Author's Shout Outs:

Scamley Elliot~This chapter would not have come into existence without you. Thanks for bugging me, hon…it works. ^_^

StormShadow~Have I ever mentioned how much I love, love, love your beautiful long detailed reviews? I love them!! *hopes Stitch-chan is still occasionally lurking around the Midnight Flare area of ff.net*

My NML Reviewers~You gals know who you are, and you know I love you to death. But I want to add my usual special mentions to Eire, Runaway, Tree, and Sparks.

My TSRIRP Girls~Just 'cause you are my sisters. *huggles* Long live random insanity!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I wrote this chapter at some absolutely unmentionable hour of the night. My sweat and blood went into this thing…literally…so you'd best appreciate it! *snickers* No, that's not what I meant to say. The point is, I did not exactly proofread this chapter. ^^' So if you notice any typos, or you've got any constructive criticism (*pokes Runaway*), speak up, my loves. Also…if you happen to encounter anything…er, faintly bizarre…like, say, random gorey flashbacks or…talking to dice…I swear your Flare-chan is not abusing any substances…except her sleep-deprived body and mind.

Without further ado…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Out of all the girls her age in New York City...possibly out of all the people her age...Flick was the last one to feel or show fear at a pair of thugs.

But Flick was not stupid. By the light of the moon, she absorbed the appearance of these two with the seasoned eye, having a solid decade of street rat's experience under her belt. And there was no getting around it; she did not like what she saw.

She was small and muscular; these boys were huge and muscular. She was fifteen years old; they had to be at least eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her face was somewhat cold, but clearly proclaimed her emotions at any time except during a poker game. Their faces may as well have been stone; that was the extent of their coldness, hardness, and utter vacancy of feeling. Entirely against Flick's wishes, a shiver coursed down her spine. She had seen faces like that before. Beating her up when she was five years old, despite her ferocious struggles to fight back. Coming after kids she knew, old associates from Harlem, when they had failed to pay debts or keep their mouths shut about something. And, she couldn't help recalling, with a sharp twist in her stomach that almost caused her to gag, a face like that had belonged to the man she had killed last month.

From their words, she had to surmise that the boys were Queens newsies. But that made no sense. That would mean that Flick had soaked both of them, and quite a few of their colleagues, in the now-infamous borough fight in Manhattan.

Of course, Flick barely remembered the events of that fight. If asked to describe a single one of the boys she had knocked out, she would more likely start rambling about a red haze. It was only her overwhelming fury and grief that had allowed her to achieve a feat which would normally be quite impossible. Gulping quietly as the two newsboys approached her from either side, she found herself wishing desperately for just a bit of that incentive now.

To her dismay, she surfaced from this evaluation of her plight to find herself slowly backing out of the alley.

This was not right. This did not work. She was Flick O'Grady, one of the toughest and most infamous fighters in Manhattan and Harlem, with what was possibly the worst temper in the city. She loved to fight, she had been fighting almost constantly for the past few weeks, and just a moment ago she had been wishing to find a fight. Well, here was her wish, in the flesh, and it was time to take advantage of it.

Before she could act on this decision, however, the larger of the boys saved her the trouble. She barely had a chance to blink, much less block the attack, before his fist had slammed into her eye.

The pain was like a miniature explosion; but even more painful was the shock. Even as her hand automatically shot out to smash the boy's away, even as her knee bent and her leg shot out to deliver a kick to his stomach that sent him stumbling backward, she struggled to remember the last time someone had managed to land a blow on her. Just one blow.

Not since she'd come to Manhattan. Not since long before she'd come to Manhattan.

In fact, not counting the terrible struggle with Song's murderer, which had ended up making Flick an inadvertent killer herself, this was the first real fight she'd had in months. The so-called "fights" that were causing such an uproar among her Manhattan friends were not fights at all. They were soakings. And she was always the one doing the soaking.

This was the real thing. This was a case of worthy opponents. More than worthy; these were hardened, seasoned fighters. Flick had thought that this definition applied to her as well. But she was out of practice.

Everything happened so fast. At first, the black eye roused enough indignation in Flick to try and live up to her usual standard. She deftly leapt, spun, and ducked around her attackers in a dance for which she had learned the steps long ago, looking for openings and aiming punches and kicks. It was the style she had used against Queens before; and from the frustration her adversaries clearly felt, they remembered it well. But she had forgotten...stupidly forgotten...that fighting styles can be learned, memorized, and combatted much more easily the second time around.

