A/N: The end of "The King of Brooklyn"

Warnings: Character death. General angst.

Disclaimer: Still don't own.

~* Spot: King of Brooklyn*~

He heard everything. All those little whispers that were supposed to be secret- hidden in alleyways and basements and abandoned theatres. He heard it all. And, for the first time since he was a child, he was uneasy.

Whispers of revolt, of dissent, of usurping his power. Whispers that didn't want to be heard, but were. He had to do something. He just didn't know what.

There were very few people that liked him. Respected him, yes. Would do anything to get on his good side, of course. But very few (less than a handful, really) that he would consider to speak with.

Those people wouldn't help him now, however. They were in a different place, didn't understand the importance of being in power, couldn't truly understand what he had to do to gain his place at the top.

He slowly, methodically, gave up the few possessions that he owned to the handful of people that he, in his twisted way, viewed as his friends. There were questions, of course. Questions that he couldn't deflect, so he just lashed out instead of giving an answer that wouldn't appease.

He left them, the two people that he ever liked, standing there. One with a bandana around his neck and a cane in his hand, the other with a cigar in his mouth and a chain with a key wrapped in a loose fist. He didn't look back.

He prepared. He prepared even though he knew it was hopeless and pointless and thousands of other words that ultimately meant the same thing. He was going to go down, and the only way that would happen was his, now inevitable, death.

Because that's how you got to the top. You had to kill the one that was there before you.

And when he took power, it was easier because everyone that stood watching, was on his side. This time, however, they would be booing at him whenever he made a hit.

Being a leader meant relying on the fickle opinions of your people. And his people no longer wanted him in power.

It was an ordinary day. He and his- no longer his, people stood waiting for the morning edition. A shadow loomed across from him and he knew that it was time.

He faced off his opponent, a foot taller than him and 100 pounds heavier. The teen had a switchblade stored in his boot, he knew that. After all, he heard everything.

It wasn't going to be a fair fight. He knew that. And yet.

And yet, as he stood there, almost dispassionately, he smirked. Because he was always prepared for this moment. He knew that it was going to come.

At 17 years, he was older than the boy attempting to rise above him. Wiser, one could say. Because he knew that if you win, you gain obedience and respect. However, if you win by means of cheating, that's all you gain.

He knew the minute that he pulled the knife, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he would start to lose his position. He knew that someone would think that it was fair to be unfair.

And as he walked in the middle of the circle, head and shoulders high in a manner truly befitting a king, as he walked into his execution day, he knew that the boy who killed him would not be the winner.

Because he was going to die by knife. The leader, who would never be a true leader after the newsboys realized what they supported, would be gone by this time next year.

And though this was the day that Spot Conlon died, he would always be remembered- in time, as the true king of Brooklyn.