Disclaimer: I don't own the concept of newsies, but these are my characters so if you have the sick and random urge to sue someone, do it to someone else and waste your own damn time. Wow…I'm nice….SMOOCHES
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The sun sets behind the industrial buildings that line Manhattan, the children of the Hell's Kitchen sitting idly as their first moments of rest end the last bit of the day. Muscles aching, heads pounding, the lot took turns ignoring the pains of their bodies and the hunger than thundered within them. Looking at them, you can see the worldly appearance they seem to hold despite their young ages and deprived upbringing. A dozen of them, that's all there was, and that was all there needed to be.
Within the muddled group sitting there on the docks of the west side of the island, a young , somewhat dazed boy could be seen, brown hair spiked in every which way from lack of care. The leader, they said he was, yet Samuel "Snare" Kingston held himself in no rank above his comrades. Lighting a cigarette, taking a sip from the beer bottle held loosely in the other hand, he had the pensive appearance of a dreamer.
"Why in the hell does this neighborhood end with "kitchen" if there isn't a damn thing to eat a no one to cook it for me?" Sharp scowled with the faint sound of an eastern European accent, as his stomach snapped at him once more. His hazel eyes flashing, the cynical and callous boy threw his own beer bottle to the emptying streets below. He never apologized for any actions he took and never asked any questions. That was his way and that was how his companions had accepted him, for better or for worse.
"That's why they stick "Hell" in front of it, mate," Satire replied, grinning at the Bohemian despite his own famished state. Milo Verik was well known to offer any sort of witty remark and sardonic comeback, whether it was welcome or not. Pushing his square, silver framed glasses back in place on the sweating bridge of his nose, he hummed the chorus of "The Man on the Flying Trapeze".
"Leave it to Satire to find the logic in everything," came a soft English voice behind Snare., her brown hair lying flat on her head from the day's exertion. Christiana Sebille, fondly called London, smiled at her German friend before going about her business, which meant staring at nothing in exhaustion. Reciting a few lines of Shakespeare in her head, she reminded herself that beyond the industrial smoke there was something beautiful about the world. Only, with her aching limbs, it was doubtful she was going to find it any time soon.
"And leave it to you to point out the obvious," Tidbit teased, a curly blonde lock falling in front of her crystal blue eyes as she adjusted herself. As much as Satire was known for having a witty remark, Tidbit was known to have any remark. The tiny Scandinavian was given her nickname from both her small height, unusual for her sixteen years of age, and her uncanny habit of only speaking in short, choppy sentences, as if she never had a full thought at once.
Upon hearing the small one's good-natured jab at London, Jerome Aleron smiled to himself, and opted not to say a word to the small, fiery pixie before him. Of all the newsies sitting there, Saint, as he was called, could always be counted on to keep his opinions to himself for fear of seeming antagonistic in any way. A people person through-and-through, Saint had a habit of being extremely polite, and even more of a habit of being self-sacrificing. Yet, if there was one thing he could do, it was tell stories. Whether it would be from the bible, a forgotten book, or from his own head, Saint could make any story worth listening to. This helped when the morals and brilliance of tales long told seemed all but forgotten on the seedy streets of New York.
"Down, little one," came a voice next to Saint. The Hungarian tone of it automatically gave way to who spoke, as the boy the words originated from smiled at his tiny best friend. It seemed odd to many that Tidbit and Ervin "KO" Laszlo would bond so closely, for obvious reasons. The first being the complete difference in appearance, seeing at Tidbit, standing at five feet, seemed even more tiny when standing next to the 6'4" KO. It was his height, and large build, that allowed him to take on another job when the profits of selling papers didn't quite cut it: amateur boxer. Yet, it seemed the bigger he was, the bigger his heart was, being the most sensitive of their group of vagabonds. Lovingly dubbed "Gentle Giant" by the small Scandinavian, he stayed a newsie despite the bad pay, not for the money, but for the friendships involved.
"Huh?" was all that seemed to come afterwards, and as the other eleven chuckled in amusement, the small newsboy who said it sat confused and slightly embarrassed. Scatter was quite absent-minded, his thought process could be interrupted at the drop of a….ooh, bird….I mean, well, you get the point. Cyrus Manelin was hoping he would grow out of it, seeing as it kept conversations difficult to follow from time to time, and being a thirteen year old boy was enough of an excuse for his inattentive actions. Needless to say, this kept the Cyprus-born, New York-raised Scatter out of conversations that lasted more than two minutes.
"Typical. You never change, do you, Scatter?" came the calm, subdued voice of Joshua Samson. Known as Dusk for his habit of coming out in the evening and going to bed at sunrise, he had a tranquil demeanor yet a mysterious look hidden in his eyes. Getting his start selling the evening edition, he also relied on bets, pick-pocketing, and other menacing habits he picked up from life on the streets. The only son to a rabbi, Dusk had pride in his background yet lack of faith in his religion.
"Says the man who wakes up when the sun goes down," Bound said, her big mouth smiling sweetly. Endearing and amiable, Dessa Epifanio was the most approachable of the newsgirls. Always willing to give a compliment, she never quite knew how to take one herself. Being the oldest child in a motherless home, her father, though he meant well, constantly nagged at her every fault. Taking it upon herself to make a life for herself, she learned how to live life on the streets of Manhattan, her thin, almost malnourished, frame allowing her to run, leap, and climb out of harms way, earning her nickname from Snare. However, as much as she had conditioned herself to live on the streets, she still returned home to check on her siblings, still longing for a word of approval from her father.
Petite rolled her eyes at the conversation at hand. They were acting like children, badgering each other back and forth. Of course, Petite liked to think herself mature. It's the achievement every ten year old girl longs to attain. Of course, what her young mind had yet to grasp was the more you accept your age, the more you understand the brilliance of not having to act it at all times. Yet, she was still a child, and, much to her dismay, looked the part. Standing at 4'5", the small Jersey-born girl was still quite shy, a characteristic not helped by the fact that she was the second youngest of their group, and felt somewhat inferior from time to time. However, the more they got to know her, the more she seemed to come to life, and couldn't help but acknowledge that Lilka Stanislav, their little Polish princess, was vastly approaching womanhood.
It was times like these that Matthew Kingston cherished most. Though he usually kept to himself, helped by the fact that he was quite a nervous child and had a tendency to stutter, he loved to listen to his older brother and the rest simply relaxing and making small talk while they let their tired limbs rest a while. Matthew, or Stutters as he was dubbed by his brother, and soon called by the rest of the gang, was arguably the most skittish of the newsies, easily frightened and not very trusting of those on the outside. However, if it was one thing he had going for him, it would be his loyalty, if not his skills as a marbles player. Someone so small and frightened, yet always willing to back you up should the worst come, was quite rare, and none of them took it for granted.
Their eyes threatening to close, feet throbbing and arms aching, the time came for them to push through the last few hours of their working day. With the evening edition now making its way to the distribution center windows, they figured it time for them to do the same. Legs screaming in protest, they made their way to gain the last bit of profits to be had for the day, hoping against hope the headlines had improved in the last twelve hours.