Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I wish I did because that'd be pretty sweet, but I don't. They belong to Disney. Actually, give or take a few years, I believe that in ten years time, Disney will in fact rule the world. It certainly rules my life.
--
"God help the outcasts."
David awoke with those words on his lips. He still lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, head swimming. The sun had wrenched him from the folds of a nightmare and he had to clamp down hard on his lip to be sure that he was awake.
"What's that, David?"
He rolled onto his stomach. A pair of curious, brown eyes stared back at him. Les's face was screwed up in confusion. Understandably so. David often talked in his sleep, he had been told, but it was usually incoherent mumbles. Nothing that was even near a full sentence.
"It's nothing," he told him. "Just a song Medda sang last night. It's stuck in my head."
His younger brother heaved a sigh and gave an emphatic pout before furrowing his face up in irritation.
"How come I never get to go with you guys to Irving Hall no more?"
"Because we go late," David explained in a placating voice, grateful for the subject change. "And it's 'anymore' not 'no more.'"
Les's frown didn't go away and David heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
"Go get ready. I want to eat breakfast before the circulation bell rings."
Still frowning, Les peeled himself from the bed they had to share. Their room had but two beds and it seemed utterly improper for David to have to sleep with Sarah. He glanced over to see his sister's bed vacant. She was probably already gone to work or helping his mother cook breakfast. How hard could it be to reheat last night's soup?
David lay back on his bed and rubbed his forehead again, unable to use trivial thoughts to chase the remnants of the nightmare away. The faces peering from the darkness, masks of twisted pain. Bloated and purpling, eyes bugged. Silks scarves bound at their throats. He squeezed his eyes shut and uttered a small groan.
"David." Sarah appeared at the doorway. "Why aren't you up?"
"I am," he replied. "Just stretching."
She disappeared and David willed himself from bed. As he dressed, he tried to push the nightmare away but there it was, pressing into his mouth and eyes, imprinting itself on his mind. It was sure to haunt him for the rest of the day. He dressed halfheartedly, only pulling pants on over his longjohns and securing them with suspenders. He knew that he should pull his threadbare blue shirt back up from the window where he had left it the night before but his mind was elsewhere and he found himself just simply tugging his boots on instead.
He walked into the kitchen to see his family seated around the table, the morning sunlight lightly dusting them with an almost angelic light. It was a common scene: his father, arm still wounded, chatted with Sarah as she set the bowls down and his mother found her seat next to him. Les was kicking his legs exuberantly back and forth, one hand wrapped around his spoon to drop the soup into his mouth and the other clenching his sword that rested on the table.
"Good morning, David," his mother emerged from the family setting to address him. "Sarah got you a bowl."
Even though he was ravenous, his stomach clenched and he knew that trying to eat would only prove futile. Instead, he shook his head.
"No thanks, mama. We're going to be last in line as it is."
Les glanced up from his bowl, visibly confused. Still, he jumped down from the chair and skittered over to where David was.
"Well," Esther said, wiping her hands on her apron. "You make sure you eat lunch, David."
"Yes, mama."
But he knew that he wouldn't.
--
When David arrived at the World building, he was surprised to see that no one was in line. They were nervously milling about the gate; no one was at the desk. The stench of tobacco hung in the air and David nearly had to shut his eyes. Most of the boys were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, puffing away in agitation, passing the hastily rolled smokes around so each could have a puff. Racetrack chewed voraciously on an unlit cigar, his pale hand gripping it tightly in his thumb and forefinger.
Reflexively, he clutched Les to his side. The younger boy wriggled under the pressure of his arm in an effort to break free.
"What's going on?" David asked the moment he reached them.
Over two dozen, milky white faces glanced up at him, faces in mournful expressions. That was when David noticed something odd. Someone was missing. A rather large someone, due to how small everyone looked without their presence.
"Snoddy went missin'." Jack spat onto the ground.
