Disclaimerbot: This is a scene that actually has sentimental value to it. Surprised? You should be.

Link: Hey! The whole thing has sentimental value! What about chapter 3?

Hopscotch: Since when did our disclaimerbot turn sarcastic?

Link: I don't know, but I don't like it. Die disclaimerbot!

Disclaimerbot: Because I am inanimate, I cannot die, so therefore –

Link: mocking I am inanimate, therefore I… bleh! Shut up and show the story or die a death by squeaky hammer! takes out squeaky hammer

Hopscotch: And death by waffle frier! brandishes waffle frier

Disclaimerbot: And on to the story!

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Promise Me…

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Pulitzer looked over the balcony, unconcerned with the two struggling newsies his henchmen had brought in. He watched as the newsies from all over New York gathered beneath him, like flies to flypaper. He smiled and did a small jig before continuing to watch the collecting newsies.

"Gettoff me!" Spot screamed, kicking a man in the leg. He whipped his cane out and started beating anyone within reach. The men shrank back. Pulitzer turned around and stared at them. The cronies immediately forgot the cane and dove for Spot. One man got Spot on the ground and straddled him, beating his face repeatedly. The other held down his legs and arms, creating an odd scene. Between the punches, Spot looked for Race. Racetrack, where are you? A particularly hard punch forced Spot to look away, to continue fighting back. If Spot had looked for a second longer, he would've seen the reason Race couldn't help him.

Race was sitting frozen against the wall. His eyes focused on the barrel of the revolver that was trained on him. He let his gaze wander to Spot, and flinched as Spot was repeatedly beaten over the face. The sound of a cocked trigger brought his attention back to the gun. He could see a faint tremble in Pulitzer's hand. Pulitzer brought the other hand up to steady the gun and pointed it at Race's head. Race closed his eyes and waited. Spot, help me…

Spot could barely open his eyes; his face was bloodied and swollen. His vision was getting blurry around the edges, and he could feel his consciousness leaving him. The man stopped, and Spot breathed a sigh of relief. Then a fist connected with his stomach. He grunted as the breath left his body, and he tried to curl up. The man pinned him down, wrenching his shoulders back. Spot felt a tear escape his eyes, stinging his cuts. Race, I counted on you being there, so where are you?

Pulitzer's hand shook so much that he gave up trying to hold it still. He gave the gun to a crony, saying, "Sykes, kill him." Spot looked up. Squinting through the red haze of hardening blood, he saw the gun, and could only assume its target. His previous thoughts of Race's abandon left his mind, and with the last of his strength, he flung off the weakening men. My body may be broken, but my spirit isn't…yet.

Spot ran into Sykes, biting him on the leg. I…BIT him? Sykes pulled the trigger in surprise. Spot screamed. He tackled Sykes, then looked over at Racetrack. He was sitting motionless against the balcony. There was a hole in the railing beside him. Wait, a hole in the railing?Spot looked closer at Race. He was breathing heavily and blinking. Race was alive! Spot let out a cry of joy. A second gun shot sounded. Spot's body exploded in pain.

Race shook as the bullet entered the railing inches from his face. Spot… BIT him? Idiot, he could've killed me. But Race forgot that thought as Sykes turned the gun to Spot. Race yelled, but he couldn't stop the second gun shot.

Race screamed. "Pulitzer, you bastard, you bastard, you damn bastard!" He scrambled over to Spot and caught his head before it hit the marble ground. Spot smiled.

"Race," Spot said weakly. "Where was ya? I waited an' waited an' ya neva showed up." Spot closed his eyes briefly, then gazed into Race's eyes.

"Spot, ya know that I couldn't have done nothing. Spot, I tried, I tried, I tried…" Race broke off, tears rolling off his cheeks and landing around Spot's head. One tear landed on his face, and Spot winced as salt entered his wounds.

