Hey y'all! I wrote this little story quite a long time ago. And because I'm going to be taking a little two week break from fanfiction starting Monday (ugh, stupid AP testing), I'll leave you all with this. And Happy Easter to all! Love goes to who it usually goes to!

Doc picked up the stack of newspapers–a task usually done by another, and began setting them out on the magazine rack. He did this task blindly, as he didn't wish to read the headline he knew would be scrawled across the front page. After the newspapers were set, Doc wiped the tables down–again, a job usually done by another, and hung the little "Open" sign up in the window. The day was off to its normal start; minus one person of course.

The bell above the door jingled, and Doc's usual first customer walked in; he mindlessly selected a paper and plopped it down on the counter. As Doc rang him up, the man frowned at the headline: 'Gang Related Incident Kills Three; City Now Bringing More Attention to This Growing Problem'. The man scoffed at the headline and dropped into a stool by the counter.

"They keep telling me down at headquarters I just gotta understand. I don't think headquarters understands how these boys work," he said, "and today, they're gonna say I coulda of done somethin' different, an' then this wouldn't be what people would wake up to."

Doc remained unresponsive; he'd become this man's unintentional shrink over the past few years, and he was expected to listen, not to talk. Often times he'd ramble on about his job, how keeping juvenile delinquents in line was causing him to gray, and about other things Doc really didn't care to know about. But just like everything else, these early morning talks were part of a normal day. As the man reached into one of the candy jars, he motioned to Doc.

"You mind?"

Doc shook his head before handing off the paper. The man took it from him, but before leaving, pointed to one of the names listed on the front page.

"Bet yer shocked about this too. I never thought I'd see this one go; thought he was different."

~.~

At ten-thirty on the dot, three boys came into the store. These same boys came in at the same time everyday and bought the same things everyday: two bottles of Coke each, a comic book for one of them and candy bars for the other two. Then they'd stand around and talk about how the Yankees were doing, and after paying (more often than not, they'd be a few cents short, but Doc never said anything about it), they'd leave and be on their way. One of the boys picked up a newspaper upon seeing the headline.

"My old man keeps sayin' those gang fights are getting worse."

"Your old man says that everythin' is gettin' worse," said one of his friends as he skimmed a comic book. "A course that ain't really a lie."

The third boy, clad in a red baseball cap, eyed him. "That ain't funny; both these boys lived on my floor. And me and this one used to talk all the time," the boy said as he indicated a name, "ya know before he got involved with his gang. Man, he said he'd show them Puerto Ricans who was on top."

"Yeah, and then he was killed by one of them Puerto Ricans," the boy with the comic book replied as he leaned over his friend's shoulder. He saw the reality of the article, not the pretty and polished version his friends saw. He saw the words "knives" and "gun" and "blood loss" and "dead". The boy holding the paper fixed his gaze on his pessimistic friend.

"Jimmy, why ya gotta be so negative? All Will is sayin' is that his pal died honorably; he did his deed and then died in battle. Any solider would be proud to die the way he did," the boy who had originally started this discussion stated.

It almost sickened Doc to hear the boys glorifying gang warfare; talking like the fallen mentioned in the paper were World War Two heroes who died while defending the nation–defending a piece of street was more like it. Stupid it was, Doc thought; he'd lived during the war and saw things that were far better things to die for besides a…slab of concrete.

The boy drug his finger across the newspaper so as not to lose his spot. He frowned a bit as he read more of the article. "Sorry I can't say the same fer ya other pal Will; says here he ran right out into the open and got shot."

"By a Puerto Rican," comic book kid reminded his friends once again. The other two boys exchanged a look, silently agreeing that their friend just didn't understand. The boy in the baseball cap picked up his own copy of the paper. As he counted out coins, he smiled.

"I'm gonna buy one a these; just fer him."

~.~

Around lunchtime, a girl slowly entered the store. For a moment she stared at the magazine rack, unwilling to admit that the headlines were real. Part of her was still lost in the rapture of what once was, like a child not ready to grow up. She reluctantly rested her hands on the newspapers and felt their crisp edges.

Doc watched as her shaky hands picked up two copies; one for her friend and one for herself he didn't doubt. She carefully placed the newspapers on the counter and briefly glanced up at Doc. Her eyes that had been full of passion the previous night were now nothing but hollow openings; empty pools that had been drained of all their tears. All of her looked hollow, Doc thought. It was as if when the ones whom she loved left this world, so did she; Doc was just looking at her shadow.

"Thank you."

Doc glanced up, surprised she had spoken. Her words had been delicate and fragile, like the wispy fuzz of a dandelion seed, and she seemed to stumble over the simple phrase. But Doc knew what she meant. She was saying thank you for the money that was meant to aid in their escape. She was saying thank you for guiding the one whom she loved onto the right path. She was saying thank you for saving her friend. She was saying thank you for everything.

"You're welcome."

He handed her the papers, and for a brief moment, Doc thought he saw the light illuminate her eyes that must of drawn Tony towards her.

~.~

The late afternoons were the worst time of day for Doc; they were stagnant and boring and only brought heat radiating off the pavement. Usually at this time he would let Tony go on a break; but there was now no need for that. Not today, and not ever again. The silence within the store got Doc to thinking; he wondered if it would always be this quiet around here now.

The wobbly fan in the corner blew the newspapers off the rack, creating a whirlwind of swirling paper. Doc slowly picked them up, and for the first time, gazed down at the headline. There it was; the headline, printed in bold, gaudy letters flaunting, perhaps even mocking, Doc about the truth of the matter.

There were no pictures, only names of the three who where gone. The names, too, were printed in a bold font, almost as if it was a warning for anyone else who might get caught up in the frenzy of gang warfare. The story also contained a quote from a certain lieutenant, saying how he was once and for all going to stop this violence. This madness. This hate. It was funny, Doc recalled; Maria had given a similar warning last night. He wondered which one those boys would listen to more: an old man who wore a uniform, or a young girl who had her heart shattered into a million pieces. Clearly none of those boys listen to adults; if they did, Riff and Tony would still be here, and not just names printed in the paper.

~.~

It was almost closing time when he came in. Doc hadn't even heard the door open up, but when he heard heavy footfalls, and then the thud of something being dropped on the counter, he looked up; it was one of the last people whom Doc thought he'd see buying a newspaper.

"They ain't all fer me or anything," the boy said, his voice absent of the usually present anger. "The rest a the guys just didn't have a big enough pair to come an' by 'em themselves."

Doc nodded, but remained silent. That was all he ever did; remained in the background and said nothing. But as he watched the boy head towards the door with an armload of newspapers, Doc suddenly wanted to change that.

"Hey, see you around."

The boy paused in the door frame, his mouth forming into something that only happened once in a blue moon; well, for him at least.

"Yeah, you too."