Author's Note: Yeah, yeah, I know...I really should be working on A Thin Line Between Love and Hate, but I was in the process of working on it (hey I've written 13 additional pages, alright?) and I suddenly got an idea for a drabble. And somehow...it turned into this...

It has now been re-vamped. No story changes. Just a few typos and odd sentences I had to fix.

Disclaimer: I don't own these boys, I just make them do whatever I want...Legally. Disney owns them!

Warnings: Eventual SPRACE SLASH, and mild language later. Um...you might cry...but probably not.

1892

Spot Conlon's life sucked. At least, most of it did. He'd gone a lot of his life without parents, after they had died all those years ago. There had been a fire, and Spot had been the only one to escape. Though he will never know why.

His only recollection of the night, was waking up to his lungs filling with smoke and him being unable to breathe. He hadn't been more than nine years old, and his first reaction was fear. And all he wanted was to get away. Away from the smoke, away from the heat that had suddenly overcome him. He just wanted out. He fell to the floor and crawled in the direction he knew the door was - his memory told him even though his eyes couldn't. He clamored, using his hands to find where he was. His fingers reached the doorknob and his hand burned. The heat from the other side of the door nearly seared his skin. He had two choices: Brace himself for the flames that could possibly kill him, or find another way out. He felt the sweat drip from his face and decided against braving the deadly fire. He got as low to the floor as he could - as his parents had always told him to do in case of a fire. He crawled to the window and forced it open. The air that shot in allowed him to take a deep breath for the first time. He climbed out the window of his Brooklyn home into the cold air. As he lowered himself to the ground, he could swear he heard his mother calling his name. The name he could no longer remember. He ran, and climbed a tree. And there he sat...watching his home disappear into the night - the horribly dark night that was lit only by the blazing flames that destroyed everything he had. And although he had hoped...deep down he knew. There was no way he'd ever see his parents again. And tears ran down his face, slowly landing on the ground far below him, and on the clothes that clung to his body with sweat. He fell asleep on the branch of that tree...the crackling of the flames the last sound he heard before drifting into slumber.

In the morning when the boy woke, all that was left of his home was a black, empty, ash-filled shell of a building. There was nothing. The boy took a walk towards the structure - if it could even be called a structure anymore - but couldn't bear to enter, for the thought of what he would (or wouldn't) find inside. A slight shimmer on the ground caught his attention. He reached down to pick up a silver key from a pile of ash. He wiped it off and clutched it in his hand. He gazed up at the black nothing in front of him - the nothing that used to be everything. He allowed himself one tear. A single tear, which fell to the earth and splattered at his feet. And he told himself: Never again would he cry. Never again would he love. And never again would he show fear. He needed nothing. He needed no one.

He had no choice but to live on his own. And for a short while...he was successful. Sleeping in alleyways, or in hay bales meant for horses. It wasn't so hard. Being small, he would often gain pity from passersby who would buy him food. And when he wasn't having any luck, he was sneaky and tricky enough to steal some. A loaf of bread from a bakery - he could make it last for days, or more if he had to. Things were okay...until the day he was caught. He had picked a bad day to steal a tomato, he guessed. It was the turn of the winter, and he had begun to grow tired. Normally, he could easily outrun any copper that chased after him. That day, he was unlucky. He had swiped a tomato from a vegetable stand and had begun to take off. He could hear the voices of the stand-owner and the bulls yelling, and he made a huge mistake - he looked back. He hit a patch of ice and was brought quickly to the ground. He tried his hardest to get up, but it was no use. Two policemen already had him by the arms and were dragging him into their coach. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn't break free of their grasp.

And he sat in the back, not knowing what was going to happen to him. When the horses stopped, his heart began to race. But he told himself over and over: No fear. No fear. And he wasn't afraid. The door of the car opened and there stood a man. But it was not either of the officers he had encountered before. Or any of the bulls he had escaped from many times on the streets. This man introduced himself as Warden Snyder, and informed the boy that he was at a place called the Refuge. The Refuge. He had heard of it before - people on the streets. But he had certainly not heard good things. No fear No Fear. He was brought - though brought wasn't the right word, more like shoved - into the Refuge and thrown into a room that must've had twenty boys in it. It was bleak. Dirty walls, bars on the windows, and beds that didn't seem fit for animals, let alone children who were supposed "criminals." This wasn't jail...this was hell.

Every boy in the room eyed him. But he held his stance, his face straight, and walked down to the end of the aisle where he reached an empty bottom bunk. He kept a cold look on his face as he plopped himself onto the bed. He heard whispers from the other boys but didn't let it get to him. On the bed, he found a thick, brown string, probably abandoned by the bed's last inhabitant. He pulled his key out of his pocket and pulled the string though the hole, tying the ends together and hanging it around his neck. He sat there fingering the key, telling himself: Don't cry - no tears. Suddenly he felt a presence - a set of eyes burning into him.

"What's the key foah?" He looked towards the voice. In the bunk next to him sat a small, brown-haired boy appeared to be about a year older than himself.

"None a' yoah business."

"Ooooh, touchy." The boy stood and re-sat himself on the bed on which the key-bearing boy was sitting. "You can call me Racetrack, or Race, for shoaht." This Racetrack bore a thick Italian accent, and carried a cigar in his hand. "Whadda they call you?" He opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn't. It escaped him. He...couldn't remember his own name. It had been lost like so many other memories. It had been almost a year since he'd been spoken to or referred to as anything other than "hey, you, boy!"

"I ain't got a nickname." Racetrack seemed slightly confused, and began to show disinterest.

"Well, ah...I didn't wanna tell ya since it's yer first day heah an' all...but yoah in my spot."

"What?"

"I said...yoah in my spot. Dis is my bed."

"So?"

"'So?' Yoah in my spot. Dis is my spot. No one takes my spot." Geez, Racetrack was using the word 'spot' so many times at him it might as well have been his name.

"Stop saying 'spot'."

"What?"

"You've said the word 'spot' like...six times. Stop."

"Does it...annoy you?"

"Yes." Racetrack grinned.

"Spot. Spot. Spot. Spot. Spot. Hey! Ya know what? I'm gonna call ya Spot!"

"Please don't."

"Too late." 'Spot' sighed and rolled his eyes. Racetrack moved back to his previous bed and rolled onto his back, staring at the upper bunk. "So Spot. Whaddaya in foah?" Spot fell back on his pillow.

"I jus' wanted a stinkin' tomato!" Racetrack wrinkled his eyebrows and began laughing. It was an interesting laugh. It was kind of...funny. When Racetrack laughed, it sounded somewhere between a chipmunk and a sheep. "Sheepmunk."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Author's Note: Well, I hope you are liking! And please tell me how it was written and...all that junk...just...LEAVE A REVIEW PEOPLE! Chapter 2 will be up some time this week.