A/N: I hate this chapter. :-/ Nothing happens in it. Nothing at all. It's all expository-ish and emotion-ish and such. But you guys deserved an update so much that I had to provide one, however pathetic. You also deserve to beat me to death, so I'm working on getting a name change. That should keep me safe from my dear Chelsea, and Scamley Elliot, and anyone else who's...wait a second...blast it all, Tree knows my address...I'm doomed.

September 23, 1899, Half Past Noon

Manhattan

Mush waited fifteen minutes at the square before deciding that Secret would not be joining him. He smiled to himself as he sauntered down the street, brightly rattling off the decent headlines of the afternoon edition. This just went to show how brilliant his idea had been; Secret was probably baring her soul to Victoria and doing some essential female bonding. Of course she would be too busy to keep the haphazard appointment he had set.

He spent the afternoon and evening selling papers in blissful ignorance, attributing the continued lack of Secret to the fact that this was, after all, New York. Doubtless she had chosen to sell on her own after the little bonding session, or come across one or two of their mutual selling partners. The fact that Mush hadn't run into her was no cause for alarm. He was still in a cheerful state of mind when he met up with Blink back on Duane Street after finishing his sales.

"Mush!" The blonde boy smiled a greeting as they approached the lodging house together. "Been lookin' all oveh da borough fer ya. Wheah on oith's Secret? Wheah'd ya take 'er, anyway?"

"Took 'er ta meet me goil," Mush replied proudly. "Left 'er at Vicky's apartment ta tawk. Victoria prob'ly helped 'er sort out whateveh was bodderin' her, don'cha t'ink?"

Blink shrugged rather dubiously. "Guess anytin's woith a try at dis point."

"Any sign o' Race or Flick?"

"Nah, but you know dose two. Dey'll find a race, or a pokah game, or some nice romantic getaway..." Grinning, Blink dodged an elbow in the ribs for that last suggestion. "...an' be gone half da night if dey feels like it."

With that, he flung open the door of the lodging house, the two friends entered the lobby, and their hearts simultaneously turned to lead.

The room was in a state suggesting nothing short of disaster. Everywhere, newsboys sat or stood, alone or in pairs or larger clusters, assuming various positions of dejection and resigned doom. Chins were cradled mournfully, faces hidden in hands, fists clenched, fingers restlessly drumming surfaces. Dark mutterings filled the lobby like the ominous buzzing of an angry beehive. Mush and Blink exchanged panicked glances. Though these mutterings were a slight improvement on the shroud-like silence of the occasion both were recalling, this scene was still reminiscent of the bunkroom after the two of them had proclaimed Flick a murderer.

"I knew it," Blink babbled in horror. "Mass suicide! Race, Flick, an' Secret went an' jumped off da Brooklyn Bridge togedda."

Turning away from a tense discussion with Crutchy and Snoddy, it was a Jack, pale and grim, who first noticed the new arrivals and addressed their confusion.

"Nah, it ain't come ta dat yet," he said, waving Blink and Mush over. "Flick an' Race are jist out late sellin' or gamblin', I guess. But Secret...well, suicide's da best woid fer it."

"Oh God." An ashen-faced, fiercely guilty Mush sank into the chair across from Jack, Blink taking the seat next to him. "What's she done?"

"A kid came by a few minutes ago," Crutchy took over. "A Brooklyn newsie, 'bout nine or ten. He told us..." The boy faltered and turned plaintively to Snoddy.

"He told us," Snoddy finished gravely, "dat Secret's in Brooklyn. An' she ain't comin' back."

"It's hopeless, Race," Flick declared through a deep, disgruntled yawn. "An' ya know it's hopeless when I'se willin' ta admit defeat. No one's interested in politics, local events, or even scandals at dis unholy houah."

"Sounds ta me like da flame's boinin' out," was Racetrack's teasing response, earning himself a smack in the face with his partner's hat. "Y'know, I oughta get myself painted as a target, one giant bull's-eye. It'd make t'ings even easiah fer ya."

