Yay, it's my first Newsies fanfiction! Also, I will write most of this story listening the the Newsies songs (duh!), Fantasia 2000, and Mickey, Donald, and Goofy-The Three Musketeers. You are forewarned.

Author's Note: Keep this in mind as you read, BOTH SPOT AND RACETRACK ARE SEVEN! BUT IT IS A PROLOGUE! Okay, not that that's out of the way, on with the story!

Prologue: Seven

Seven-year-old Racetrack Higgins was practically bursting with joy. Tonight was the monthly borough poker game, and Ace was finally going to let him play. Racetrack liked Ace well enough, but he thought that she worried about him too much.

He skipped down the stairs of the Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House and ran straight into Phoenix. "You're finally getting to go?" the older boy asked. "Yep," Race said proudly. Phoenix laughed. "Just be careful."

Ace walked purposefully down the stairs. Race made a face at her. "You'se late."

Ace laughed and shook her unruly, tangled hair. "By what, fifteen seconds?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Okay, kid, we'se goin'!"

And they set off, Race tugging excitedly on Ace's hand the whole way.

"C'mon! Wese'll be late!"

Tonight's game was hosted by Brooklyn, where Ace had first met Race at Race's favorite place, Sheepshead Racetrack.

They knocked on the door of the Brooklyn Newsboy's Lodging Home, where Twine opened the door to let them into a small, dingy place with a cards table set up in the center of the room for the poker game.

They played for about an hour when it was 9:00 (Ace, Race, Sergeant-Brooklyn's leader, and Sneers-Brooklyn's second-in-command had all won some money) when a smallish boy of seven wandered down the stairs.

"Spot!" Race exclaimed happily.

Spot moved towards the table and Sergeant chuckled and took Spot on his knee. Sneers merely scowled into his cards.

"Nightmares?" Sergeant whispered.

Spot nodded and said quietly, "Yeah."

"Heya, Spot," Race said, apparently not having picked up on Spot's quieter-than-usual mood. "Wanna play cards?"

Spot slipped off of Sergeant's lap and walked over to the seat next to Race. "Sure," he smiled.

They re-dealt the cards and soon everyone except Race, sneers, and spot was out. The pile of money grew bigger and bigger. Soon, Sneers got out, cursing. It was only Race and Spot were left, until Spot laid down the winning hand.

"I can't believe it!" Sneers fumed. "Beaten by a six-year-old!"

"I'se seven," Spot said quietly but firmly.

"DON'T YOU TALK BACK TO ME!" Sneers barked. "I'SE DA SECOND OF BROOKLYN. I'SE BEEN ROUND SINCE LONHGAH DAN YA LITTLE BRAIN CAN FATTOM! I'M OLDAH. AN' I'SE RIGH'! BUT YOU'SE! JUST! SCRAWNY!" he practically screamed the last word.

"Really?" Race said, speaking up for the foist time. "Den why does Spot have dese?"

And without warning he flipped up the back of Spot's shirt. Dark welts oozed crimson blood and he had bruises that were mottled yellow. And this was just a bout a sixteenth of his back.

"SNEERS!" Sergeant bellowed, grapping Sneers by his collar. "If ya so much as step a TOE in Brooklyn, wese'll kill ya!" He threw Sneers onto the ground. "Ya got me?" he roared. "ISE'LL KILL YA MESELF!"

Sneers snapped, "Fine. But Scrawny, you'se bettah watch it. One day…"

"DIDJA HEAH ME? GET OUT!"

Sneers left one final glare for Spot, then spun and stomped out into the night.

They finished up about twenty minutes later when it was time for the boroughs to leave.

"Ya shouldn't have told him. I didn't tell ya so that you'se could tell everyone."

"Don't mattah. He shouldn't have been doin' dat anyway," Race said, before starting towards the door.

"Ise'll walk with ya," Spot offered. Ace was drunk and was bunking with Brooklyn tonight.

Race frowned. "Yah bettah not."

"Schyeah, Racetrah wil'be all wigh'," Ace slurred.

Racetrack frowned theatrically at her. " `M glad you'se believe in me `bilities so much," he said sarcastically. And he set off into the cool, moonlit night, unknowingly following the steps Sneers had taken almost half an hour before.

xXx

Sneers glowered as he left the Brooklyn lodging house. Who did that little kid from Manhattan think he was? And how did he know about Spot's beatings?