Her attempts were hardly shabby, but they were not succeeding. She hadn't even managed to touch either of the boys since her first retaliation when they tired of blocking her, and chose to return to the offense position.

And Flick had to sacrifice every drop of dignity and start dodging.

She dodged right and left, backward and forward, over and under, around and between, as she had not been forced to dodge in far too many years. And if she had gotten just a wee bit rusty in her fighting, defense was stretching her so thin that it was only a matter of time before she came out of this with a lot more than a black eye.

Then, in a flash, everything changed one last time. In a flash of steel that shot out of the smaller boy's boot, clutched in his hand, to catch the moonlight and give off a silver glint colder and starker than any other light.

A split second after that flash of silver was all it took for Flick to realize that she might not come out of this at all.

"T'ink yer tough now, liddle goil?" the Queens newsie whispered, a truly sickening leer cracking across that stone face, revealing broken teeth and releasing stale breath on Flick's face. "T'ink yer sometin', knockin' down big Queens boys like dominoes? Ain't doin' so well t'night, are ya, dragon?"

Some fragment of Flick's mind wondered irrelevantly, almost peevishly, how that irritating nickname that Race had come up with had managed to spread. The rest of her mind was experiencing something quite different. In the space of a moment, a second, a breath, three images flashed through it.

The first was a memory, one that she had re-lived once on the riverbank with Racetrack's encouragement, and dozens of times since, though less vividly. An eighteen-year-old girl lay motionless outside a Harlem pub, golden hair fanned out around her, navy dress stained with blood and pierced with the unmistakably gleaming form of a knife.

The second, another memory, almost as painful and terrible as the first, though less often reflected on. In this one, it was a man who lay outside the very same bar, eyes dull, hair matted and greasy, stinking of beer. And Flick herself stood over him, knuckles white as she clutched a different knife and watched blood drip from its tip onto the lifeless body.

The third image to flash across Flick's mind was definitely not a memory. Yet it was as grisly as its predecessors, and the most horrifying yet. For the body portrayed in this one had bright red hair and wore a black newsie cap, and the blade that protruded from it was the very one that flashed in front of Flick's face now, with a tiny chip missing halfway down the handle.

That knife came flying toward her, and she leapt backward, fell, rolled to her feet, and ran as she had never run before in her life.

The footsteps behind her pounded the ground like thunder, and every one was like a jolt through her body, pushing her to run faster. That knife, with its glittering blade and chipped handle, appeared behind her eyes every time she blinked, and she had no desire to see it again any other way. She paid no heed whatsoever to the blurs on either side of her that were streets, buildings, and the occasional tree. Her mind was focused on only three points: her feet, the pounding behind her that represented two pairs of footsteps, and putting as much distance between those first two points as possible.

She could not have come close to guessing how many blocks she had run when the alley came into sight. When it did, there was no time for hesitation. The first alley she had seen tonight had been a curse; this one just might be a blessing. Without slowing down, without losing a bit of momentum, Flick veered off-course, charged into the alley, and ran headlong into someone who was already occupying it. That person, whoever it was, voiced a brief cry as they both tumbled to the ground, which was quickly muffled by Flick's hand.

They both listened in tense silence until two pairs of footsteps had passed the alley and kept right on running. Until those footsteps had finally passed out of earshot.

Then Flick removed her hand from the mouth of the person she had run into. She rolled away and forced herself to stand, attempting to catch her breath while trying to get a look at her companion in the darkness as he, too, rose to his feet. When her eyes did adjust, however, they widened in incredulous shock. A pair of equally incredulous brown eyes stared back, from a light tan face about half a foot below hers.

"So," Flick said conversationally, "da papes say biz'ness's been good fer yer type 'round heah."

The boy didn't reply, but eyed the open street wistfully.

"Youse shoah been pickin' da newsies dry, I heah. Rich folks, too. Mosta da borough, actu'lly. Ya part of a gang or sometin'?"

The young pickpocket spoke, but ignored her question, instead asking one his own. "How many papes does fifty cents buy?"

"A hundred," Flick informed him.

He gulped. "Oh."

"Not ta say I din't desoive havin' dat stolen," she added casually, taking a step toward him. "I know ya was mad at me, fer tellin' bloody lies ta make money!"

