The Refugees, a newsies fanfic

A/N: May continue this, may not. We shall see. I started it almost a year ago and forgot about it, and just now I unearthed it, read it over, did a little editing, and decided to share it. Let me know what you think, and whether I should try continuing.

Disclaimer: I don't own the newsies, though they actually aren't in this very much. Nor do I own the House of Refuge, Warden Snyder, or the Delancey brothers. Disney owns 'em all. I am making no money off them. No copyright infringement intended. All characters not mentioned belong to me, The Anonymous Gremlin, better known as Nym. Don't steal them. Now that we're clear on that...

The Refugees

By The Anonymous Gremlin

"Ow!! Ya jist stepped on me toe!"

"Shhhhh!"

"Aw, c'mon. Can ya honestly say ya wouldn't yelp if Stompa got ya toe?"

"Shuddup, Bug!"

"Shuddup, all o' youse! Stompa, watch ya feet bedda from now on. Ladybug, if Snyda catches us, I guarantee a lot moah o' ya's gonna be hoitin' den ya toe."

"I'se useta dat," Ladybug grumbled. "Believe me, dis's my las'--"

"Footsteps!"

"Yeah?"

"NO, I mean, I really heah footsteps!"

"Well, whadda ya waitin' fah, den!? Duck inta dat hallway!"

"Dat's wheah da footsteps are comin' from!"

"Okay, let's go dis wa-"

But before the girl could complete her sentence, a shape loomed out of the hallway and approached the three unlucky miscreants. Gulping, the ringleader slowly lifted her head to stare at the smirking, white-haired, all too familiar face of Warden Snyder.

Click.

There was the ominous sound of a key turning in the door to the single bunkroom of the Manhattan House of Refuge. It swung open, and a large, rough hand pushed two girls and a boy unceremoniously into the room. The momentum of the shove was so strong that the three collapsed in a bruised heap on the floor, and the door was instantly slammed shut and locked once more. As soon as he was certain the warden was gone, a tall black-haired boy vaulted down from his top bunk with a groan.

"Oh, Footsteps, not again."

The girl glared up from her unthreatening position, sprawled on the filthy floor. Her long, dark mahogany hair was hopelessly tangled, and her ash-grey eyes were mournful. Fresh runs and tears made her already worn grey dress a spectacle.

"I oughta soak ya, Footsteps, y'know dat," the boy grumbled, extending a hand and helping her up. He eyed the dark bruises on her arms, and predicted welts on her back as well; souvenirs of Snyder's tender mercies.

"I'd like ta see dat," Stomper muttered, dragging himself to his feet with a groan and offering a hand to Ladybug, who stuck her tongue out at it and managed to right herself with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances.

"Ya t'ink Troopa could take ya, Footsteps?" Bug demanded, leaning against the wall, cheeks flushed and damp with sweat. Rubbing her back, Footsteps winced and just managed to stagger over to her bottom bunk before collapsing. "In dis condition," Footsteps replied, smiling wryly and glancing at the tall boy, "I'd radda not find out."

"Well," Ladybug announced, sliding wearily down the wall into a sitting position, "dat's it. Dis was da las' straw. Dat was absolutely, positively, no questions ast, da las' crazy plan I'se goin' 'long wit--"

"Yeah, yeah, dat's whatcha say ev'ry time, Bug," interrupted a young blonde boy, glancing up from a card game on a bunk in the corner. "Den, da very next time Footsteps announces anudda 'escape', ya da foist ta volunteeh--"

"Is anyone gonna offa dose t'ree some help?" This came from a blonde girl of about seventeen, and Footsteps, Ladybug, and Stomper all flashed her grateful smiles. Many of the boys in the room, however, looked doubtful.

"C'mon," the girl ordered, pushing her way over to help Bug and Stomper to their bunks. "Someone get da ointment, an' Two Paih, I believe ya got a spaeh shoit we can use fah bandages. Hop to it...'less any o' youse don't want treatment nex' time ya gets a beatin'."

At this, everyone suddenly seemed very eager to help. Before long, sheets had been rigged up around the bunks of the two female patients, and the makeshift doctors had been presented with the small tin of precious ointment and strips of cloth to use as bandages.

"Honestly, Footsteps," the blonde girl muttered, softly but sternly, as Footsteps rolled onto her stomach. "How many times's it been now?"

"God, Canary, I dunno," Footsteps replied sheepishly as Canary lifted her dress and sucked in her breath sharply at the huge network of scars crisscrossing her back. The sight might have made a lesser teenager be sick. "I lost count...uh, months ago."

