Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies or any of its characters, Disney does. Winifred 'Fred' Addams is based off a friend of mine. Alley belongs to one of my best friends, as does Jo. Rainy belongs to me. :D The title of this story comes from Enigma's song "Return To Innocence."
(A/N: This story takes place in an "alternate universe" from my previous newsies stories. So Spot doesn't know and may never know my character Floaty.)
"Aw, come on, Fred!"
"I said no," Winifred 'Fred' Addams replied as she turned away from her old friend, now ex-friend, and quickly shoved her till into the cash register's drawer. Being a grocery store clerk was actually more responsibility than one would think, the money in the till was her responsibility. If there wasn't a certain amount of money in it by the end of the day she was in deep shit.
Brandon leaned against the counter and frowned, "Listen it's just a hundred bucks-"
"A hundred dollars is a lot of money," Fred replied in anger as she glared at him, "And I'm not about to steal from Mr. and Mrs. Brady, I won't do it." She crossed her arms, the grocery store had started out as a small mom and pop shop, then it grew into a state franchise, she worked in the one owned by the founders. They had known her since she was 17, and they knew she wasn't a thief, and she was most certainly not going to tarnish her reputation now.
"You used to live on the streets, we used ta pick pocket, or have you forgotten?" The 19 year old asked as he lifted the sleeve of his elbow length black shirt revealing the tattoos with the names of foster homes he had been in.
"I haven't forgotten," Fred replied, foster homes weren't always loving, kind, and fluffy like Disney movies and other shows made them out to be. The foster homes she had been placed in were so bad at times she swore she was living in a prison. Then, at 14, she and Brandon Daniels met, two orphans in two different but similarly crappy foster homes. They both agreed to run away, and did. They lived with a few other homeless kids in a larger abandoned building, their leader had been a 15 year old named Emmaline Conlon, she was the toughest kid in Brooklyn, some said her great-great-great grandfather was Spot Conlon. But whenever Fred asked her, the girl would snork and say 'I use the name Conlon 'cause kids still respect it. That's all.'
Fred had made her living pick-pocketing peoples wallets, watches, and other items. The watches she would sell. Then on her 16th birthday she had been pick pocketing from a tall older man who turned and slapped a pair of handcuffs on her. Detective O' Brady, the son of Mr. and Mrs. O' Brady. He had taken her home after she spent a week in the county jail, he was strict but he had straightened her out. Then introduced her a year later to his parents as a friend's daughter. Since then she had been living as Winifred Addams instead of Winifred Travis.
Then, not even a month before, Brandon came walking back into her life as if they had never been separated. Detective O' Brady, Tom, had been keeping tabs on Brandon and updating Fred on what he was up too. He had a record of drug abuse, selling drugs, and an assault charge. She wanted nothing more to do with him. She had been given a second chance, she was no way in hell going to throw it all away.
"I said beat it," Fred exclaimed in anger.
Brandon stared at her, his green eyes were glazed letting her know he was probably higher than a kite.
"Bitch, we were friends!"
"Were, that's the keyword, Brandon," Fred replied as she leaned forward and braced her hands on the register, "Now get out before I call the cops."
"The Fred I knew woulda beat my ass to the ground by now," he smirked.
"The Fred you knew is dead," she replied, "And she stays dead."
"Yeah, sure, don't worry baby, I'll bring her back," he smirked.
Fred bared her teeth, "Get. Out."
"Winifred, are you having trouble with this young man?" Questioned a regular customer, Minnie, as everyone called her since she dressed a bit like Minnie Mouse.
"No, miss, he was just on his way-" She started when Brandon leaned forward and whipped out a gun.
Fred's heart beat stopped for a moment, the Brandon she had known hated guns since his birth father was always threatening them with one. Now here he was using one.
"Everyone get the hell on the floor!" He shouted, "Now! Get down!" He shouted, his long dark brown hair flying as he twisted and turned his head, then fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Customers screamed and gasped, most falling to the floor, some however quickly darted into the bathrooms and locked the doors. She prayed they had cell phones so they could call the cops. Mr. and Mrs. O' Brady had long since refused to put an alarm system in their original grocery store, saying people should be trusted since there's good in everyone. She had agreed with Tom when she learned of this, they were naive to modern times.
