Disclaimer: Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, Newsies. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words are censored.

Author's Note: Many moons ago, a number of people replied to a casting call I had posted for this story. If you were among the ones whose character was accepted, and you're still among my readership today, please let me know! I'd still love to use your character!

My Troubles with Adelaide

Spot always had been, and always would be, a man of few words. Tonight was no exception. In the main room of the Brooklyn Lodging House, he sat as a prince among thieves at a wobbly, O-shaped table, its splintered top laden with whiskey decanters, ash trays, and rusty pennies. Though an hour had elapsed since the time he'd taken his seat amongst these, the poker-players, he hadn't uttered a single syllable.

The main room was the most dimly-lit within the decrepit building Brooky's called home, with only two working lamp stands and plenty of mosquitoes dancing around the dull albeit warm bulbs. The place also maintained a most rancid stench. Sweat, body odor, alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the dead fish from the neighboring docks. It was a breeding ground for filth. You could find anything here, from blood stains on the hardwood floors to leftover sausages under the busted cushions of the room's only couch. There was no point even discussing the rat droppings by the fireplace, or the incessant leak from the ceiling closest to the fire escape.

More than this, though, it was the noise that could do you in. It was absolutely deafening. The conversations of close to five dozen street rats had a way of bordering cacophony. Especially when it was combined with the cat-and-mouse games of the runts, the piano playing and accompanying singing of the House's resident would-be musicians, and the rambunctious laughter of the teenaged whores who frequented the place in hopes of pocketing a newsboy's hard-earned pennies.

Spot scanned the room stoically. At eighteen, he was by far the eldest among his sordid brood, and truth be told, he hadn't the slightest clue why he still hung around. Eventually, it'd be time to grow up, to get a real job, to stop gallivanting about the borough like a demigod. This was child's play now. Even ever fanciful Jack Kelly had traded in his boyish cowboy hat and bandana for a time card at a well known factory in Manhattan. It's what awaited Spot, too, and he knew it.

God, did he know it. The very idea sometimes kept him awake at nights. On those nights, he'd stand at his private room's window and, with hands clasped behind his back, would survey the territory he'd one day have to renounce. The kingdom, rather.

"And then I says to the broad, 'Lady you's clearly mistakin'. See, this is my pocket, attached to my pants!"

Spot snapped from his thoughts. A cigarette hung idly from his thin lips as he glanced toward his left at tonight's storyteller. Every night's storyteller: Lucas 'Runner' Conlon, none other than the infamous Brooklyn leader's very own younger cousin, two years his junior.

Oh for Christ's sake… Runner had a mouth like that good-for-nothing, annoying-as-hell David Jacobs kid from the strike. Not only did he not know when to stop, he assumed his stories were worth telling. Spot knew two-third's of the tall tales were just that—fake. He didn't know who to pity more. Runner for his inability to keep that damn trap shut, or his listeners, who stupidly clung to every word like God himself was talking.

"And then what happened?" A boy named Matches was wide-eyed by this point, toothy grin plastered across his face while his neglected hand of cards rested face down on his table space. He was fully turned toward Runner now.

"What happened? Whaddya think happened? The broad says 'Oh, beggin' ya pardon!' and pulls her hand outta my pocket! Then she walks away. Just like that." He snapped to signify the celerity of the woman's movements.

Spot stared at the five cards he'd been afforded, mind racing through all the probabilities at his disposal should he rid himself of this card or that one. He wasn't too terribly invested in the game tonight. He sold enough Brooklyn Eagles every day to cover lodging fees, one meal a day, and a snack from a food vendor (this because he usually pilfered said snack). Besides, dusk had fallen upon Brooklyn, and he knew he'd have to make the trek to St. Adelaide's Home for Girls within the next half hour.

With record summer temperatures today, he might as well had been walking through the Sahara. He scanned the main room again, curious to see how everyone else was dealing with the notoriety of July heat, but considering all windows were opened, most his newsies seemed unfazed. The closest he came to glimpsing some pursuit of relief simply came in a boy or two fanning himself with his derby hat.