"Can't 'cha jist give it up?" Canary demanded, gently rubbing the cool, yellowish ointment over the fresh welts on Footsteps' back. "Ya know it's neveh gonna woik. It's been...God, ya was heah when I got heah almost a yeah ago, so it's been dat long at least. Ya got two choices: livin' in da Refuge, or livin' in da Refuge an' gettin' beaten an' loaded wit punishment chores at least once a week. Not ta mention gettin' ya sentence extended...hang on, it can't be extended anymoah, can it? Ya hit da maximum ages ago."

Footsteps remained silent, barely listening. She'd had this same conversation with Canary, Trooper, and some of the others hundreds of times, it seemed. She knew what was coming next.

"An' if ya won't t'ink o' yaself, t'ink o' de oddas. Ladybug, fah example, an' Rascal an' Cat Eyes an' Missy..." She interrupted herself to lift her patient slightly off the bed, and began to expertly wrap a handful of the improvised bandages around Footsteps' back and stomach.

"Missy got released last month, Canary."

"Well, Tops, den, or whicheveh liddle kid's been goin' 'long wit ya 'escape plans' dese days. T'ink o' dese kids dat follow ya, all trust an' innocence..." (Footsteps snorted at the word "innocence".) "...an' end up gettin' painfully disillusioned. Ev'ry single time."

"I don't make 'em come wit me," Footsteps reminded her with a shrug, pulling her dress back down and rolling over on her back again to face Canary. "It's deyre own choice. Some o' us don't wanna spend da rest o' our lives in dis rat hole."

Click. Creeeeeeeeak!

Automatically, Footsteps hurled herself off the bunk, ignoring the wave of pain that broke over her body, and pushed the sheet aside. Canary was right behind her. There were bangs all over the room as dozens of other kids practically threw themselves down from top bunks. By the time Snyder walked in, barely a second later, every kid in the room stood beside his or her bunk, posture straight and stiff, hats off for those who had been wearing them, eyes cemented to the floor. The warden entered slowly, the hated stick clasped easily in one hand, wearing his power like a cloak. Slowly, steps heavy and even, he strolled across the bunk room, stick moving quicker than the human eye, tapping smartly; first the bunk above Ten-Pin's head, then beside Rascal's elbow, then the floor barely an inch from the sore Ladybug's bare foot. It was a little game he liked to play, trying to make the kids jump or flinch; for the slightest movement would earn them a beating. Most of them, however, were too experienced by now in the ways of the Refuge to play his game. Though some of the older Refugees watched Tops worriedly out of the corners of their eyes, the young boy was frozen with terror, and didn't even move a muscle when Snyder jabbed his ribs with the stick.

At the final bunk, Snyder paused. He stood so close to its owner that she could feel his breath on her neck. Footsteps fought the urge to shudder, as strong as any physical need. She knew the warden was looking right at her. I will not look up...I will not look up...

"Hope Callaway." Snyder pronounced her name very carefully, his voice burning like dry ice. In one quick motion, his stick whipped upward, slamming into her chin and snapping her head up, so that her eyes were staring into his. The infamously poisonous smile spread slowly across his face. Footsteps felt her insides turn to melted ice cream. She blinked, steady and silent.

"You will answer me when I speak to you!" The stick lashed sharply across her shoulder. Several of the kids involuntarily winced, but Snyder ignored them. He had chosen his victim; his choice was, in fact, almost invariable.

"Yes, sah," Footsteps whispered.

"I assume you are aware that your sentence has long sinced passed the maximum length of a sentence in the House of Refuge: until the age of twenty-one."

"Yes, sah."

"I assume, therefore, that you are also aware that immediately upon reaching that age, you will be transferred to the New York State Prison."

"Yes, sah."

Snyder's lips twisted cruelly as the point of his stick jabbed her throat. His breath was hot, his eyes like hard, glittering stones. "Then be aware of this, Miss Callaway: this little game of yours is growing increasingly...old. Such behavior might be expected, of course, of a girl destined to spend the rest of her life in disciplinary institutions."

The blood was pounding in Footsteps' ears like a war drum, the words hitting harder than physical blows. She didn't even notice when the stick struck the side of her head, leaving a new and spectacular bruise. A strange sensation crept over her skin, as if she were both numb and burning simultaneously.

God, if ya put a knife in my hand right now, ya can give me jist one moah second ta live. I sweah I'll use it wisely.