Brandon turned and glared at her, his narrow face looked longer when he squared his jaw, "Open the register and give me the money, bitch. NOW!"
"Alright, just don't shoot anyone, Bran--"
"Don't use my name!"
"Alright, alright," she replied as she opened the drawer, it let out a long bang as it always did when it opened. Brandon's eyes widened and he lifted the gun up to her.
"No! It's just the register, it's old-" She tried to explain, throwing her hands in front of her. A moment later a loud bang followed by the worst and piercing pain she had ever experienced in her entire life took her over. She felt herself falling to the floor, heard screams and cries. Then Brandon stood over her babbling something that sounded like 'what have I done? Fred, get up, get up Fred!' She stared up at him as his image blurred even more, then entirely faded along with the rest of the world...
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"Got a hot tip on da fourth," Exclaimed Racetrack Higgins to Weasel as he struck his match against the bar over the distribution center's large window.
"Youse shoah dis time?" Weasel questioned, narrowing his beady eyes as he did.
"I'se shoah, dis source is more reliable, I swear!" Racetrack replied, from the corner of his eye he watched as Morris rolled his eyes, Jack chuckled, and Davey waited to buy his papes.
"Foine, forty papes for Racetrack!"
Race was about to give a sarcastic thank you when a loud thud made everyone jump.
"What da hell was dat?" Oscar asked wide eyed, looking at Race as if the noise had been his fault.
"Don't look at me!" Race replied, then lunged when something long and solid fell from the top of the Distribution office's roof and onto the wooden planks. Racetrack was amazed, lying in front of him was a beautiful girl around his age in....Strange clothing. She wore pants made of a strange blue fabric, a white blouse, and a green apron with the name 'O ' Brady's Mart' on the front. Her blonde-reddish hair was pulled back into a pony tail.
"Whose dat and how'd she get up dere?" Snipeshooter asked.
"Dunno," Race replied, just as baffled as the younger newsie was. He squatted down and poked her, she was warm but there was no reaction. Damn, he hoped she wasn't dead.
"'Ello dere," he tried.
Blink walked over and knelt down and put his fingers onto the side of her throat.
"What are ya doin'?" Jack asked, curiously from behind Race.
"Checkin' her pulse, read in it one of da headlines dat a person can tell when another is a live or dead by the feel of deys heartbeat on their neck," Blink replied, "Its....Beating..."
"Well den get heh off me walkway!" Snapped Weasel.
"She's hoit!" Exclaimed another newsie from behind Blink, "Look at her side, it's bleedin'!"
Race peeked over to her right side, and sure enough, the blouse was stained with dark red blood. Who was this girl and what happened to her? He frowned, every part of him wanted to help her, yet another part of him was convinced she was trouble.
"What's goin' on heah?" Questioned the instantly recognizable voice of Brooklyn himself.
Race quickly stood and got out of the way, even though Spot's friends had nothing to fear from him they all knew to get out of his way when he wanted to see something.
The short, but tough, newsboy walked over, his large gray cap hiding most of his hair and bangs and casting a slight shadow over his ocean blue eyes. Every newsie knew that when a glint was in those blue eyes and his jaw squared, you got the hell away as quick as you could. Spot didn't get his reputation as the as the most feared and respected newsie in all of New York for no reason at all.
Spot stared up at Oscar and Morris, "Open da dooah, she needs help."
"Not happenin', Conlon," Sneered Morris.
"She's hoit!" Spot argued.
"Whatevah trouble she was in I'se ain't havin' in heah," Weasel replied, "Youse just take her wid youse awll!"
Spot sneered, that look came over his face as he lowered his head and glared at the two Delancey brothers and their uncle before sneering.
"Race, Mush, get ovah here. Youse lodging house is closest, let's get her dere befoah she bleeds ta death. Blink go ask Kloppman if dat nephew of his can drop by da lodgin' house. Tell 'im it's an emergency, a goil got shot." Spot ordered.
Jack had already joined him by then, "Mush pick her up, Race give me one of youse papes," he exclaimed.