This only served to remind Spot of his own dear, gray hat, now strewn across the docks somewhere in tatters. Damn dog, he said to himself, unknowingly glaring at a King of Hearts as he reflected upon the ninety-pound horror called Adelaide. Why his hat of all things? Now he had no way by which to shield his eyes from the summer sun, or hide the mangy locks of hair he didn't always have time to comb.

"But aint I ever told you 'bout the time I snuck into Irving Hall, and all the bulls was—"

"Runner. Enough."

At the sound of Spot Conlon's voice, all those currently sitting at and huddled about the table were stricken silent. Some diverted their eyes to the floor, some uncomfortably studied their cards, and others simply cleared their throats, took swigs from their liquor, or rubbed the backs of their necks distractedly.

Runner's mouth hung ajar, more from being cut off midsentence than from any shock. "I's just tellin a story."

Heads previously turned to Runner to hear his defense quickly snapped back in Spot's direction. They knew their leader didn't tolerate back-talk. To engage in it was to entertain a death wish.

Spot's steel blue eyes settled upon his cousin.

Runner received the message in stride and quietly collected his discarded playing cards as he changed gears to develop a game plan.

Pleased with the obedience, Spot also refocused on the round of poker at hand. He slipped the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a steady stream of gray smoke. Concentration would not come. Resigned, he returned the nicotine stick to his mouth, holding it tight between his teeth while his fingers shuffled his five cards back into the deck at center. No point in letting the others see just how poorly Lady Luck had shined down upon him tonight.

"I'm out boys." He stood, then, and collected the dark blue, button-down shirt draped over the back of his chair, throwing it over his white beater. For the time being, his suspenders could stay at ease by his legs. It was too hot to feel their weight against his shoulders anyhow. He reached down to retrieve his notable cane, slipped it through a belt loop, and then leaned across the table to reclaim the money he'd gambled up until his fold. He did this not because he needed the money, but because he wished to remind his observers that such was in his power.

No one said a word.

Spot poured the pennies back into a pocket, and started away. "Runner. Come with me."

The younger Conlon inwardly groaned. For Christ's sake, it was just a story. Surely Spot could find redder blood on another newsie's hands, couldn't he? Yet without a word of defiance, Runner, too, arose. After offering his cards to an on watcher, he followed his elder out the lodging house into the humid grip of the July evening.

They strode down the docks for a time, engulfed in silence. Walking side by side, anyone might've mistaken the two as brothers, so close was their resemblance. In spite of their two-inch height difference and a disparity in eye color (Spot's were blue, Runner's green), they bore the trademarks of their Conlon legacy in every capacity. The proud stance. The soft but strong face. The thin pale lips. The arresting gaze. The dirty blonde hair.

After appearances, though, they largely departed from each other. Spot was known as many things: dangerous, volatile, temperamental, cold, ruthless. He'd long ago severed attachments with all around him, laying down from the start the rules that would keep his borough in order upon becoming leader. No one was to speak to him unless first spoken to. No one was to second guess his orders. No one was to bother him when in his private quarters of the lodging house. No one was to challenge him in front of the others—unless, of course, they wished to be beaten to within an inch of their lives. Spot was unapproachable. Distant. A newsie could stand right beside him and yet feel a block's worth of brick houses stood between he and his leader.

Runner, on the other hand? He was everything his cousin was not. Roguish, rambunctious, merry, nonchalant, outgoing. A rightful peacekeeper within the borough. There to look after the younger ones, and help sort out the mess of the older ones. Perhaps better suited for Manhattan's following by far, but still accepted only because, if nothing else, he bore a namesake to which total respect was due.

