Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
A/N: Just a little note, this title is a reference to the famous Plato quote and the greatest comic book ever (soon to have a movie come out) Watchmen, which, I'll admit, inspired this fic somewhat (I know, it's sacrilege!). So, anyway, this is my first Newsies fic, I hope I do it justice.
Disclaimer: I don't own.
I.
He ran. Moving fleetingly through the dark shadows of the alleyway, to say he was going at a breakneck speed would be an understatement. He ran so hard his heart thudded hard enough to burst; his lungs working overtime and begging him to stop. He didn't listen; his life depended on this run.
Deep, throaty, primal screams echoed off the walls in all directions; he almost couldn't escape. He ran to dodge the demons creeping out at him in the darkness as something as fleeting as the wind hurtled after him.
Something dark and heavy caught him around the middle; he struggled as he toppled over, his arms and legs still stuck in their getaway mode. Whoever was holding him gave a hoarse laugh even as the bottoms of Blink's feet scraped against his torso in his desperation.
"Connolly, get 'im--"
Blink felt a deep, sickening thud in the pit of his stomach as another figure rushed toward him and kicked him in the stomach. Blink's mouth opened wordlessly in his pain and horror as the one still holding him around the middle grabbed his face to keep him from getting away. Connolly seemed to be under orders from someone else, as he was being restrained instead of injured.
That same hoarse laugh rang out in the alley.
"That'll show 'im, hey Manhattan, I'll show ya!"
Blink's eyes rolled desperately up at the sky as he was pinned down by the other boy. There was a light on in the building they were next to; he tried to call out for help, only to be silenced by the other boy's forearm; maybe, just maybe, whoever was in the building would just look out and see the scuffle…
"What'd I tell ya? What'd I tell ya, 'Hattan? Didn't I tell ya there was no walkin' away from 'dis?"
There were three of them; Rourke, the one currently sitting on his chest, Connolly, the one who kicked him in the gut, and Byrne, the one in charge, at least for the time being. His jack o' lantern face and yellow teeth were all the more ghoulish when lit by the moon overhead. He spoke.
"Hold the fucker up, I wanna look at 'im--"
Rourke obeyed, Blink's mind scrambled in terror, seeking out some higher deity to help him. Rourke murmured to Byrne.
"Heh, give 'im a few words…"
"The hell's he got ta say?"
Rourke chuckled darkly; he started whispering excitedly at Byrne in that strange, foreign tongue all Irish seemed to share.
Byrne grinned again, digging into his pocket and pulling out his blade.
"Hey, 'Hattan. Tell me somethin'."
Blink just stared back at him. Byrne's eyes were dancing with something quite like glee, but there was a deep malice underneath it.
"Tell me a joke."
Blink, shaking with terror, opened his mouth to speak.
"O-okay. Th-th-there o-once was a… a…"
"Speak up, kid!"
Byrne wielded the knife and stuck it in Blink's mouth, and began to carve.
Up.
Up.
Right through his cheek.
Blink was now hoarsely screaming in terror, now the left side of his face was covered in blood. Byrne began to laugh, as though the boy's abject terror did not register with him.
"What'chu smirkin' at, boyo? Huh? Huh?"
The arms holding Blink went rigid.
"An' I didn't get to hear no joke, neither…"
Byrne looked him deep into Blink's one good eye.
"Anyt'in' else you got to say? C'mon, I wanna hear it. Speak up now. I mean it. C'mon."
Blink opened his mouth again, tears leaking out as his left side opened much wider than the other. He began to speak, but all that was coming out was garbled nonsense.
"Speak up, boy. These are ya' last words. Make 'em count."
Blink struggled to speak, to say something at last…
"I…I--"
Suddenly, Byrne's hand struck like a snake, slashing a quick stripe across Blink's neck. Blink's words were cut off, and he would not say anything forever more.
Byrne seemed to find that hilarious: "What was that? Speak up, boyo, I can't hear you! Toldja ta make it count!"
As Rourke's hands released him, as Blink crumpled to the ground, Byrne keeled over, gasping for breath in his laughter. His laughter rang out across the neighborhood, chilling anyone unlucky to be in the vicinity. He laughed for what seemed like hours.
Connolly was just standing a ways away during all this; and Byrne motioned for him to assist with the cleanup.
"Connolly, c'mere. Get 'im. Let's get this fucker over with."
Connolly scooped up Blink's body and deposited him in the sack brought along for that very purpose. They stole away into the night, casting long, black shadows upon the walls.
They made it to the right doorstep: The Boy's Lodging House in Manhattan. As they perched the sack against the door, Byrne stopped suddenly.
"'Ere…"
A devilish look blazing in his eyes, he pulled out a crinkled piece of paper out and tied it to the top of the sack.
"So they'll know what they're in for."
Leaving the note that said Happy Anniversary scrawled upon it, the three strangers turned on their heels and headed back to Brooklyn, the only sounds the howling of a dog and the scuffs of their shoes.