The two hapless newsies were dragging themselves down a dingy Manhattan street, sleepily offering their last few papers to the shady nocturnal clientele. Unbeknownst to both of them, a small boy was eavesdropping on their conversation. Knots gulped as he timidly crept out of the shadows to block their path. Why did he always get stuck playing messenger? Just because he was fast, good with directions, and small enough to be bullied into it? In any case, he had dropped the bombshell on the Duane Street lodging house as Spot had instructed, and now there were only these two stragglers left to inform. Knots wouldn't have bothered with them, but Secret had been adament that Flick in particular be told.

The newsies halted at the sudden appearance of an obstacle.

"Ya want sometin', kid?" Flick asked lightly, trying not to sound quite as menacing as usual while she sized up a scrawny boy with ruffled brown hair.

"Yeah, um..." The youngster shifted nervously from side to side, eyes darting toward Race and then settling on Flick, staring openly at this legend. "I got a message fer youse."

"Yeah?" Race didn't sound remotely menacing, merely guarded and puzzled. "From who?"

Ooh boy, thought Knots. "From, uh, Spot Conlon."

As he'd expected, both of them tensed, and Flick's fists clenched reflexively.

"If he's lookin' fer payment fer any age-old pokah game, he can come see us 'imself an' talk it oveh," she challenged, ignoring the fact that Race winced in firm disapproval of that idea.

"N-no, it ain't dat..." Knots took a step back; Flick tended to have that effect on people. "It's just...he wanted ta let youse know...he wanted ta pass on da message dat Secret's moved ta Brooklyn."

"I wouldn't o' hoit 'im," Flick grumbled, storming up the ladder that led past the lodging house's fire escape and onto the roof. "He was jist a kid."

"Flick, I don't trust ya ta stick ta ya morals when ya eyes are dat shade," Race replied, examining his sore arm, a souvenir of restraining her while Knots had made his hasty getaway.

They completed the climb in silence, resuming their dialogue only when they had seated themselves on the rooftop, leaning back on their elbows with a view of the hazy stars.

"I neveh t'ought it'd come ta dis," Flick whispered into the night. "Not like dis, not so sudden, widdout...she ain't even got 'er stuff! No clothes or nuttin'. She'll hafta come back fer dose, at least."

"Sometin' happened," Race stated quietly. Flick snorted.

"I'll say. She an' Conlon got all oveh each odda las' night an' declahed vows o' etoinal love. She figuah'd dat radda den come right out an' tell us, she'd be a cowahd an' run off soon as she got a chance. Din't hafta face any o' us, see?"

"She will hafta eventually, an' she knows dat," Race argued. "It's sometin' else, Flick. She ain't jist doin' dis outta some blind passion fer da leadeh o' Brooklyn."

"Ya'd like ta t'ink not, wouldn't 'cha? But wit dat way she's been actin' lately, I'se afraid Spot's all da motive she needs."

They sat in silence for a time, before Race selected the old fallback, producing his faithful deck of cards. That night, playing by diluted moonlight, a shivering, dark-eyed Flick O'Grady lost a poker game to Racetrack Higgins for the first time.

September 24, 1899, 6:00 A.M.

Brooklyn

Secret was awakened in a strange bunk, in a strange room, by a din fit to knock the angels out of heaven. Her original impression was a mob of ten thousand or so. The reality was six Brooklyn newsgirls.

"What time is it?" Secret groaned pitifully, hoping to be heard over the frenzied shouts and conversation, footsteps pounding every which way, and pillows crashing into the faces of those who couldn't dodge quick enough.

"Six A.M.," answered a wry, familiar voice. Secret peeled her eyes open to see Bat, leader of the Brooklyn girls, standing over her bunk. "Rise an' shine, Manhattan princess. Dis is when Brooklyn newsies start da day."

A venomous snicker sounded from the small washroom. Through the patially open door, Secret caught a glimpse of Dagger brushing her hair and smirking. Suddenly, she found herself grabbed by both hands and dragged out of bed in one energetic tug. Staggering before she was able to stand, she stared, bleary-eyed, into a wickedly grinning face.