Race reached onto the distrubution counter and grabbed one. Cowboy took it and a few newsies climbed up the ramp and covered the view so Oscar, Morris, and Weasel wouldn't see anything. Jack's face started to glow beat red as he untucked the woman's blouse from her pants. When he couldn't lift the shirt, he quickly untied the apron, newsies all quickly looked away. Jack quickly shoved the paper over her wound to cover and try to soak up most of the blood.
"Take heh ta da lodgin' house, hurry," he exclaimed. He watched as Mush ran off and began to follow, then noticed the way that both Race and Spot were staring after the girl. Concern mixed with curiosity and something else that he recognized all too well. It was the look a man got when they found a pretty girl, he just hoped this girl wasn't in a deadly sort of trouble. The last thing he'd want to do was kick a wounded person, no less a girl, out on the streets. But to protect his newsies he would.
-----------------------
Spot waited in the lobby with Jacky-Boy, Race, Blink, and Mush. It had been half an hour since they had brought the mystery girl whose name was Winifred (thanks to the strange pin with her name on it that Mush had found on her apron) into the Lodging House.
Kloppman's nephew hadn't said a single thing, he had just glanced at her and his face began to look doubtful.
"I'se hope she don't die," Blink said softly, "She don't look like she'd hoit anyone."
"Looks ah deceivin', we'se awll know dat," Spot replied.
Blink and the others nodded in agreement.
The four continued to wait in silence for another hour before the door opened. Timothy Kloppman walked out of the room, wiping his hands on a rag. Spot stared at the blood and his stomach clenched, with so much of a blood loss would that girl survive?
"She's alive," Timothy exclaimed, as if reading their thoughts, "However she's suffered severe blood loss. But she's strong, I think she'll make it."
"What do we'se do when she wakes up?" Jack questioned.
"Make sure she keeps in bed, have her eat good and healthy food, but take it slowly. Let her drink some water first, then introduce her to food. Only small portions at a time so she doesn't become sick. Then send someone to my office and I'll come back to see how she is."
"How long 'till she's bettah?" Mush asked.
"Healed? The bullet wound was deeper than it appeared, however it didn't seem to hurt any organs. Until her blood restores and she's healthy enough to be out and about, it could be weeks. And don't treat her like a victim."
"But she is a victim," Spot pointed out.
"Yes, but a victim, from my experience, hates being treated like a victim. Be nice, but don't smother her, is all I'm saying." Timothy replied, "Uncle James, if you need me you know where I shall be."
"I will, thank you Tim," Kloppman replied with a nod.
"So whad do we'se do now?" Race frowned.
"We'se wait," Jack replied.
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Scraping. She heard scraping, oh God, was Brandon reloading his gun? She hoped not, she tried to move but a pain from he side stopped her, she gave a small whimper. When she first heard the noise she couldn't remember what had happened, then it had returned to her. Brandon coming into the grocery store wanting a hundred dollars. Her saying no, him pulling out a gun and shooting her. It was her fault that he was even there, he had tracked her down somehow, how was she going to apologize to Mr. and Mrs. O' Brady and still have their trust?
Then the image of Brandon standing there in front of her counter with his tight shirt and semi-baggy pants pointing a gun at her reappeared in her mind. He shot me! That bastard shot me! Part of her was in shock he'd do such a thing, the other part of her wasn't surprised, the last part of her wanted revenge.
She tried to move again.
"Woah, don't move it's ok," exclaimed a male voice with a Brooklyn accent.
Brooklyn? Brooklyn was at least 50 miles away, she lived in a small town in a rural part of New York, away from the big city.
She blinked, the room she was in was fuzzy, she stared up at something white and brown. What the hell? She blinked again, after a long minute her eyes focused. Above her was another bed, she was in a bunk bed?
"Where am I?" She asked, her voice came out hoarse and slurred as if she hadn't used it in ages.
"Youse in Manhattan," replied the voice, "Can ya see awright?"
"Yeah..." She replied before turning her head over to the voice, she stared at the boy in front of her.
