Nonsensical. Brought to you by Newsie Challenge and the song "Dice" by Finley Quaye and William Orbit.

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"Do you realize that you're bleeding?"

It was stupid question. Spot had to resist the urge to smack the speaker upside the head. His arm hurt too badly anyway. The bullet had gone deep, to the bone, cutting through tendon. It ached. He felt as though he'd been hit in the arm with a sledgehammer, hard enough to split the skin, when in reality it had just been a tiny piece of lead. He could still feel it lodged where his bone had stopped it, heavy and invasive.

"Spot?" The kid who'd asked the question was no more than sixteen. "Spot, did you hear me?"

"If you keep talking," Spot said icily through gritted teeth, "I'm going to kill you."

The kid fell silent and Spot realized he didn't even know his name. Another day, another time, he might have asked. He didn't give a rat's ass now. His world was falling down around his ears and only the pain in his arm was keeping him from thinking too hard on how it was all over.

The sky was ablaze. Brooklyn was burning. The riots had been going on for days, but the fires had only started this morning, when the arsonists had decided it was chaotic enough for them to come crawling out of their hovels and cellars. Spot could see across the water to where Manhattan still lay untouched by fire. He wondered vaguely where Jack was as he and his unnamed companion limped toward the bridge.

Spot wasn't quite sure how this was all going to work out. He didn't know where he could go, or why he had decided on the direction they were headed. He didn't know much of anything anymore, except for the pain in his arm. And his ankle. His ankle hurt pretty badly. There was the occasional flash of distress, an alarming sense of loss that would hit him hard in the gut, stealing his breath for a few moments before the yellow of the night sky filled his eyes and he was pulled back to the fact that he was running away. What he had lost hadn't dawned on him yet. He was still too wrought with shame. The loss would come later.

"Hey," the kid said suddenly, apparently forgetting Spot's earlier threat, "When was the last time it rained?"

Spot paused, taking a few precious seconds to stare at the younger boy. "Why would you waste breath to ask me that?"

The boy looked sheepish, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. He scuffed his boot on the cobblestone; foot barely able to move without hitting rubble from buildings and wagons. "I thought maybe if it rained, it could put out the fires."

Spot was already limping forward again. The hand he had clamped over the hole in his arm was staring to stiffen up. He wasn't going to answer this kid's questions. He wasn't going to think about anything but getting away, over the bridge, to somewhere, anywhere. The shame burned hot in his gut again and this time he wasn't able to swallow it down. His city was burning and he was running away.

"God damn it." He stopped a few hundred feet short of the ramp up to the bridge and bent, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his arm and the humiliation in his chest. He couldn't understand why he was here, alone except for a boy he didn't know, about to retreat from the city he had claimed as his own. He'd been beaten, that nasty voice in his head whispered, beaten and beaten good. Someone else would be in charge tomorrow morning, someone who would not care like Spot cared, would not fight like Spot had fought.

He straightened with a gasp, eyes flying open. He was momentarily blinded by the glow of the fires that were beginning to roar closer. He turned his face up, mouth dropping open as he attempted to regain his breath. His heart was at his feet, weighting his boots so that he couldn't shift them from the road. With a great effort, Spot began to take that fatal step forward when a cool raindrop splattered on his forehead. Like the splashes of baptismal water from a priest's hand, the rain fell on his face and Spot could only stand in shock.

"Hey," the kid said, voice bright and pleased, "rain."

"Yeah," Spot answered, although it hadn't been a question, "rain."

Spot's hair was already plastered to his forehead. The hand clutching his arm dropped away and he could feel the blood begin to flow. He found he didn't care. He turned slowly, still careful of his ankle, to look out over the smoldering city. He clapped the boy on the shoulder and started back the way they had come. "Let's go."