David cringed back from the saliva as though it were poison. Les glanced around in confusion and he tightened his hold, hoping that it came across reassuringly.
"Missing?" he rolled the word around in his mouth, feeling anxiety mount. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Snoddy came wit' us to Irving Hall last night," Jack snapped, his usually handsome face looking haggard and sallow. "And he never came back."
David remembered sitting next to the young man during the show, talking to him. Snoddy was a boy of few words, constantly wiping his nose with his sleeve. David couldn't remember what they spoke about—Snoddy spoke nearly pure Irish and disjointed English in an accent so heavy you could almost touch it—but he remembered his eyes. Haunting, green eyes that seemed to stare right though him.
"'E was my best friend," a newsboy David knew by sight but not by name piped up from the back. He pulled tiredly on his bowler hat and gave a sigh.
If he was in a more lucid state of mind, not haunted by unexplainable nightmares or on edge from a sudden disappearance, he'd wonder why the boy was best friends with someone who could barely speak English.
"You boys buyin'?" the elderly man, Weasel's replacement whose name David had yet to catch, called down to them from his booth.
"We gotta sell, Jack," Race said, still rolling his cigar between his lips as he spoke, garbling his speech.
The other boys looked down to Jack, their leader. They always went to him for guidance. Jack would know what to do. Jack always knew what to do. David felt a small glimmer of hope as his best friend drew on a contemplative face. His brows knit together and his hands worked slowly, the grime falling into lines on them as they rubbed together.
Blink handed him the cigarette but Jack didn't take it. Instead, the blonde inserted it back into his wide mouth and was able to take a puff before Skittery seized it for himself.
"Jack?" Mush asked nervously. He was kneading a fist into his pants, the loose strings dangling from the hems over his knees.
Finally, he stood. The other boys glanced up, their dirt-streaked, frightened faces glimmering with hope. David couldn't help but stare. The effect Jack had on his boys was amazing to watch sometimes.
"Alright," he announced. "It's simple. We sell but we keep in groups and stick to our side. No goin' nowheres by yourselves and keep at least two people with ya at all times."
Race opened his mouth to protest, one hand still gripping the cigar.
"Not a word, Race," Jack commanded firmly. "No one goes on their own."
The other boys smiled slightly, elbowing each other happily and stamping out the cigarettes.
Now reassured, the others started to file into a line, Les among them. Soon, only David's closer friends remained.
"Jack." Skittery eyed him with suspicion. "You know something you ain't tellin' us. Or least them others."
David was surprised at the seriousness of that comment. He knew Skittery to be a downer, always thinking that a dark cloud was looming on the horizon, but he hadn't known him to be so intuitive.
"Yeah," Blink agreed, his good eye suddenly wide. "Even Mush coulda come up with that idea without takin' so much time."
Mush nodded his curly head in concurrence. "Yeah, Jack. You…hey!"
He whipped around to give Blink a glare and slapped him in the back of his blonde head. Jack looked about to answer but then looked up. Their eyes met and held and David knew that Skittery's insinuations were true; Jack was hiding something. Even worse.
Jack was scared.
"Dave." He broke the contact, their moment over. "Come over here. This concerns ya too."
He neared them and squatted down near Mush. The other boy gave him his usual smile, that happy ray of sunshine on his taupe-colored face, and threw a friendly arm around his shoulders and patting his chest with his free hand.
"So what gives, Cowboy?" Race asked, leaning in, his sharp, pale face furrowed in mingled excitement and fear.
Jack fiddled with his bandana, visibly nervous. David had never seen him so anxious, fidgety.
"It ain't just a disappearance," he said in a low voice. "Ain't no way some fella's gonna knife Snoddy on the street for no reason. He knew he was a newsie. I heard things last night at Irving Hall, from Brooklyn, Harlem, the Bronx. Newsies everywhere is goin' missin'. It's scarin' the other leaders. Even Spot's nervous."
