Disclaimer: I don't own anything that sounds familiar in this story, whether it be the newsies, their names, the streets, etc. They belong to the Disney people. BUT I do own my made up character(s) and the plot of this thingy, so please ask if you would like to use anything. I don't bite... hard... ^_^
This actually isn't my first attempt at writing Newsies fanfics, but it's the first that I've ever posted, so...
I'm going to try and experiment with something... writing short chapters but posting more often... I don't know where this fic will lead, so bear with me. Especially when it sounds confusing.
A/N: The Prologue is set up in a play sort-of format. I know it isn't formal script format, but I didn't know how to portray this in plain narration, and this seemed to work best. Oh, and one other thing. I couldn't resist writing this with an accent, but since the story will continue in third person after, the accent will only appear in dialogue. Please tell me if it's too hard to read, and I will repost this with a lighter accent, and try to lighten it up later on. I tried to make the words recognizable, in some way, shape, or form.
Prologue: Shadow(Small, disheveled, dirty-looking girl who looks about 12 years old walks out on stage)
(Nods pleasantly, but eyes are wary and calculating)
Heya. Me name's Shadow. Don't know who gave me dat name, it jist kinda stuck. If ya haven't figured it out, I lives on da streets. I'se what dey calls a "street rat". Yeah, I knows whatcha t'inkin'. How could a liddle puny-lookin' thing like me survive out deah? I ain't throwin' my life away woikin' in dose stinkin' hellholes dey call a factory, and dey won't let me sell papes 'cause I'se a goil. It don't look like dere's lots a' uddah choices left, does it? And I don't look like I can afford tah be picky, too, right?
(A laugh; hand strokes side pocket)
Too bad. Da ones dat know ain't nevah gonna be able tah tell ya.
(Quick as lightning, hand pulls out slingshot and lets fly)
I'se an assassin. Ya see dat thing dat went flyin' ovah deah? Dat ain't no shootah. Dat's a t'ing wid a needle 'ttached to da end. And dat needle's got poison. Anyone gets shot wid it, it hoits foh a second, den ya can't feel it no moah.
'Cause yer dead.
(Returns slingshot to pocket)
And guess what? I'se got an assignment. Deah's a contract out on da most powahful man in New Yawk. Ya evah hoid a' him? 'is name's Pulitzer.
Joseph Pulitzer.