"Buenos dias, chica loca! Que tal?"

"Snake, it's too oyly fer Spanish," protested a blonde in a red blouse and skirt, who Secret didn't recognize.

At this, an unnaturally chipper Mulberry, smoothing wrinkles from her modest grey dress, shook her head and translated. "She said, 'Good mornin', crazy goil, how are ya?'"

While Snake Eyes glared at the indignity of someone else understanding her native tongue, a dusty shape wriggled triumphantly out from under a bunk, standing and bearing a missing shoe. "Dis place becomes moah of a pigsty ev'ry day," Broom pronounced. "I'se gonna be cleanin' up dis mornin's messes alone fer da next week."

"No one eveh ast ya to," Dagger pointed out sweetly, emerging from the washroom with her hair brushed to a glossy sheen. Offhandly, she added, "Hey, Val, why ain'cha introduced yaself yet? Shoahly ya ain't shy o' our newest goil?"

At this, the bunkroom went oddly quiet. The blonde in red stopped halfway to the washroom, and when she turned toward Secret, her cheeks were flushed crimson.

"I'se sorry," she murmured, sounding sincere, but awkward. "I'se Valentine. Welcome ta Brooklyn, Secret."

Her smile held traces of pain, an emotion Secret could read all too well. And her eyes...her gentle hazel eyes contained a warning.

"C'mon, chica!" Snake Eyes broke the spell of silence, pulling Secret toward the washroom. "I'll lend ya a dress."

Dressing and washing mechanically alongside the other girls, Secret might have observed a few points of interest: soapy water "accidentally" splashed in her eyes by Dagger, frequent furtive glances from Valentine, a brief but intense muttered argument between Bat and Snake Eyes. Yet she missed it all, barely even noticing when a tiny, owl-eyed girl seemed to step out of the woodwork as they streamed out of the bunkroom. Secret had other things on her mind--namely, the constant repitition of the sentence, Dis's mad...mad...mad.

"Good mornin', milady. Sleep well?"

Secret's stomach turned to ice water. Naturally, in the roaring throng of boys spilling out of the lodging house, the handful of girls stood out like sore thumbs. But she had still clung to the hope that he would not be so quick to find her.

Mastering her frostiest voice, she answered. "I toldja las' night, Spot. Dis--me stayin' heah has--"

"--nuttin' ta do wit me," the boy finished. Smirking, he took her arm and led her down the street. His hat was set at a careless angle, letting the morning sun glint on his golden hair.

"Sell wit me t'day?"

Instantly, Secret shoved down an enthusiastic 'yes', a sigh of longing, and the half-relieved, half-frustrated notion that neither of them had yet eluded to the incident on the bridge.

"Can't. Gotta go back ta Manhattan ta get my stuff. An'...ta say goodbye." She flinched. "Guess I won't be able ta sell da mornin' edition."

Her stomach growled loudly in protest. She hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous morning, and hadn't sold the evening before.

Whadda ya know? Looks like I'se gonna stahve. Me, da goil who's always been so sensible 'bout money an' su'vival.

Spot chuckled, tightening his grip on her arm. "So I'll come wit ya. We can sell an' pick up sometin' ta eat on da way."

Secret opened her mouth with only two words in mind: absolutely not. She was not going to be travelling with an escort, much less with Spot Conlon as an escort. And the cocky way he phrased it as a statement instead of a request further ground her nerves.

But then she remembered why she had come to Brooklyn in the first place. Through gritted teeth, she forced an aquiescent, "Shoah."

The distribution center came into view then, and Spot, with a grin and a last squeeze of Secret's hand, vanished to the front of the line.

"Toyin' wit his Highness awready?"

Secret jumped; how did the girl keep sneaking up on her like that?

"Face it, liddle goil," Dagger oozed in that voice of crystalized honey. "Ya want him too bad ta play hard ta get."

