Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to Newsies or anything else you recognize. The title of this story is taken from Esmeralda's song in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and I don't own that either. I do claim ownership to any original character you come across as well as the plot. All else is property of Disney.
A/N: Hi all! It's Grace here. You probably don't know me. I haven't written any Newsies fanfics before, although I have been a fan for quite a while now. The idea for this story has been floating around in my mind for quite a while now and I thought I'd just take a chance and try it out. It's pretty different from other Newsies fanfics. For one thing, it centers around the younger Manhattan newsies. When I was little the first time I saw the movie, I found Snipeshooter rather endearing. Because of my fondness for the little guy with the deep voice, I decided to give him a love interest in the form of my OC, Beatrice "Biz" Dubois. Of course, since they are so young, the romance won't really develop until later on in the story. But fear not, for our brave heroine will face many obstacles on her way to adulthood including a brewing turf war, a long-forgotten mystery, and the surfacing of great and powerful gang who, by reasons unknown and extraordinary, have made Biz their next target.
So grab your reading glasses and sit tight, for the journey is just beginning.
God Help the Outcasts
God help the outcasts
Hungry from birth
Show them the mercy
They don't find on earth
God help my people
We look to You still
God help the outcasts
Or nobody will
Chapter One
Autumn 1899
Darkness falls upon New York City. The buildings cast shadows across the streets. In the slums somewhere, a poor mother is preparing dinner for her children from the meager scrapings she could find. I bet old Pulitzer is sitting at the head of a long, ornate dining table, with a gleaming silver fork in one hand and a jewel-encrusted knife in the other. I bet he's got a steaming pot of lamb stew in front of him and seasoned green beans and mashed potatoes on the side. I bet he's going to go back for seconds and he's so rich, I bet he'll even have thirds. And for desert, he'll treat himself to the delectable chocolate cake his cook spent hours on this morning. I bet it's dripping with syrup. I bet it's coated with layers of frosting. I bet it has real sugar in it – the fine, white, crystals you can't even steal at the market. I bet…
I really shouldn't be thinking about food in a situation as serious as this. But I skipped dinner and I'm so goddamn hungry I could eat Snipeshooter. My stomach growls and I cross my arms over it, hoping no one else had heard it.
The thought is fruitless because, for once, the lodging house is silent. At least a dozen of us have squeezed into the spare room, crowding around Tumbler's small, still body. His chest still rises and falls, but I wonder how long he will continue breathing. Skittery stands beside Tumbler, his fists twisting the life out of his cap. Although his back is toward me, I can picture his face. Clenched jaw and a hardened gaze – he is angry, probably even angrier than the rest of us combined. He always had a soft spot for the kid. Tumbler was like a brother to him. But quickly, I catch myself. Is. Tumbler is like a brother to him.
"We need to find out who did this," Skittery says. I don't think I have ever heard him sound so frighteningly determined, so dark and dangerous. He wants revenge. All of us do. The hate boils inside of me, disgusted that anyone could have the audacity to beat up a kid – an innocent little kid who never did anything wrong in his life! But I knew Tumbler wasn't the first of the city's victims. I've heard a countless number of horror stories of lowlifes ganging up on street rats like us, stealing what little they had, then leaving the bodies to rot in some back alley for a stranger to stumble upon the next day. I've heard about these things my entire existence, but it's what I have resigned to as a part of life that can never be changed.
"What we need is to find a doctor," says Clara as gently as possible. She dabs at Tumbler's sweaty brow with a damp cloth, her touch gentle around the right side of his face, which is swollen beyond recognition. Slowly, she slides up his nightshirt to reveal the nasty wound by his abdomen. After adjusting the makeshift bandages, she turns to the rest of us. "He probably has a few busted ribs. The cut's deep; I fear he might get an infection." She looks back at Tumbler and a sob escapes from her before she can contain it. "I've done all I can," she says, tears sliding down her storybook face. I almost break down myself. If Clara, who we always call "Barton" after the Angel of the Battlefield, does not know what to do, then we stand no chance.
"Maude and Jack are looking for a doctor right now," says Mush. "They ought to be back any minute now."
"Some luck they'll have," Skittery spits out. "We can't afford it. What practiced doctor would sacrifice two bits for the likes of us?" His face is flushed and his hands shaking, probably from the urge to hit something before he had the chance to hurt himself.
Crutchy, ever the voice of optimism, limps forward to rest his hand on his shoulder. "Have a little faith, eh Skitts?" he says. But Skittery only shrugs him off and storms off to the filth-fogged window, filling the room with stony silence.
Both the hunger and the emotions claw at my stomach and become unbearable. With my head spinning and cries threatening to tear through my lips, I flee through the doorway, muttering something about needing to get some air. I dash down the steps and away from the lodging house, my boots slapping against the cobblestone. I keep running, not caring where they take me. And I keep running because it's the only thing I know how to do. It's what I do best.
The church lies just around the corner. I pass by it often enough to know it's there but not enough to know its name. It looks sleepy, sound, and small. It feels safe. The doors are always open, both literally and metaphorically. Great, I think. One less obstacle for me as I burst through the archway and throw myself into the nearest pew.