"Ya know, I've neva seen ya… cry before." Spot reached up a shaky hand and wiped away his tears with his thumb. His hand lingered on Race's cheek, but his strength gave out, and his hand dropped limply to his side. Race continued to cry. He grabbed Spot's hand.

"Race, ya know, it's not bad ta cry. Sometimes it lets your true feelings come through." A tear escaped Spot's eye. I gotta tell him…

"Spot, do ya know what? I gotta tell a somethin'."

"Well, I ain't gonna live foreva." Spot looked up at Race expectantly.

"Um, Spot, I'm-" queer. That's stupid. Take two. "I-"love ya. Like shit I'm in love

"Get on wit it," Spot whispered.

Ah, screw it, I can't tell Spot.

"Nevermind," Race whispered back.

Spot licked his lips. He gazed into Race's eyes. At least my last living sight will be a good one…

"Race, talk ta me. I don't wanna die hearin' that bastard's voice," Spot said. He gestured to Pulitzer, squeezing Race's hand tightly.

"Well, I ain't good at this kinda stuff, but I'll try. Do ya remember when Brooklyn came an' raised all hell on the Crib back at the Manhattan Distribution Centa?" Spot smiled, remembering, and whispered, "Neva fear, Brooklyn is here."

Race nodded. "An' when ya first met David, ya thought he was a hoity-toity rich man. Ya almost refused ta help us out. And when we first met." Race's voice broke, but he recovered quickly. "Ya saved my life."

"Tell me about it. Remind me one last time." The two looked up as Pulitzer started making a speech. "Race forget 'im. Talk ta me," Spot pleaded.

"Well, I rememba that day clearly. It was rainin' hard. Jack sent me to give a message to the 'Brooklyn King'. Jack said I'd know 'im when I saw 'im. So I'se on the Brooklyn Bridge, lookin' in the riva, ya know, 'cause the rain make all those ripples when it hits the wata and it was like art, ya know? So, I'se lookin', an' I lean ova too far. I slip, an' next thing I know, I'se hangin' on ta the edge for my life. I'se slippin' and then-"

"An' then? An' then what?" Spot widened his eyes if frustration.

"Spot," Race paused. I gotta tell him now… "Ya, ya got's really blue eyes." Crap.

"…Thanks. So, what happened?" Spot asked.

"Well, ya know, I thought's, well, I'se gonna die, an' then ya grabbed my arms an' pulled me up. When I saw you was so… cute? um… short, I'se sure you'se the 'king' Jack was talkin' about. An' then ya didn't know me, so you'se yelling and-"

Spot didn't like the turn of the story, so he cut in.

"Race, promise me somethin'. Promise me that you ain't gonna die like me. You'se gonna die old. Promise?"

"Spot…?"

"Ya promise? I can't have ya die like this. I'se worked so hard so ya wouldn't end like this. Promise me." Spot tried to continue, but he coughed up a trickle of blood. His eyes looked so different, so much softer than the Brooklyn ice that Race was accustomed to. Racetrack's eyes filled with tears again.

"Spot- I promise," Race whispered. I love you, Spot. Don't leave me. A small smirk appeared on Spot's face as he closed his eyes.

"Now was that so hard?" Spot murmured. Why is this so hard? Three words. I love you. His breath left his body, anddidn't fill his lungs again. Racetrack bent over Spot's body, sobbing and whispering, "Spot, I love you."

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Link: Waaah! sobs It's so perfect! Waaaah!

Hopscotch: sniffs That was… not bad… for an idiot like you… sniffs again

Link: Hopscotch, give me a hug!

Hopscotch: hugs Link Promise me…

Link: I promise. still crying

Hopscotch: pulls away Um… well. Get back to writing, I guess.

Link: Yeah. I guess. sniffs and wipes tears

Hopscotch: Now was that so hard?

Link: starts crying again …Yeh-es!

(A/N: Bleh, the asteriks don'twork! If the previous disclaimers were confusing, try adding asteriks around the words that convey actions. Yep. Enjoy the story, and don't kill us because we killed Spot. It works out later, I promise...)