Secret felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she forced it back, retaining a countenance of marble.

"Actually," she countered calmly, craning her neck to address this giant, "I ain't came close ta fallin' fer Spot's so-called 'charms.' Don't take ya own mistakes out on me."

Livid, Dagger drew back her fist to deliver what would have been a dizzying blow, had it not been caught in a slender brown hand.

"What d'you know, Dag?" Snake Eyes cocked her head, a small, tight smile on her face. "The kitten bites."

From the mocking gleam in Snake's brown eyes, Secret had a feeling that she wasn't the only "biting kitten" around here. Dagger snarled and shoved Snake Eyes back, nearly knocking the smaller girl to the ground. But she seemed to decide that two weren't worth her time, and stalked off in her disgusted-lioness mode.

"T'anks," Secret gasped somewhat shakily, realizing how close she had just come to being pounded on her first morning in Brooklyn. Her gratitude was distracted, however, as her gaze drifted to the gnarled old man who had finally finished counting out Spot's papes, which apparently included a stack for Secret. She watched Spot shove his way through the crowd toward her, brandishing his cane to clear a path, then returned her gaze to her rescuer.

Snake Eyes, regarding her casually, shrugged. "You were doing fine on your own." She paused, seeming to consider. "You know, Secret...those icy eyes of yours see right through her." She jerked her head at the retreating Dagger, then, with a wave of her hand, indicated the approaching Spot.

"But when you're with him...they're blind, chica. Blind."

Same Day, 12:00 Noon

Manhattan

"How d'ya know she'll come durin' lunch?" Blink demanded of Flick as she and the Three Musketeers trooped into their lodge's lobby.

"I don't," Flick snapped, perching on the couch, where the boys joined her with the meger meals they'd purchased on the street. "But it's likely 'nough, ain't it? It'd take 'er da mornin' ta get heah if she sold on da way."

"She might come t'night," Race suggested.

"Wit ev'ryone heah?" Flick snorted. "I t'ink not. She ain't about ta face da whole lodgin' house."

"I went ta see Victoria oyliah," Mush informed them around a mouthful of apple. "She wouldn't tell me what she an' Secret tawked about yestaday. Said it wasn't her place ta. But she said Secret seemed fine when she left."

"'Course she was fine," Flick said scathingly. "She was off ta move in wit her loveh boy."

"Flick!"

All three of the others jumped at this outburst; for it came from none other than shy, gentle Mush.

"S'madda wit you?" Flick demanded, utterly fed up with being told off.

"She's been ya best friend fer yeahs," Mush reminded her, quietly again, but angrily. "Can't ya have a liddle moah sympathy, 'stead o' tawkin' 'bout 'er like she's some whore?"

Race and Blink each had to grab one of Flick's hands to keep her from hitting Mush.

"Calma, Fiamma," Race soothed earnestly. They'd continued their Italian lessons while selling.

Flick glared and twisted free of her friends, but reluctantly spared a cringing Mush. "I'll stay calm," she hissed in reply to the foreign words, "if da rest o' youse do."

Then, without warning, the door opened, Secret stepped into the lobby, and a promise made a split second before was broken in the blink of an eye.

"YOU!"

In a flash, Flick was flying at Secret, clutching the girl's shoulders in an iron grip, and looking more than ready to soak her within an inch of her life. "You IDIOT, you SCAB, you TRAITAH, you filthy liddle--"

"FLICK!" All three Musketeers had to pull her back this time. And it was then that Spot chose to leave his vantage point just outside the open door, enter the lobby, and step protectively in front of Secret; though, in contrast to Secret's startled shame, he merely looked amused.

"Heya, dragon. Been a while, huh? Coupla yeahs, in fact."

The three boys promptly let go of Flick to stare in amazement. Luckily, she was too shocked to attack again. Her jaw flapped several times before coherent speech emerged.

"Ya brought HIM!?"

Spot sneered and draped an arm over Secret's shoulders. "Who says I din't bring her?"