David scoffed. He couldn't help it. The sight of Spot Conlon being nervous was none that he never thought he'd see. The others gave him reprimanding looks and he kept his silence.
"Spot likes to be in control, Davey," Jack explained. "When his own boys go missin', it means he ain't got the hold he had no more. Even the twins is scared."
Race balked. "The twins? Wart's always scared."
"Yeah, but so was Jester and he ain't never scared."
David had no idea who they were talking about but pretended that he did. He assumed that the twins were leaders from somewhere else in New York.
"So what're we gonna do?" Skittery asked. "You think some guy's going around New York, killing newsboys."
"Or just takin' them." Mush's eyes had gone wide. "You don't think they're dead, do ya?"
"'Course not." Blink absently patted his friend's arm. "They're fine."
Jack shrugged. "Don't know what to think. But we're in this together. So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna go to the other leaders and have talk about a…what's it called, Davey?"
"An alliance?" he offered.
"Yeah, an alliance. We watch each other's backs."
The others nodded their agreement and David felt the same rush he had felt once he had gotten into the strike, going around shaking hands and smiling and talking to Denton. But this was different. More than just pride and a tenth of a cent were on the line. They could die.
"Davey, get Les to go with Boots and Snipes and Tumbler. Pie'll watch them."
Skittery looked slightly troubled or, rather, more troubled than he usually did.
"Pie'll be fine with the little ones, Skits," Race said. "You're with us."
He shrugged. "Fine. I don't care about the kids. No way."
Jack and Race shared a brief, bemused look.
"Let's go."
Mush screwed up his face. "What about our papes?"
Jack heaved a sigh and rushed his hands through his unwashed hair. "We'll sell the afternoon edition to have enough for a stay tonight."
With that decided, the boys stood. As they left, David caught Jack staring at the boys still in line. He may have been seeing things but he thought that he saw Jack give the sign of the cross before they left.
--
They walked to the Bronx first. It seemed so dirty and cold but David had to say that it was just a trick of his mind. He remembered the cold, filthy streets in his dream. Impossible cold. Seeping into his skin, his hair, his clothes. Everything.
He spotted a group of younger children playing in the street. Their feet were bare and covered in a thick layer of grime, their faces set in grim determination as they shadowboxed and held swordfights. Most were hatless and vestless and their faces were squirrelly and streaked with soot.
"Jacky-boy and his merry band of warriors!" a jolly voice called in a Cockney accent. "Eee-hee-hee-hee-hee!"
The laugh was shrill and high. It reminded David of an animal he had read about in a pamphlet advertising a rich man safari to Africa. A furry, spotted animal with a long neck and a dog's head with a horse's mane and spots on its fur. He remembered the description of its laugh, a mocking bark sound that it made.
"Hey, Jester, what's the good word?" Race replied in mock joviality.
David then noticed the two boys seated on the cracked steps leading to an apartment building. They were of similar height and carriage, tall and lean but also carrying with them a slight bulk. One boy wore longjohns and pants and suspenders similar to what David and Skittery wore but a battered top hat that had maybe once been black was tilted coquettishly on his nest of blonde curls. A scrap of fabric was tied around his head under it. Old white gloves, rich man's gloves with the three ribs on the back, were on his hands, the fingers missing.
"Nothing doin', Racetrack." He grinned to reveal a chipped front tooth.
The second boy was very nearly identical in looks save for a dusting of tawny freckles on the bridge of his upturned nose. He was dressed in a far more normal manner, hat and vest included, and his face held a worried expression.
"Hey!" the boy in the top hat who Race had called Jester pointed at him. "You're that other strike leader. Daniel!"
"David," he corrected. "Yes."
The boy jumped from the steps and clasped David's hand in his own, the dust from the gloves clinging to his skin after he had removed his hands.
"Welcome to the Bronx, then, David."
The other boy got off of the steps cautiously and stood at his side.
"That's Wart and Jester," Jack said. "The Bronx leaders."