The tears come quicker then I'd expected, streaming down my cheeks in tiny rivers, that soon turn into waterfalls, and even more so, a never-ending deluge. The same thoughts that I have tried to suppress the entire twelve years of my life fight their way from my subconscious and into my mouth, coming out as strangled sobs and wordless accusations. I blame Tumbler's mother for abandoning him just as mine did to me, leaving him to rot on the streets like last week's dinner. I condemn the spineless criminals who beat him and damn them to Hell. I point an ink-stained finger at the coppers and bulls, who, with their crisp uniforms and billy clubs, could not stop any of this from happening. Their shiny badges aren't worth a damn.
I crouch over on the bench and cover my mouth with my hands to keep myself from screaming. How long before it is my body lying beaten and bloodied in a godforsaken alleyway? How long before my legs give out, withered after years of walking miles across the city? Walking to sell newspapers, and selling them to people who don't give a damn about me, who could care less if I'd died on the spot. How long before I am trapped in one of those filthy, airless tenements with five mouths to feed and a drunken husband to attend to? How long before my life ends without ever once becoming more than the cage it already is?
They say that sometimes, all you need is a good cry to make you feel better. Then why is it the longer I cry, the worse I feel? My sides seize up and I can hardly breathe. My throat feels raw and parched, and yet I can't get myself to stop. My last thought is to pray – for myself and for those like me. For the poor and the immigrants. For the street rats and sweatshop workers. If anyone would care about people like us, it would be Jesus, right? So God, if you are listening, I can only ask that the day will come when I won't have to be living on borrowed time. I pray that the day will come when I can finally escape.
With one last sob, I find that I have exhausted myself out. I collapse on the pew and lay there on my back, gazing listlessly at the church ceiling.
"Biz?" I hear a voice from behind me. "Biz, are you there?"
"Over here," I call, raising a lazy hand so he could see.
Snipeshooter's face appears above me, tensed up in worry. "What the hell have you been doing? I've been looking for you for ages," he says angrily.
"You shouldn't curse inside a church, Snipes," I chide him softly, turning my head to face him.
His face heats up slightly, but he quickly dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. "Whatever. You could have told us you were coming here. 'Sides, it ain't Sunday. Why did you suddenly want to go to church anyway?" he asks, eying me with suspicion.
"I was praying. What else do people do in a church?" I snap, glaring at him in annoyance. "People don't only go to church on Sunday, at any rate. There's mass practically everyday of the week."
"I know that," he says, sighing in exasperation. "What I meant was that if you felt like praying, you could have said something instead of running out of the lodging house as if death himself was chasing you."
"Maybe death was chasing me, ever think about that?" I tell him seriously. "Maybe death is chasing us all."
His eyes grow big at this last statement. "Death chasing us? Jesus, Biz, I was joking."
I shrug nonchalantly. "Yeah, well, so was I."
He shakes his head, not sure whether or not to believe me. "You're crazy, Biz," he says and leans his elbows against the backrest of the bench, giving me a small smile.
I don't return the smile and instead, stare solemnly up at him. "Do you think things can change, Snipes?" I ask, my voice lowering to just above a whisper.
"What do you mean?" He looks at me in confusion, resting his chin on his arms.
"Do you think things will ever get better?" I say, closing my eyes as soon as I feel the tears start to well up again.
He thinks for a moment before confessing, "I don't know, Biz. Guess all we can do is to live long enough to find out."
His lips curve upwards and I have to grin back this time, because only Snipeshooter could say something like that.
"Come on," he says, holding a hand out to me. "We have to get home soon, or else Jack will tan my hide."
"Jack's back? Has he found a doctor?" I ask, sitting up abruptly.
"Of course," Snipes says, his face flushing with excitement as they usually did when he was telling a story. "You know how persuasive Cowboy can be. He sweet-talked some hoity toity surgeon to come by – a real doctor, not even one of those apothecary quacks! So the surgeon must have a soft spot for kids like us, because he takes one look at Tumbler and says that he'll do everything for free."
"Really?" I gasp in amazement.
"And that's not all," he continues. "It turns out that all Tumbler's got is a bruised rib and real bad shiner. The cut is deep, but the doc gave Barton some medicine and bandages to keep it clean."
"That's… Wow. Just wow." I am at a loss for words. Just a moment ago, I was bawling my eyes out, not realizing that things were not as worse as they seemed.
"Don't just sit there," he says impatiently. "Come on! You remember the last time we broke curfew…"
Without any further arguments, I let him help me to my feet. He leads me out of the church and puts his arm around me in a best-buddy kind of way. I take one look at his crooked teeth and freckled face, and for the first time in a while, I think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope.
I nudge him with my elbow. "Hey, I'll race you," I say. But before he can answer, I shoot off toward the lodging house, leaving him cursing behind me as he scrambles to catch up. Skirting around a corner, I throw my head back and laugh. Snipeshooter makes everything too easy.
Please help my people
The poor and downtrod
I thought we all were
The children of God
God help the outcasts
Children of God
A/N: Do pardon my dramatic open author's note. I have just gotten back from Universal Studios and after seeing the epicness that is the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, I have been trying to make everything else equally as exciting. While in Orlando, I watched HP7 Part 2. I bawled into my popcorn for about half the movie. Who else plans on seeing it again? I certainly do :)
I hope you enjoyed the first installment of God Help the Outcasts. There are longer and more exciting chapters to come! Thank you so much for reading and don't forget to review!