Secret swallowed. "Flick, I--"

"What?" Flick growled, face red and eyes stormy. "Ya what?Go on, make ya excuses, we'd all love ta heah 'em."

"I'se shoah ya would," Spot smoothly interjected, "but we jist came ta pick up--"

"Will ya shuddup an' let 'er tawk fer ha'self!?"

Five mouths gaped incredulously at a flushed, frustrated, furious-looking Racetrack. Spot's gape, however, quickly turned to an ominous glare, and Secret, seeing things going from bad to worse, dredged up an ability she was afraid she'd lost.

"You," she pointed at Spot, "out," she indicated the door. "Please," she added hastily at his expression. "Dey got a right ta yell at me, Flick's even got a right ta hit me if she still wants ta, an' we all need ta tawk. In private."

For a moment, Spot looked as if he might just ignore her and bash Race's skull in. But instead he smiled coldly and said, with pointed sarcasm, "Fer you, love."

Loping out of the lodging house, he tossed over his shoulder to Race a threatening, "We can tawk lateh."

Only Spot was surprised when it was Mush who answered, with an equally icy, "Yeah...maybe we can all tawk lateh."

Once an angry and rather mystified Brooklynite had vanished out the door, Flick spun on Secret again, challenging the stricken girl with a single syllable: "Why?"

Secret gulped and tried an evasion. "I hafta get my--"

Blink gestured triumphantly toward a chair, on which the four of them had piled Secret's few clothes and belongings into a bag that morning, eliminating the need for her to go up to the bunkroom.

"Oh." She gulped again. "Uh, t'anks." Glancing at the door, she continued in a stronger tone, "Look, guys, ya can't go pickin' fights wit Spot oveh dis. It ain't like he's kidnappin' me or sometin'. Youse jist gonna get yaselves soaked--"

"Aw, Secret, din't know ya cared," Race interrupted acidly.

"All o' youse shuddup," Flick ordered, grabbing Secret's arm and jerking the traitor around to face her. "Ya still ain't answa'd my question."

Secret's bright eyes sought the floor, but Flick barreled on, neither loosening her grip nor softening her voice.

"Why? Why are ya leavin' Manhattan when we's been so happy heah? Why are ya leavin' us--" She swept her arm, encompassing herself and the three boys. "--our...our fam'ly, when we'd all die fer each odda?" Why are ya leavin' me..." Her voice caught, and everyone found an excuse to look away. "...afta all we's been t'rough togedda?"

All eyes were on Secret now, and she met them with trepidation. Such a question deserved a very impressive answer if she wanted to keep her friends, and what answer could she give? They didn't want to hear about her obvious infatuation with Brooklyn and its leader. And as for the main reason, the stubborn pursuer who struck such horror into her soul...

Dey'd worry demselves ta death. Dey'd all wanna go afta him fer me, an' God, deyre crazy enough ta try an' do it. An dey'd see...Flick'd see...what a cowahd I am.

Finally, she took a deep breath, met her best friend's eyes, and settled on one simple sentence.

"I ain't as strong as you, Flick."

Stunned, Flick finally let go of her arm, staring as if she'd never seen her before.

Wheah did dat come from?

"Dere's sometin' important behind all dis," Blink noted. It wasn't a question. "Can't 'cha jist loin ta be honest wit us, like Flick did?"

Flick shifted guiltily at this, one finger brushing her black eye, but Secret was too busy responding to notice.

"I'se sorry, guys. I really am. I know youse desoive moah'n dis. But dis's sometin' I gotta handle on my own."

"Ya mean sometin' Spot's gotta handle fer ya," Race corrected quietly. Secret tensed, but didn't answer. Instead, she addressed Flick.

"Look, I'se goin', an' nuttin' ya say can stop me. But I'd radda go knowin' we's still friends. Dat yeh'll visit, an' I can come back ta visit you. Dat ya f'give me. Or," she added frankly, "ya can finally go ahead an' smack me."

For a moment, Flick looked sincerely tempted. But then she closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, opened them, exhaled, and shook her head.