"Tell me this is all a bad dream," she exclaimed at seeing the boy sitting beside her bed. He wore turn of the century clothing with a black cane with a silver top on it, and a slingshot poking out from his right pocket. His eyes seemed to spark with amusement, he looked like he was a year or two older than herself. His eyes were either stormy gray or blue, she couldn't tell, she'd never been too great with distinguishing colors. His shirt was the color of the a midwinter sky, his corduroy pants were brown, and boots were light brown and well worn.
"Youse alive and youse awake, finally," the boy exclaimed, "Youse been asleep now for a week."
"A week? Is everyone ok? Is Minnie ok? What about the other customers? Did the ones in the bathroom call 911? Did the cops come?"
"Woah, slow down!" The kid exclaimed as he lifted his hand, "Minnie? An' what da hell is a cop?"
"Cop, police officer," Fred replied, confused, why didn't this kid know this? Where was she? "Okay, this is a joke, my adopted...erm....Father put you up tot his didn't he? Make me wake up and think I'm dead, ha ha, Tom, real funny! I get the point, my old life came back to haunt me and nearly killed me. Come on out!"
"What are youse talkin about?" The kid asked, "I'se don't know no one named Tom. Dis ain't a joke, goil," he exclaimed, his tone deepening, "Youse were shot, youse were bleedin', da doctah was able to save ya but youse were lucky."
I get a third chance at life....Someone must be really watching out over me....Whoever it is, thank you, Fred thought to herself.
"What's your name?" She asked.
"Conlon. Spot Conlon."
She stared at him and laughed.
"What's so funny?" He asked as he stood, his eyes shining with anger at being laughed at.
"Spot Conlon died in 1978! It's 2009 buddy, if I'm part of your reenactment, just tell me."
"Reenactment? Whad's that?" He asked, then shook his mind, "Nevah mind! I'se quite alive! Me names Spot Conlon!"
Fred looked around the room and recognized it as a Newsie Lodging House. There was still one standing in Brooklyn, it was an old abandoned building that people say was haunted. The furniture was the same way it looked in the history books, and she stared at the so-called Spot...She had to admit he looked just like him. She paused and looked around, no electrical outlets, nothing modern.
"Where am I or should I ask...When am I?" She whispered, her heart pounding. Time Travel was said possible but a person would have to go through a black hole in outer space. Kind of impossible to do, and scientists had no idea if a person would survive or not.
He stared, "Youse kidding? Youse don't know what year it is?"
"No. I am not joking," she replied.
"It's June, 1899."
"Oooh shit," Fred brothe out, so she wasn't crazy.
"What's youse name?"
"Fred," she replied.
"Fred? Dat weird pin of youse said yer name is Winifred."
"Pin? Oh yeah, my name badge," she replied as she reached a hand to forehead, "Yeah I work at a local grocery store. My nickname is Fred."
"Dat's a boy's name."
"Think I give a damn?" She shot back as she rubbed her temple, "Thank you for saving my life."
"Youse welcome."
"But I want to go back to my own time, I need to find a way...." She said softly before putting her elbows onto the mattress, she attempted to sit up. Her plan was ended when a huge pain traveled through her body and froze her entire right side, she cried out and fell back onto the mattress, her head spun, she began to feel sick.
"I'se said don't move!" Spot exclaimed, "Youse were shot, and youse lost a lot of blood."
"How much blood?"
"Enough ta soak through a 40 paged newspaper."
"Ah shit, that's not good."
"For a goil youse sure do cuss," he commented, "Havin' a toilet mouth don't make you tough."
"I grew up on the streets mostly, so sue me."
"So did I'se and most da kids in heah."
Fred fell silent, "Sorry, I'm sorry. I'll clean up my mouth, I swear."
"How did youse get shot? Ah youse in some kinda trouble?"
"The Grocery Store - ah, market - where I work was robbed by a guy I grew up with. When I opened the cash register drawer he thought it was a gunshot. He shot me." She said softly, Brandon shot her. She bit her lip and looked away, she shouldn't have been emotionally hurt by it. She didn't know him anymore, he was a drug addict, not worth her time according to Tom. But it hurt that the kid she had befriended and grown up with years ago had....Shot her, and almost killed her.
"Youse awright?"
"I'm fine," she replied, "Just...Glad you found me."
"Hey, she's awake!" Exclaimed a new voice.