At the sudden fury in her voice, the boy jumped back and spoke very quickly. "It wasn't ta make money! Dere was no money involved! An' it wasn't a lie, a'right, well, it wasn't true, but I b'lieved it at da time?" He chose that moment to make a break for it, attempting to dash out of the alley. He was fast, Flick had to admit that; but she easily anticipated the move and grabbed his arm, yanking him around again to face her.

"Yeah?" So wheah'd ya heah it? An' why da he** didja care enough ta come ta Manhattan, track me down, an' get me ta bloody confess ta it in front o' four o' my friends? An' den, da next mornin', why on oith didja come back ta tell Secret an' me 'bout da fight? An' who da he** are ya anyway!?"

She hadn't even realized that she had been twisting the kid's arm during this entire speech until a sharp gasp alerted her to the fact. Then, quickly, as if that gasp had not been voluntary and he didn't appreciate it, her captive followed it with an annoyed suggestion. "If yer gonna be firin' questions at me, ya wanna stop dat long enough fer me ta answa one?"

Flick stopped, and actually grinned. Helplessness and tears had never moved her in the least, but she had an incurable weakness for spunk.

"A'right. Why don'cha try das last one?"

Somehow, he apparently did remember the last question, and answered it promptly and simply. "I'se Scamp."

The newsgirl snorted. "I'll say."

"An' yer Flick."

"No kiddin'."

"Dere was a rumah goin' 'round Harlem dat ya killed Song, an' I hoid it, 'cause I heah moah or less ev'rytin', y'know. It made me real mad. I jist couldn't b'lieve anyone'd do dat. An' get away wit it! So I found out dat ya went ta Manhattan, an' I jist kinda..."

"Stalked me."

"Well...yeah."

"An' figuah'd ya'd get back at me fer moidah by pickin' my pocket, squeezin' out a confession, an' makin' my friends hate me."

"What else was I s'posta do?" Scamp demanded.

He had a point, Flick realized. He couldn't exactly have gone to the bulls.

"So how'd ya find out it wasn't true?"

"Harlem," he explained. "Afta...uh...da whole t'ing in Central Park, I went dere an' tawked ta da newsies. Well, a'right," he admitted in response to her expression, "I was tryin' ta convince dem too. But dey din't b'lieve a woid o' it. Dey told me ya neveh killed Song, dat it was some drunk who was mad oveh some pokah game. I figuah'd dey knew ya bedda den I did, so I came back ta Manhattan da next mornin' ta find ya, an' saw da war goin' on."

"An' ya tried ta make it all up ta Secret an' me by trackin' us down, wakin' us up, an' tellin' us ta go fight."

"Dat was da general idea." He met her eyes. "Got any moah questions?"

"Yeah," Flick replied thoughtfully. "Why'dja care so much when ya t'ought I killed Song? Ya said it ta me yaself once, if I rememba right: kids die all da time on da streets. Why make such a big deal outta one ya neveh knew?"

Scamp's eyes dropped from her face now, and intently examined a collection of old cigar butts on the ground.

"I useta listen ta her play."

Flick's jaw dropped. Unconsciously, she released Scamp's arm. He pulled it back and rubbed it absently, but made no move to leave.

"Look," he blurted out, "ya want me ta show ya back ta Manhattan?"

"Ya want me ta soak ya?" Flick offered, voice sharpening along with the re-opening of an old wound.

"Not really. Ya wanna spend da night in Queens?" A distinct hint of a smirk flickered on Scamp's face. "Or maybe ya know yer way back?"

Flick's eyes narrowed. The logic was irrefutable. You didn't have to be Secret to see that accepting this offer was the only sensible course of action.

"A'right," she muttered at last, "guess dat can cancel da fifty cents ya owe me."

"Sounds good ta me," Scamp replied.

And he was off. Flick had some trouble keeping up with him in the darkness; he really was very fast, and he obviously knew the borough like the back of his hand. But not once did he slow down or look back to see if she was keeping up all right; he probably knew that she would slug him if he did. Accepting this much help was painful enough for her. Although Flick's heart was pounding furiously during the entire trek, Scamp used a complex route of twists and turns and obscure side streets, and there was no sign of the knife-wielding newsie and his crony.

Then, all at once, Flick turned a corner in pursuit of her guide and found that Scamp had vanished completely.

For a moment, she merely stood frozen in place, staring all around her in disbelief. Then she ran down the street, stopping dead in her tracks when she found that it forked, splitting off into two new streets. Down each one in turn she gazed, and then she called.

"Hello?"

