At long last, I have updated! It's short, because I didn't already have it written and I am such a slow writer. My new muse hasn't been much help either... glares at Loki

LOKI: Hey. This is the second story you've updated since you "adopted" me or whatever, so I'd quit complaining if I were you.

shrug Whatever. I did have the majority of the fight scene written already...ah well, I guess I should get on with the chapter now, eh?

LOKI: That's the general idea of updates...

Someone remind me, why did I get another smart-aleck muse?

LOKI: Cause I'm just so darn cute?

Oh...yeah...

Shout outs! Meager though they are, I love my reviewers!

Blue Boxer: Hug away! Oh, and, yes, Dutchy died, but Itey did too somewhere in there...sorry for the confusion!

LOKI: And for the gratuitous character death...

Fantasy: blushes Aww, thanks! And no, you're not the first to notice the curse of the "S"'s, as it were...although I didn't realize it myself until it was too late, lol!

lulu belle: Sweet, sounds good! Thanks for the review!!

On to the chapter! Away!!!!

---
Although Jack felt a slight weight lifted off his shoulders as an effect of confiding his feelings to the Rogers, he still couldn't shake a niggling feeling that something was not right in New York. He had known all along that they would have their normal hardships, such as getting enough to eat, earning sufficient pay to continue their stay at the lodging house and such. But still there was something…he deeply felt that they needed him for some reason. But that was impossible. He couldn't go back, he had a new life. Jack didn't quite know what is was, but he knew he had to quit dwelling on New York if he were going to do any good in his current situation.

As their former leader was busy spreading manure and other various fertilizers over the vast green fields under the not-quite risen Santa Fe sun, the New York morning was already fully in swing, hurling our heroes into another potentially dangerous day.

"How the headlines lookin today, Race?" Snitch asked with a bit of forced casualness, joining the boy on the curb and perusing the merchandise for himself.

Race looked up briefly. "Eh, I ain't gonna complain. I'll do somethin with em."

Snitch chuckled along with his friend, his voice softening. "Whatcha mean is, we got more to worry bout den da headlines, huh?"

"You got dat right, Snitch." Race shook his head and stood to his feet with a forced sigh. That kid seemed to have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Or maybe it was just his talent of stating the obvious. The truth was, most of the overall focus remained rapt to the normal mundane things of life, if not more so than usual. The boys found themselves turning to anything they could to get their minds off of the atrocities that faced them in the streets everyday. Mush had started dragging Snipeshooter along with him to the bars, Boots and Crutchy filled Race's empty place at the tracks most days after selling, and no one, not even Snitch or the little ones, dared to ask Swifty where he had been when he came home in the middle of the night, dirty and exhausted, but uncommonly happy. Now that Preacher had materialized to care for their injured, the sick room was all but shunned by the rest of the newsies. Even the ever-faithful spirits of the cheerful newcomer did nothing to abate the growing aura of foreboding that hovered over the East Side like a shroud. Race forced a smile and joined Blink, fully aware that the same thoughts were on his friend's mind as they set out for a day of half-hearted selling.

An hour or so later, Blink, having parted from Race an hour or so earlier thanks to a combination of another minor argument over leadership responsibilities and the sighting of the lovely Anabelle across the street, dug into his pockets and counted his change, looking up just in time to see Pie Eater running up to him, all but bowling him over. "Blink, dey got Mush, you gotta go 'elp 'im! Dey's working 'im over bad, ya gotta--" Pie took a wheezing gasp for air and dramatically collapsed to the ground, blood trickling into a small pool around him. "Just go, I'll be fine," he croaked. Blink noticed Snitch walking by with Swifty and called them over to tend to Pie. He then took off in the direction his fallen comrade had been running from, convinced that it wouldn't be too difficult to distinguish the particular alley in which Mush was apparently receiving the beating of his life. It didn't take him long to hear the tell-tale sounds and he was soon greeted with an enraging yet pathetic scene. Mush had been pinned to the wall by one boy while another continued to beat the living daylights out of the nearly unconscious boy. He was barely trying to fight back now. This was an alarming oddity for Mush, who could usually hold his own and more in fights.

Blink took this in for mere fractions of a second before bellowing a challenge and charging into the alley, tackling the boy that was beating Mush and laying a multitude of punches on him. The other guy quickly lost interest in Mush and was now focused on pulling Blink off of his ally, sending a fist into the other boy's good eye. Blink rolled to his feet, realizing that he was now being attacked on both sides. He dodged punches as best he could, but soon found himself in close to the same position as he had found Mush. He struggled insanely and managed to knock a few teeth out, but he then watched in horror as the red-haired boy pulled out a glinting blade. Just as Blink was about to give up all hope and pray one last time, he saw a dramatically enlarged shadow on the wall and Racetrack made his presence known with a hard punch to Cut's kidney. The boy bellowed and dropped the knife, whirling around to face Race.

Blink fell heavily to his knees and clamored to seize the knife. But the other boy was too quick. The combination of the knife in his rather large foe's hand and the maniacal gleam in his eyes alerted Blink to the ever-growing necessity of running for his life. But he cast a glance at Race grappling with the leader of the Bronx, and knew that he couldn't leave his friend. However these precious seconds spent contemplating his choices gave his adversary ample opportunity to stab the blade deep into Blink's left shoulder.