"I ain't dat far gone yet," she proclaimed, and Secret's shoulders relaxed. "As fer f'givin' ya..." Ignoring the four curious onlookers, the redhead produced from her pocket a pair of mismatched wooden dice.

"Odd numba, yes; even numba, no," she announced, and tossed them on the floor. A few dizzy flips, and two clusters of dots stared up at her. Two on the red die, and three on the white die.

"Hey," Race exclaimed suspiciously, "ain't dose dice mi--"

Smoothly, Flick scooped the stolen dice back into her pocket, then, in a move none of them was prepared for, pulled Secret into a hug.

"I'se moah mad at 'cha right now den I'se eveh been," she informed her friend gruffly, "but da dice have spoken. I'll miss ya, goil."

"I'll miss ya too..." Secret blinked a few times, till a shimmery cast left her eyes. "Keep outta trouble," she muttered, faltering.

"You need dat advice moah'n I do now."

Mush was next. He hugged Secret as warmly as Flick had, though the pain in his eyes was clear.

"If Conlon eveh does anytin' ta ya," he said fiercely, "if he even touches ya--"

"He won't," Secret assured him, wondering whether he meant 'touches violently' or 'touches at all', and afraid that it was most likely the latter. "An' if he eveh did, ya know poifectly well I'd punch 'im in da face an' get da hell outta dere."

Mush smiled a little at that; it sounded so much like the old Secret.

"T'anks fer takin' me ta Victoria," she added sincerely. "She's a real nice goil."

"I know," Mush agreed dreamily, then frowned. "Don't seem like dat tawk didja much good, dough."

Finally, Secret turned to Blink and Race. Both turned away. She had expected that reaction from those two, but it still hurt.

"I'll, uh...miss youse too," she informed them. "Hope youse visit sometime. Widdout messin' wit Spot," she felt compelled to add.

"We'll all visit," Flick promised. "Not shoah 'bout dat last request, dough."

Nodding resignedly, Secret took a step toward the two boys who refused to look at her, but that was all it took to send Blink tearing across the lobby and up the stairs to the bunkroom. Flick rolled her eyes, but looked as if she didn't really blame him.

"Guess dat's our cue." The dragon gave Secret a nod, but no goodbye--she had never cared for goodbyes--and followed Blink's lead. Mush trailed behind her, waving to Secret and sneaking backward glances until he vanished from sight. This left Secret alone in the lobby with Racetrack, who was still facing the wall.

"Race..." she started, voice strangled with the tears she was fighting back.

After a few tense seconds of silence, he spoke, coldly and unreadably.

"We'll save ya bunk fer ya. Come back an' take it if ya eveh need ta. Window'll be unlocked ev'ry night, no questions ast."

And with that, and a last look of pure disgust, he too headed up to the bunkroom.

Secret clenched her teeth, swallowed the lump in her throat, scooped the bag of items from the chair, and left the lobby to join an impatient Spot outside, waiting to walk her...home.

A/N: (cringe) I know. I hate it too. But now that Secret is finally settled into Brooklyn, I can at last start getting to some of my favorite parts of this story, parts I've been planning for over a year. Believe me, this thing has a plot. Everything will come together eventually, from Italian lessons to mismatched dice. Spot's gonna get his POV back soon. (As are Race and Flick, for that matter. This was quite a Secret chapter, which is probably why it annoyed me so much.) Spot and Secret's relationship is gonna get much more developed, Race and Flick's troubles (and not-so-troubled moments) are far from over, Flick and Jack shall meet again, and I haven't forgotten Secret's stalker, or Queens, or Scamp. In short, all this shameless plugging is a desperate attempt to hang onto some very disgruntled readers who are doubtless thoroughly fed up with an update every few months.

This will be updated again this week. No, you deserve better. At least two more chapters this week. GUARANTEED. I will sign that statement. Flare Higgins. There. My promises are worth zip and I know it, but I just signed this one with the name of my beloved...and that, my dears, is a vow I dare not break.