There was no answer.

"Scamp?"

Nothing.

"Kid, if ya don't get out heah dis instant, I sweah I will track ya down an' slit ya throat!"

But the boy did not materialize.

Flick shivered. The night was awfully dark, and awfully cold. Somewhere in this borough, a couple people were hunting her with a knife. And she was suddenly very, very alone.

I can't believe I trusted dat kid. I absolutely can't believe dat. When's da las' time I trusted anyone widdout question, let alone a da**  pickpocket!?

At least he had led her this far…if it was even the right way. Considering her dilemma, she decided to assume for now that Scamp's directions up to this point had been accurate. Now that he had so conveniently vanished, it was up to her to choose between the two potential paths.

One of them might lead her back to Manhattan. The other was sure to lead deeper into Queens.

Ooh, I'se always hated decisions, Flick reflected mournfully. Spontaneous, impulsive, that was her style. Charging in without looking ahead, and without looking back. Her "decisions" were no more than random, inexplicable whims. But this one might cost her her life.

Mulling the situation over, with that blasted knife flashing across her mind again every few seconds, it was by pure chance that Flick's hand happened to stray into her pocket. It wasn't the pocket in which she kept her money and Song's old deck of cards, and she was used to regarding it as empty. So she was surprised when her fingers brushed against something small and rough. Frowning, she wrapped them around the object and withdrew it, lifting it close to her face to discern its identity.

It was not just one "something", but two. A pair of roughly carved wooden cubes, each with a pattern of tiny dots engraved in each side. They didn't match; one was red and the other was white. But their nature was unmistakable. Dice!

Dice that had come from…where?

She flipped through her memory like a book.

A-ha! Dice that had come from Racetrack's pocket after she had spent an hour or two crying hysterically on the riverbank.

Why she had made him give her those dice, she had not known at the time, and had no more idea now. She had long since forgotten the incident, and supposed Race probably had too. But here they were, and they were all she had to work with.

"Yer gonna help me get outta heah," Flick informed the dice.

The dice did not answer, but stared blankly with their dice-dot eyes, white on the red die and black on the white one.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, an urgent alarm went off. Emoigency! Emoigency! it shrieked. Tawkin' ta dice! Tawkin' ta dice! Emoigency!

Flick ignored it.

"Yep," she re-stated quite firmly, "yer gonna help me get outta heah. I jist need ta figuah out how."

It wasn't a particularly ingenius concept. Her eyes simply fell on one of the streets at random; it happened to be the left one. She trotted over to that street and once again peered down its night-shrouded length. It looked just as unfamiliar as the other one. Shrugging, she lifted the dice to eye level again.

"A'right, heah's da deal," she explained calmly. "Odd numba, yes; even numba, no."

And she flipped her hand upside-down and opened her fingers, releasing the dice and allowing them to summersault down through the air and softly clatter onto the street. Nodding with satisfaction, she bent down to pluck them from the ground and examine them. The red die had landed on the number two; the white die on four. Together, they added up to six, an even number.

"No?" Flick eyed the dice suspiciously for a moment before pocketing them again. "Well," she muttered as she took off down the path they had chosen for her, "I hope yer right."

The moment the door to the lodging house opened, Racetrack was on his feet.

"S'bout time--Flick!?!"

For it was none other than Flick O'Grady who entered the building, letting the door slam behind her. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Yet his surprise was about to increase a good deal.

"Flick," he gasped, taking several tentative steps toward her and covering his mouth with one hand. "Wha--what happened?

Startled, her hand shot up to her left eye, which was ringed in an outstanding shiner. It was as if she had forgotten it was there.

With that realization, and Race standing before her, another memory seemed to hit her as well. He could tell from the way her face darkened that their fight earlier that night had not been prevalent in her mind until that moment.

"I'll deal wit you tomorra," she growled, her tone both angry and exhausted. With that, she swung around, grabbed the pen by the registration book, signed it in one practiced motion, crossed the lobby, and proceeded into the bunkroom. Race watched the door shut behind her, shook his head, and resumed his seat, pulling out a new cigar.

As she felt for her nightgown in the darkness, it occurred to Flick that Race hadn't followed her into the bunkroom. Also, she felt that something wasn't quite right here in this room full of sleeping newsies. And it didn't take her long to realize what it was.

     She hadn't been the only person Racetrack was waiting up for. The bunks belonging to the members of the Brooklyn visiting party were empty.