Then the weight of the stick against her temple was gone, along with the hot breath on her face. Those cursed boots pounded back across the room. The door opened, and the barest flicker of relief blazed across Footsteps' mind.

"By the way, Hope." Snyder glanced over his shoulder, smirk gone and expression doing a very poor imitation of pity. "In light of your obviously troubled state of mind, I was advised by a few fellow staff members to offer your mother visitation rights, in the hopes that her presence might be able to do you some good."

No. NO. Oh God, no.

"Naturally I acted upon this good advice, and presented Mrs. Callaway with the opportunity to take advantage of these rights. I am afraid..." The warden's tone was dramatically sympathetic, "...that she turned them down."

A door slammed and a key clicked. Muscles were relaxed, eyes were lifted, hats were replaced, and the room once again filled with noise as previous activities were resumed...naps, conversations, arguments, fights, teasing, games of poker, blackjack, and craps. Tops and Bit returned to shooting marbles, Cat Eyes took up her fistfight with Kite again, and Shakespeare retreated back into his favorite corner to curl up once again with his beloved tattered book. Everyone very deliberately avoided looking at the victim of Snyder's taunts and blows, who remained frozen in place, wondering whether hatred could burn you up from the inside, until you flew apart in an explosion of flame and ash.

"Even ya own mudda, huh, Hope?"

The voice came from a stocky blonde boy. A moment later, he let out a choked cry as the girl flew at him, surprisingly strong hands closing around his throat. His fist whipped back, ready to send his attacker flying, but was caught by the hand of a taller boy.

"Shut ya mouth, Price," Trooper snarled, shoving the younger boy offhandedly into a wall. Without pausing, he pivoted and grabbed the girl by the hand, careful to avoid her bruises.

"It ain't woith it, Steps."

Footsteps glared at the unofficial leader of the Refuge prisoners. She had just been beaten, not once but twice, cruelly taunted, and then...me mudda! Damn it, how...?

Still, though longing to soak someone, she was not exactly in the mood for another soaking herself. She allowed Trooper to steer her back to her bunk. In a moment, Canary was by her side, gently touching her arm. Footsteps pulled away, closing her eyes for a moment, then opening them resolutely, a wooden smile forming on her face.

"So," she called to the bunkroom at large, "who's up fah escapin' nex' week?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Elizabeth MacRae walked slowly down Broome Street, enjoying the cool night air and the spattering of ice-white stars. Her long red hair swung free in the breeze, topped by a bright red cap with a white feather tucked in it. Coupled with the cap were a dark blue dress, which brought out her matching eyes, white socks, and red shoes. She was aware that her appearance was a bit strange even for the Fourth of July, but didn't care a bit. Da had dreamed of coming to America all his life; he used to dress her in red, white, and blue even when she was a little girl. She had developed a taste for the colors then, and hadn't lost it since. As for the cap, even Libby had to admit that it was a bit much; but Da had given it to her for her tenth birthday, and even now that she was fifteen, she still felt obligated to wear it now and then, to please him.

Entering a shadowed alleyway, Libby realized she was almost home; "home" being the Manhattan apartment she and her father were staying in. Da would scold her for being late; but, she reasoned, it wasn't her fault the fireworks had lasted longer than she'd expected. How Da had wanted to come with her, but he'd been tired out by the parade earlier; he tired so easily these days. So Libby had gone alone. Of course it was quite unusual for a young girl in New York City to travel alone, especially at night, but Libby and her father were from the rambling Scotland countryside, and therefore unaware of the dangers of the city streets.

Shoes tapping out a steady, rhythmic cadence on the alley pavestones, Libby played with the feather in her cap. She was whistling "Yankee Doodle". It was something she often did without even realizing it; her father loved the song and used to sing it all the time back home, his Scottish accent giving the words a familiar and beloved ring in Libby's ears. Besides, the band at the city square had played the tune enough times before the fireworks started to get it stuck in her head.

Perhaps it was the whistling that distracted her; in any case, Libby was certainly startled to suddenly find someone else walking the opposite way through the alley. She stopped short with a gasp. A small cry let her know that the boy hadn't meant to nearly collide with her; he hadn't known that she was there any more than she'd known he was. Craning her neck up and squinting into the darkness, Libby stared.

