish thing.

"Ever since Henry and Adam died we haven't been a family. All you ever do is talk about them, how strong Adam was. How smart Henry was, but most of all how unlike my brothers I am. Our house is like a museum devoted to their perfection! I can't stay there any more, I just can't."

At this point Patrick was practically in tears, all the pain of his brothers' deaths resurfacing. Why did their factory have to catch on fire? Why did they have to go to work in that disgusting sweat-shop in the first place? Why was life so unfair?

"You know, it's odd. I am leaving because of Adam and Henry, yet I am reminded of something Adam had told me long ago: "You weren't meant to lead the same life as the rest of us, Pat. You were meant for something much braver than the life of a factory worker." I know now that half of that is untrue. I am not meant for something braver, for I am not nearly as brave as Henry or even Adam. But the part about not being a factory worker was spot on, without a doubt."

Patrick looked at the clock that was positioned above the mantle piece of their fire place, if he didn't finish his letter soon he wouldn't be able to get out in time that his parents would be unable to find him. He would then have to wait until the next day, when he would most likely loose his nerve.

"I'm afraid I must end my letter soon, this I regret deeply, but I have things I need to finish up before I go. I just want you to know that nothing you could have done would have stopped this. I just wasn't cut out for this life. I knew that this wasn't enough for me and I knew that I wasn't enough for you. Sometimes it's just not enough to be me. I want you both to know (especially you, Mama) that I'll never be too far off and that I'll keep an eye on everything. I'll be fine so don't worry yourself with me. I love you both so much."

Patrick hater himself for letting teardrop fall onto the paper at this part, but he didn't have time to re-write the whole letter.

"Don't for get to remember the way things were before the accident and don't forget how much love we all shared."

Patrick paused for a moment and thought about how to close the letter. He couldn't say "your loving son," because he was pretty much disowning himself. "Affectionately yours?" No that was no good. Even just his name didn't seem right, Patrick Conlon was a boy with a loving family and a home and he knew that this apartment building wasn't his home anymore. So he decided to go with the only thing that stuck out in his cold, bleak mind.

"Yours, Spot On."

10 years later.

Patrick Conlon had changed over the past ten years, as most people do. He had grown more confident, some might even say arrogant. Well they would say that, but not in his presence. He had grown braver and stronger, people listened to him. He could intimidate a man twice his size and age; not ever twenty year old can say that. His newsie name had been shortened to just Spot. He had been named Leader of Brooklyn and had by now passed on the roll to his second in command. But now, as he looked at a small apartment building on the western side of Brooklyn, with it's cracked bricks and it's crooked steps he felt once again like a ten year old run-away. He walked through the rickety door and went up the steps of the long abandoned building.

For Spot it was hard to say if he had grown or if the building had shrunk; the counters had seemed so much higher when he had tried to swipe a cookie from them. He looked at the abandoned room where he had written a note so long ago.

"I was right to leave," he thought to himself, but even the arrogant Spot On didn't believe that.

(N): "Hoped you liked it, cause I'm not sure how I feel about it."

Bravo Yankee Echo, Nori the Destroyer of Worlds.