Sure, when Runner had showed up on the doorstep of the Brooklyn Lodging House nearly two years ago, it had undoubtedly taken some getting used to on the Brookys' behalves. His personality was like the bucket of ice water their leader threw at them on those winters mornings when they refused to get out of bed. It took time, but eventually he was just as much a street rat as any other kid in the city. Just not jaded, and without intention of becoming so. Perhaps that's why Spot trusted him as much as he did. Because he remained unmoved on what mattered most to him.

Finally, now yards away from the lodging house, Spot stopped and tossed his cigarette into the East River. "I've gotta head ta Fort Greene for some business," he said, without looking at Runner.

"Meetin' with another borough?"

Spot only shook his head.

Runner didn't bother extracting words from his cousin. When Spot didn't want to divulge information, he didn't. He'd always been that way. Whether it was the brief exchange of words with a one-night-stand before he left her, elementary directions to a bird about to spy on Harlem or Queens, or simply the every day would-be conversations he held with the closest things to friends he had. It was almost as if he had some vendetta against words. He tried to use them as little as possible.

"You'll look after Brooklyn for the night."

The younger raised his brows. "What?"

"Ya heard me." With that, he turned from his cousin and started on his way.

The walk to St. Adelaide's Home for Girls wasn't too terribly long. It was a habit of Spot's anyway to often stroll around his borough after hours. It was as much a way to clear his head as it was to conduct a head count on unaccounted for newsies. He couldn't care less what his boys chose to do with their meager salaries, but as far as he was concerned, the doors to the lodging house were closed and locked at midnight. Sharp. If someone noticed a missing runt, or feared for the drunken tendencies of a friend, Spot often went out of his way to track them down and shepherd them home. It wasn't neccessarily in his nature to tend to his flock, and that's not how he saw it in the least. These rounds were merely another way for him to extend his dictatorship. Rules. Warnings. Lockout. It couldn't have been clearer than day.

Keile's lodging house was a three-story, brick-faced walk up, that had seen better days but was holding its own in Fort Greene thanks to the charitable contributions of the convent that nurtured it. Above its double wooden doors hung a sign, with the building's fond name in gold script. There was a small wire-fenced garden out front, to the right of the building's stairs. At its center was a bird bath; green leaves marred the otherwise transparent little pool. It was hard to tell what colors the garden's many flowers were in the dusk, but Spot would've wagered every spectrum of the rainbow was present.

He rolled his eyes and was about to ascend the stairs before him when a shadow caught his eye. Frowning, he craned his neck back and watched the roof of Adelaide's closely. Though he couldn't glimpse anything a second time, his instinct was unsettled, and years of street life, if nothing else, taught him one thing: you always went with your instinct. He hurried to the side of the building, where he knew the fire escape would be, and started to climb. Curfew's here ran even earlier than in his own precinct. That left little imagination for this shadow's potential intentions. Spot had two guesses. A burglar, or some little punk who thought he'd be getting lucky tonight.

The Brooklyn leader was a fast climber, and within seconds, found himself upon the fire escape's first landing. He peered into one of the lodging house's windows, just in case his prey had bid himself entrance already. He was only met with the sight of an empty hallway, and the shadows cast around a staircase's steep descent. He pushed himself away from the window and stared up into the lattice-work of the fire escape's iron bars. Nothing. He began climbing again, keeping his ears attuned to the sounds around him. His hand was midair, about to take hold of a bar, when he heard the soft heave of a window sliding open.

Turning his body every which way, he could finally make out on the third floor a rectangle of light that suddenly bathed the fire escape's dark exterior. And then a body started to move through that rectangle. Spot wasted no time. Using his upper arm strength to his benefit, he hoisted himself from bar to bar, sprinting across the second landing before undertaking the last flight. His prey looked over a shoulder, and upon seeing Spot, practically threw themself through the window's small opening. Spot was at their feet before the pane could close back into place. He charged in after the intruder, and the two went tumbling to the hardwood floor, straining against and wrestling with each other. The scuffle only lasted seconds, and Spot finally pinned down his opponent, coming out on top.

But what he saw before him was the last thing he expected to encounter...

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