The stranger looked to be around seventeen or eighteen. He had thick, dark brown hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. He towered so far over Libby that the image would have been absurdly laughable to any chance observer. But she was used to virtually everyone towering over her, being an impressive 4'9". For a single moment of frozen time, she stared into his eyes, and he into hers. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Well, 'ello dere," he greeted, tipping his black bowler hat. From his ragged clothes and his accent, she pegged him as being among the lower class; this didn't bother her, as her family was not and never had been especially well off.

"Hello tae ye," she replied, and the boy's smile broadened at her accent.

"What might a liddle Scottish sprite like yerself be doin' out on da streets o' New Yawk at night, all alone, an' dressed in dat getup?" he asked her, his tone serious rather than mocking.

"I'm makin' me way home from tha fireworks, if ye truly care tae know," Libby replied, smiling winningly, so that no one could have guessed she was as wary as a hen in a fox's den.

"Dat so? I neveh coulda guessed," the boy replied teasingly, winking at her; then the serious expression returned. "Ya ain't lost, are ya? I could walk ya home."

"Nay, thank ye all tha same," Libby assured him, growing warier.

"Ya shoah? Ya don't need help or nuttin'?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

"I'm perfectly capable of decidin' what I want fer meself, thankee," Libby replied, and attempted to step around the boy. He quickly sidestepped to block her path, an ominous smirk replacing his solemn, gentle gaze.

"Hey, ya ain't gonna run off on me so soon, are ya?"

"Get outta me way," she ordered calmly, though inside her heart was pounding.

"C'mon!" The boy's tone was annoyed, almost hurt. "I jist wanna tawk ta ya." He grabbed her arm. This was a mistake. Libby immediately yanked her arm out of his grasp and screamed at the top of her lungs.

The desperate resort brought better results than she could have dreamed. It was pure luck that there happened to be a policeman patrolling the next street. The official pounding of boots approached, and a moment later, he was in the alley.

"What's all this about?" his booming voice demanded, but the question was rhetorical. It took only a glance at the scene for the officer to sum up the situation to his satisfaction. Roughly, the policeman yanked the boy away from Libby, then stared at him, recognition dawning.

"So," the cop said quietly, "we meet again, Hard Knocks."

The boy didn't answer, but the glare he gave Libby sent chills shooting down her back. "I thank ye kindly for rescuin' me, officer," she murmured, backing up nervously, "but I cannae stay, me da will be worried..."

Fifteen minutes later, the police carriage pulled up in front of a very dismal-looking building. Officer Sherman grimly led two handcuffed teenagers up to the door, one scarlet-faced and glowering, the other pale and limp with shock. The officer knocked on the door, and it was opened by a balding man with glittering eyes and a deeply disturbing smile.

"Found these two in an alley together, Warden," the policeman's grough voice announced. "This one you know well enough by now. As for the other, well, it's best to get girls like that off the street, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I would," replied the Warden, eyes gleaming brighter than ever. "Yes, I quite agree."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Steps. Steps!"

Footsteps' eyes blinked open groggily. She pushed away the hand that was shaking her, and found herself staring into a pair of brown eyes belonging to a boy with black hair and a dark complexion. He was a shrimp, several inches under five feet, and appeared even younger than his ripe old age of twelve.

"Whatcha want, kid?" she whispered irritably, starting to sit up and then dropping back onto the bunk with a groan as pain shot down her back. "Da crack o' dawn ain't da time fah a raid."

"No kiddin'," Scamp replied indignantly, speaking in a hushed voice out of respect for the rest of the Refugees, all of whom were sound asleep, "but I t'ink we's got a newcomah, an' Troopa'd kill me if I woke 'im."

"Why d'ya need ta wake anyone? What's so special 'bout a newcomah?" Footsteps demanded. She was the lightest sleeper in the Refuge and was normally the earliest riser, but on this occasion she'd been hoping to sleep off some of her injuries.

Scamp bit his lip nervously, gesturing at the vent in the corner through which he'd been listening to snatches of conversation downstairs. "Well, ya see," he explained, "from da sound o' t'ings, we's got an oldcomah, too."

At this, Footsteps swore so fluently that Scamp raised his eyebrows, then repeated the oath even more vehemently at the sound of three pairs of feet climbing the stairs outside the door. Darting to her bunk, she just managed to get out a feeble cry of, "Snyda!" before ducking her head and going rigid.

It was enough. By the time the door opened, every prisoner was wide awake, out of bed, and standing in the required position. It was a waste of time, however; Snyder merely thrust two forms into the room, shouted that they had all better be ready for chores in five minutes, locked up, and pounded back down the stairs to see to his own generous breakfast.