David felt that it was safe to assume that these two were the "twins" Jack had referred to earlier.
"We need 't talk about the boys disappearin'," Mush stated.
Blink seized his arm and drew a hand over his mouth. Mush looked around in confusion and his shoulders slumped. He mumbled something behind the muffle of Blink's hand that sounded like 'sorry.'
Jester flapped a hand airily. "No need, Kid. None of the boys can hear us. When you play, the world just seems to disappear."
His blue eyes shone nostalgically as though he were pining for the days of his youth. Then his face grew grave.
"Heck and Star went missin' last night. Left Irving early and we ain't heard from 'em since."
Wart bit his lip. "I think they was murdered."
Jester elbowed him. "They're probably off with some girls. Heck and Star is skirt chasers if I ever saw 'em."
He rounded on him. His mouth was set in a thin line.
"Oh, just like Lion disappeared last week?" he hissed.
Jack held up peacemaking hands.
"Boys," he said in a soothing voice. "Listen. One of ours went missin' too. Snoddy."
"Ah, Big'n'Quiet?" Jester asked. "Liked that fella. Listened real good."
"Now he's dead too," Wart moaned.
"Will ya be quiet?"
Skittery frowned. "He's right. They're probably dead. Your boy, Lion, was it? He'd be back by now."
David shook his head; now there were two Skitterys in the world. However, he could sense something. Skittery was pessimistic and Wart just appeared scared and worried.
"So that's why we need the Bronx to watch our backs and we'll watch yours," Jack explained.
The boys exchanged a look. Jester was the first to speak.
"Agreed, Cowboy. But we come whitcha to Brooklyn."
"Why?" David asked.
He grinned, showing that chip once more. "'Cause I wanna see Spot Conlon sweat."
--
Spot had never felt bile rise in his throat. He had never spewed it over the side of the dock and into the churning, brown waters below. He had never had his stomach rock from revulsion at the simple sight of something. He spit another, acidy splash into the water.
He had never seen a dead body before either.
The boy had been dead for awhile, it appeared. His sandy hair was smeared with blood as though he had been beaten. His skin was yellowed and his eyes bulged from their sockets: a dull, dead brown. His face was purpled and bloated, his features indiscernible. Around his neck was a knotted silk chord and a mass of yellow-violet bruises.
The boy had been hanging from the tower in which Spot reigned that morning. He smelled like rot but the sight alone was what made him violently regurgitate the bile from his stomach. His clothes were quite similar to Spot's but all in shades of tan and his feet were bare. This was not a rich boy.
Then he saw the nick in the lad's ear. A small semi-circle cut out from his right ear. He knew of only one person to have that. It was Lion, a Bronx boy. He had shot craps with him several times. Not the brightest but good at heart and Spot had found him easy to convince to hand over more money than he owed for a bad roll.
"Well, my brother," an accented voice reached him, wavering in fear. "You've now seen Spot Conlon sweat."
Spot glanced up to see the throng of boys standing on the docks. David, Mush, Skittery, Race, Jack and the twins. He wiped his mouth.
"Eat somethin' bad?" Blink forced a smile onto his face but it didn't even reach his eyes—patch included.
Spot pointed above them. Their eyes followed and within moments, David and Mush were joining him on the planks, vomiting into the water.
"Faith and Begora." Jack made the sign of the cross.
"Alla miniera del dio." Race repeated the gesture.
"Lion!" Wart called, his voice sounding wounded.
Blink nudged Skittery nervously. "What does this mean?"
Jack rounded on him and looked on, stony-faced.
"It means, Kid." He took a deep breath. "It means…we got a killer after us."
--
Author's notes: Suspense! I got inspiration and it wouldn't quit. What can I say? Knowing me, despite the fact that I'm writing a gen fic for once, there will be some romance of the slashtacular variety, I'm just not entirely sure with whom. Also, for those who read DAMY, the twins may seem familiar (just older and canonized).