Spot's dreams often carried him away from his reality. Easy to believe, since that's what dreams often do. Sometimes one even finds it difficult to grasp that dreams are just in our minds as we sleep. Spot knew he was dreaming, and yet he found it extremely complicated to tell himself that what he was seeing was not, in fact, the truth.

"You really gotta stop blaming yourself," Ethan Cooke told him in his sleep, "for what happened."

"I shoulda done something," Spot countered. "Shoulda said something. But I just stood there."

"You did what any guy would do. That's acceptable. I can't...well, everybody can't…expect anything more than your best. That's why you were always such a great leader, Spot. You gave those boys your best."

"I tried."

"Not anymore though, huh?"

Ethan always had a way of putting Spot in his place, even in death. "So you think I should go back."

"I guess so." Ethan chuckled a bit. "I mean, I think you never shoulda left in the first place. Kinda cowardly, don't you think?"

This angered Spot. "I ain't no coward, Ethan, I'm a Conlon—"

"If you're a Conlon, then get off your ass and start acting like a God damned Conlon! Jesus Christ, you'd think that the most powerful kid in New York City could stand up to a stupid punk and his ambitions."

"Stupid punk?" Spot asked, aghast. "Stupid punk? Ethan, that 'stupid punk' killed you! He fucking murdered you in front of everybody! You died in my fucking arms! How the hell do you expect me to react to that? You wanted me to be, what, heroic? And, and avenge you in some sort of gallant epic battle? Or did you just want me to crush the son of a bitch's skull right there? What the hell did you want from me?" Spot brought himself back. "I was scared, all right? I was scared for once in my life. You were slipping away from me so fast, I didn't know what to do. It seemed so…so final. Like you'd be gone in seconds and I couldn't do anything about it." He paused. "…Couldn't do anything about it."

You could almost see the light bulb above Spot's head as he looked up. "Wait a minute." He stared at Ethan. "I really was powerless. There was absolutely nothing I could do to stop what happened to you. And…" He couldn't finish; he was thinking.

"Go on…" Ethan encouraged.

"And a lot of the time I have no control over what happens to other people. But for once in my life, right now, at this moment…I have the power to save Brooklyn. And that's…" he laughed. "That's pretty damn amazing."

In death, Ethan gave Spot the most genuine, beautiful smile a man could ever give in life. "Good morning, Spot."

Chicago, eight o'clock in the morning, the Conlons' tiny apartment in the middle of the city. Spot's eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at the dingy ceiling.

It was a dream, he told himself sadly. And yet it had seemed too real to be just a dream. Spot quickly sat up and got out of bed. "Kate, wake up," he said loud enough to wake her from her sleep. He was pulling on clothes as he found them in the room. "We gotta go."

But Kate didn't stir. Spot looked back at her. "Kate, love, wake up," he said, getting closer to the bed. He put a hand on her face, but removed it as soon as he touched her skin. Kate's cheek felt warm to the touch—too warm, and damp. In fact, her face was so wet that the hairs around her forehead were matted to her skin with sweat. Yes, it was a warm night, but not that warm. Not sickeningly warm.

Spot panicked. He didn't know what to do. By instinct, he shook her gently and spoke her name, but received no reply. He put his ear to her chest, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the faint beating of her heart. He straightened himself and looked down at her. "Please, Kate," he begged softly as he brushed her hair away from her forehead. "I don't know what's wrong with you. I'm going to get help." He paused. "But please—please don't leave me." Spot inhaled deeply. "I need you."

Complete and utter hatred blinded South Emmanuel. All he could see was Parker, all he could feel was the handle of the knife tucked visibly into his belt. His plan? Clearly, he meant to combine what he could see with what he could feel.

Parker stood at the foot of the stairs. His fingers slowly wrapped themselves around the pistol concealed in his vest. South walked towards him slowly at first, but quickened his pace as he went. He was yelling, absolutely screaming in rage. He pulled the knife from his belt and pointed it at Parker, intent on cutting him into as many pieces necessary to stop him from hurting the people he loved.

But as he neared his target, he suddenly and brutally remembered that Parker's followers were all around him. He felt a hand grab his wrist and twist it; heard a crack and felt extreme pain gather where dirty fingernails were digging into his skin. The knife dropped to the floor, as did South. The hand released his wrist, and immediately South cradled his broken bone with his other arm. Another hand (possibly the same as the wrist-breaker, he couldn't tell) grabbed a fistful of South's hair and yanked backwards. He closed his eyes and let out a cry when his arms went to grab the hand, half because his scalp burned and half because he forgot about his wrist. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

"I'm impressed," Parker told South as he stared down at him, pistol in hand. "I never thought you would actually step up and make a move. You've exceeded all my expectations."

South wanted to scream, he wanted to cry back and yell and murder, but all he could do was concentrate on the metal cylinder that was fixed squarely between his eyes. He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared—so scared, in fact, that he found himself repeating his Hail Marys in his head. He was going to die.

Parker could sense his fear. How could he not? It was pretty obvious. He almost laughed. "You think I'm gonna kill you, Emmanuel?" he asked. "What makes you believe that I'd waste even one bullet on you?" He chuckled and shook his head. "No, you won't die tonight. But I'll tell you one thing." Parker paused and smiled sadistically. "It really is a shame that you pretty sisters have to be killed because you just wouldn't give up your precious Brooklyn."

"No—" The hand yanked South's hair harder.

"I'm sorry, South, but I don't think you're capable of learning from your mistakes." Parker lowered his pistol and addressed the owner of the hand. "Keep him here, and damn it, watch him, all right? Don't let the bastard of your sight." He paused for thought. "Break his other wrist too, while you're at it."

"No!" South objected as Parker stepped past him towards the door. "Jesus Christ, Parker! You're completely insane…this is madness!" His pleas grew more frantic as Parker got closer to the door. "They're innocent, my God! Please! Please!"

South's cries were cut short by the hands that grabbed his other wrist. The boys of Brooklyn watched in shock as South's wrist was slowly bent backwards and finally snapped.

You could hear the scream in Manhattan.

Ahh I hate me. I'll admit that I might just be the meanest person in the world! But it's all for the best. Yes...all for the best...breaks down into a sobbing mess

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