He jogged a little bit more when he idly noticed that he was in Harlem, Fishing Hook's territory, when a hand shot out, wrapped around his neck, and had him dangling on the wall.

"Hook," he choked out.

"Watchya doin' heah? Spyin' on us?" Hook asked casually.

"No. Wanna join."

"Yer from Brooklyn. Why wouldja wan to join us?"

Brooklyn and Harlem had a long history of butting heads together. Hook and Sergeant hated each other's guts.

"Given da boot by Sergeant. Want revenge."

Hook loosed his hold on Sneer's throat, who gasped in several lungfuls of air, and slowly lowered him onto the ground.

"All right, heah's watchya gotta do. Hold ya right palm out and repeat aftah me."

"I, Hook…"

"I, Sneers…"

"Will uphold Harlem to me dyin' or leavin' day…"

"Will uphold Harlem to me dyin' or leavin' day…"

"An' I'se will crush da uddah boroughs to da best of me `bilities."

"An' I'se will crush da uddah boroughs to da best of me `bilities."

"Good. Now come heah."

Sneers obliged, and Hook took out a pocketknife, and slashed both his and Sneer's hands. They both spat into their own hand, then into the others, and then clasped their hands firmly and shook.

Hook grinned. "Welcome. Now ya just gotta pwoive yaself."

Sneers thought back to earlier this evening then smiled.

"Got `ny trubbles wid `Hatten lately?"

"What makes ya ask?"

"Oh, nuttin' much. Just a little upstart..."

And then he explained his plan to Hook who said, "Good. An' if we can do dis, and make it happen like Brooklyn did it, we might even have a good war on their hands. I'se likin' it."

And so, Part One of Sneers's Operation: Revenge was put into motion.

xXx

Racetrack was walking down the lamplit street when a hand shot out of an alley and yanked him in. A rough hand clamped over his mouth.

"Don't ya dare evah again make me look bad, ya got it?"

Sneers then began strangling Racetrack, to the point where Racetrack was nearly unconscious. Sneers finally loosened his hold on Race's windpipe, but it didn't get any better.

"So," Sneers said conversationally, before picking up Racetrack like he weighed nothing and threw him into the wall. "I heah ya faddah used to abuse ya when you'se were a saplin'. I'se ready foah some `tainment."

Racetrack could barely breath at all, but managed to rasp, "Prepah ta be dis'pointed."

Sneers shrugged. "Well," he said, stomping down on Racetrack's leg before drawing a knife and advancing menacingly. "Let's just start by seeing how long it takes you to scream."

xXx

One week later

"I'se found `im!" Dutchy hollered.

Ace's heart started thudding between her ribcage so hard, it's a wonder no one heard it. After a whole week, the chance that they might've actually found him…

"You'se sure?"

"Nah, it's only a sack shaped like Rice. `Course is `im!"

Ace dashed into the alley where she found Dutchy kneeling next to a crumple Racetrack. One look at him was enough. His ghastly pale face and closed eyes testified of his pain. "How many injuries?" she asked rather breathlessly. Dutchy started rattling off injuries.

"Lemme see, well, uh… both legs is broken, cuts and bruises neahly ev'rywhere, split lip, and very large gash on that left thingy that is named aftah da church thing…"

"His temple?"

"Yeah, dat."

Ace took hold of Race's hand and stroked the back of it.

"Oh, yeah, dere's dat too…"

Ace was unsurprised to see her hand come back scarlet.

xXx

Years later, Spot grew up to be one of the toughest newsies around. He got a beautiful cane he and Racetrack named jokingly "The Black-Haired Wonder". He and his cane became very feared, and he was the most famous newsies of all New York.

As for Racetrack, well, he never really hit his growth spurt due to Sneers, who had forever stunted his growth. At age 15, he was way under five feet and felt like he weighed about sixty pounds. He became more of a cynical gambler, although the little kid was still in him. He also had another souvenir courtesy of Sneers, which were intricate, intertwining spirals on the back of his hand.

As for Sneers, well, word never really got out about him. They had a silence from Harlem all the way through the strike and after.

Eight years later from that night, though, he struck again.