Race's attention was momentarily averted from Cut when he heard Blink cry out in pain and watched his friend collapse to the ground as Butcher yanked the knife out of his shoulder. Cut took this opportunity to catch Race off guard with a heavy blow to his midsection. Race doubled over with a grunt, quickly regaining himself and giving Cut a hard punch to the nose as Blink struggled to rise to his feet. He glanced quickly from the momentarily distracted Cut to his wounded friend to the huge boy with the knife who was about to bring it down again. With a heroic bellow, Race lunged at Butch, knocking him off his feet and sending the coveted knife skimming along the ground.

Blink pushed himself to his feet, tentatively touching his shoulder and biting his lip when his hand came back dripping with blood. He fought to stay on his feet and deftly dodged a blow from Cut, returning with a high kick to the chest. He tried as best he could to ignore the tearing pain running down his arm and through his chest as he turned to help Race, who was slowly losing to Butch. He closed his eye and dove recklessly into the midst of the squabble, figuring any more damage to himself would be rather inconsequential. In that assumption, he was wrong, as Butch had regained the knife and taken a wild slash in the area Blink dove into. He would later gain consolation in the fact that he had most likely saved Race's life. Blink's dive had pushed Race, whose throat had been in the knife's path, out of the way. However, all Blink could focus on now was the pain and massive amounts of blood he was losing from both the wound in his shoulder and the new gash in his side as he writhed on the ground, gasping for air and beginning to give up hope.

This was the scene that greeted Spot and several other of the Brooklyn boys when they appeared on the rooftops, slingshots in hands, as always. The command was given and five pellets were launched at the Bronx attackers, giving Race and Blink precious seconds to regroup. Race dashed to his friend's bleeding side as Cut and Butch took off, caught totally off guard by the rain of bullets falling on them. Their desired advantage quickly accomplished, Brooklyn descended to street level and assessed the situation.

Spot grimly shook his head and began barking out orders. "Twiggy, you run ahead to Duane Street an' let em know to get a bed ready, we got a bad case comin. Haystack, you take Blink." He cringed as the husky boy roughly lifted the nearly unconscious one into his large arms. "Careful with 'im now! He's hurt, he ain't a sack a' potatoes! Shiner, Rags, you two go back to Brooklyn, make sure dere ain't no trouble dere." All assignments delegated, Spot turned his attention to Race. "You okay, buddy?" he sighed, extending a hand to help him off the ground.

Race nodded, patting Spot on the back and following Haystack back toward the lodging house. "Ya did it again, Spot. Thanks. I thought--I thought we was goners." He shook his head and looked down at his feet, trying to ignore the trail of blood left by his friend's gaping wounds.

The rest of the relatively short walk was taken in silence. To Race it felt like miles back to safety, mostly attributed to his injuries, which were minor compared to Blink's.

They finally reached the house and Haystack lugged Blink up to the sickroom, not so carefully dropping him down on a cot. Preacher immediately rushed to his side and began assessing the damage.

"How's it lookin, Preach?" Spot asked, nodding a greeting to Twiggy, who had been at the house for a few minutes, awaiting his leader's return.

The tall, thin boy shook his head grimly as he ripped at the shreds of Blink's shirt. "I can't tell. I'll help him as best I can, but I can't make any promises." He bowed his head and sent up a silent prayer. In that simple movement, a hush of silence was cast over the entire room and the rest of the boys looked around at each other awkwardly, shuffling their feet quietly. When Preacher looked back up, he nodded and got to work.

Fifty-three minutes, thirty-two stitches, and a few flasks of whiskey later, Blink was all patched up and dozing restlessly.

"Lord willing, he'll be fine. The wounds are rather severe, and he lost a lot of blood, but he's strong, he'll make it. I can't guarantee recovery time though."

Race nodded and patted Preacher on the back. "Thanks buddy. Hadn't been fer you--" he cut himself off there, knowing that everyone present realized his implication. He walked over to Blink's bedside, squeezed his hand for a moment, bid goodbye to Spot and his boys, then headed off to the bunkroom.

Sleep didn't come easily for Race that night. It hadn't been for the past couple of weeks, but it was even worse that night. He tried his best to keep the "what if"'s, "I could've"'s, and "what are we gonna do"'s out of his head, but after a day like that, it was nigh impossible. He knew Blink would be okay, eventually, but it still scared him to death. He could've lost his best friend today. That load weighed the heaviest on his mind. He knew he shouldn't have gone to the tracks today. Mush had also endured a severe beating. If Race had been around, both of these casualties could probably have been avoided. But he just had to get out, had to get away from all this destruction and facillitate the destruction of his own life. The debts he had incured from such excessive gambling where becoming increasingly difficult to shrug off. Maybe he really was growing up. As many times as he tried to tell himself that what had happened today was no one's fault, that he really had needed to get away, he couldn't stop beating himself up. How many more? They had already lost men. Not men, even. Boys, mere boys. Boys just like himself, that had not even begun to experience the world or life yet. It had to end. Somehow, Race had to do something to end this.
---
"Here we are," Skittery announced with a sigh as he and Specs stood at the stoop of the lodging house, inwardly debating with each other over who would open the door.

"So, what, we just walk on in?" Specs was still skeptical, but he couldn't deny his eagerness to be accepted back into the house.

Skittery shrugged, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Can't do anymore harm, eh?"

Specs cast him a slightly disapproving glance, then motioned for him to open the door.

Skittery's hand lay on the knob, their portal to safety, security, and amity…or rejection, hostility, and persecution. He turned it slowly--but it didn't move. Then the other way. Still nothing. "It's locked," he announced with a nervous chuckle. He then took a deep breath and knocked, slowly but firmly, and braced himself moments later as the door slowly swung open.