Immediately, the entire roomful of people crowded around to get a look at their two new companions. One of them was completely unfamiliar: a tiny redheaded girl dressed in a rather strange, mismatched outfit, and wearing a cap with a feather in it. She was staring around at all of them with an expression of utter shock and bewilderment. But she was temporarily disregarded; all eyes were on the other "newcomer", a tall brown-haired boy. Trooper was the first to break the silence.

"So." His voice was cold and wary. "Ya decided ta rejoin us. We was almost ready ta t'ink ya was gone fah good dis time."

"Whadja do now, Knocks?" The voice was Stomper's. "Rob some blind ole lady? Kidnap a baby? Moidah some kid fah 'is shoes?"

"Or p'haps fah fun?" Footsteps suggested acidly. "'Cause if I recall, ya likes ta heah 'em beg fah moicy, right, Knocks?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, and he rounded on his first challenger. "So, Troop...still heah, I see. Been runnin' t'ings while I was gone? I don't seem ta rememba hirin' ya as me substitute." His shrugged mockingly. "But dat's a'right. I can f'give ya. Anyway, I'se back now, so da responsibility's off ya shouldahs."

Trooper quirked an eyebrow in response. "I'd watch it if I was you, Knocks. Da new kid dere might get da impression dat ya da one in chahge 'round heah."

At this, everyone, including Knocks, immediately swiveled their attention to the "new kid", who, they now realized, was gazing at them with huge blue eyes.

"But ye're all...I'm...I didnae...I wasna...I never..." She cast her eyes around desperately. They settled, inexplicably, on Scamp. Suddenly a huge smile blossomed on the girl's face.

"Are ye shorter'n me?" she exclaimed excitedly.

Scamp gaped at her for a couple seconds; then he approached her, and his eyes narrowed peevishly when the top of his head came level with the bridge of her nose.

"One lousy inch," he muttered, stepping back and shaking his head. "Had me 'opes up too."

"Well, it's a wee bit comfortin'," the girl explained, tossing her hair and knocking her feather cap askew, "after bein' locked in a cellar overnight an' thrown intae jail the next mornin' just for screamin' for help!" And she favored Knocks with a glare.

To everyone's surprise, Knocks chuckled slightly. "Ya din't hafta scream, y'know. I wouldn't o' hoit 'cha. I toldja, I jist wanted ta tawk t'ya."

"Hang on!" Canary yelped, realization suddenly dawning. She shot Knocks a look of pure unbridled hatred, then spun on the newbie. "He--did 'e--did 'e--" she sputtered, too furious to get the words out. Hard Knocks supplied the answer angrily.

"Shut ya mouth, songboid. I din't do nuttin' ta hah. Bahely even touched 'ah--"

"Bahely?"

Trooper was just stepping forward to hold Canary back and prevent her from attacking Knocks when the small girl spoke up indignantly.

"Will anyone let me get a word in edgewise?" At the silence that instantly fell, she smiled slightly with satisfaction; her loud, assertive voice belied her size. "Thankee. Now, in case any o' ye were wonderin', I'm Elizabeth MacRae. Call meself Libby most o' tha time. I thankee fer yer concern," she remarked politely to Canary, who nodded, "but before anyone gets intae any fights over me, let me explain just how myself an' this gentleman--" The word dripped with sarcasm as she jerked her head at Knocks.

"--came tae be here."

Most of the kids gradually drifted back to their bunks or patches of floor as their newest member calmly related her story, which happened to begin with a parade the previous morning. She appeared startled when she was at that point interrupted by over half the people in the room.

"Yestaday was da Fourth o' July?" demanded a chorus of eager voices.

Libby stared at the sea of faces around her and slowly raised her eyebrows.

"Er...aye, it was. What date were ye all thinkin' 'twas?"

Trooper and Canary exchanged mildly exasperated glances.

"Hon," Canary quietly informed Libby, "'round heah we neveh knows da day o' da week, much less da date o' da month. In fact, it coulda been June or August fah all we knew."

"I t'ought it was still May," Ten-Pin admitted ruefully.

"What's June an' August an' May an' all dem t'ings?" Cat Eyes demanded.

A/N: I realize it ended extremely abruptly. That's because, really, it didn't end at all. I didn't mean for that to be the last line of a chapter or anything; that's just when I lost interest and stopped writing many moons ago. If I ever update this, I'll add more to this chapter before starting a new one.