Fred looked over at the new voice curiously, an Italian kid walked over to her. He had a young face, dark brown eyes that seemed to go on forever, and inky black pupils that looked friendly instead of terrifying. His attire reminded her of a turn of the century gambler.
"Hey dere," he greeted, "I'se Racetrack Higgins," he smiled as he reached up to his head and took off his hat before sticking the cigar he had been holding back into his mouth.
"Winifred Deverauex, friends call me Fred," she smiled.
"Heya Fred, I'se see ya met Spot heah. He's da Brooklyn Newsboy Leader."
"The most feared and respected newsboy in all of New York," Fred replied, "He's....Very interesting."
"He can be," Race replied with a smile, "Hey guys she's awake!" He exclaimed as he turned around.
Fred's eyes went huge when the room filled with more men than she had seen in her entire life in one building. Damn, this place would be any single girl's idea of heaven! She stared at each of the boys and took in the names that were quickly flying at her...Snoddy, Snitch, SnipeShooter, Specks, Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly, Mush, Kid Blink (she was almost sure there was a gangster in Murder Inc. with that same nickname), Dutchy, Bumlets, Tumbler, Boots, Pie Eater, Jake (what do you know a normal name, she thought to herself).
Then looking further a few newsgirls shouted out their names, Floaty, Jo, Alley, and Rainy.
"Ah...Hi...I'm Fred," she greeted.
"She needs a bettah nickname dan dat!" Jack exclaimed.
"I'se agree, Jacky-Boy," Spot replied with a smirk, "She's got nerve and sarcasm an' she's quick wid comebacks."
"So help me, whatever name you give me had better be good," she exclaimed, her dark brown eyes narrowing.
"Wits?" Suggested Blink.
"Nah," replied Spot as he sat down and placed his chin in his hand, he appeared to be in deep thought.
"How 'bout we stick with Fred?" Fred asked, "It's my nickname and I like it."
"It's a boy's name, and youse need a newsie name," Spot replied, his tone filled with authority.
"Sir! Yes, Sir!" She shouted and saluted, causing every newsie to jump.
Spot's eyes narrowed, "What da hell was dat?"
"I come from...A long way away, and where I come from soldiers are very loud and clear when addressing their commanding officer," she replied.
"Oh," Spot replied, then went back into his train of thought.
If that thing gets derailed he's screwed, Fred thought to herself, the kid looked like he was gonna bust his head open in a moment.
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Racetrack Higgins stared at Fred, she seemed to want to keep her own nickname and wasn't appreciating Spot trying to change it. He wasn't sure if another name could suit her as well as Fred did. It fit her, in its own way.
"How bout we'se just leave it Fred? It's easy ta remember," he suggested.
Spot glanced at him, "No."
"I agree with Racetrack," Fred replied, "I'm keeping my nickname of Fred, I've had the nickname since I was 14! I'm not letting you - or anyone else at that - change my nickname when you've known me for only what...Ten, fifteen minutes?"
Race winced, he to admit this girl had nerve, but she needed to save that nerve to help her to survive and stop aiming it at Spot. Though he had to admit he wished the Brooklyn leader would get away from her. He wanted to be near her, talk to her, learn who she was. He didn't want this injured girl to become another one of Spot's famous 'adventures.'
"What about Blade?" Race asked, hoping she'd like the name, she seemed to be tough and any tough person would like and appreciate the name. Right?
"A vampire hunter?" She asked, then cocked her head to the side, "Blade. Hmmm...Nah, too sharp. But it was a good try, Racetrack, I'm sticking with Fred, Conlon."
"Where ah youse from?" Spot asked.
Oh no, he was going to nickname her after the place she came from. She stared at him before he caught her eye and quickly shook his head no. Athens, a newsgirl over in Queens, was named after her hometown and hated it. Each time she tried to change her nickname Spot would order the newsies to never call her by it, most listened, but some didn't.
"Whad about Athena?" Jack asked.
"No," Fred replied, obviously not amused.
Spot stared at her, "Badge?"
"No."
"Wits."
"No."
"Courage."
"No."
Race listened to all the nickname ideas and each time Fred turned them down, finally after nearly half an hour everyone agreed, her nickname was Fred.....And there was no changing it.