Alright, folks, grab something huggable/punchable, because you may feel the need to do such a thing while reading this chapter. It's that sort of chapter.

Review Responses:

AndrewKeenanBolgerFan: Yes, that is about why. Poor Jacobi wants to kick them out (he's so done), but he won't. LESLEY JACOBS! SUCH LANGUAGE! IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME! Oh, and Davey, congratulations on the newsies strike. Your father and I are so proud. Injured Albert is indeed a mood. (I'll try not to make you cry, but this chapter...) NOT THE CINNAMON ROLL! (But you knew it was coming, surely. I mean, this is Newsies.)

JustVildaPotter: (Chapter 36) Only maiming and seriously injuring is usually my goal with these characters. Thank you! Glad your brain is on the edge of its seat! (Chapter 37) Thank you again! (Chapter 38) I mean... so Crutchie has a little to do with it, but it's more about Jack... Well, hopefully this won't disappoint you if you were expecting it to be all about Crutchie.

Okay. Three. Two. One.

BOOM.


Chapter 39- Jack

Saturday, September 18, 1999, 4:45 p.m.

It had only taken Jack a few minutes to realize that Crutchie was not part of the crowd of newsies making a run for it after the bulls had turned up. So he had turned around, backtracked, and ran all the way back to Roosevelt High. What he saw when he returned was not a pleasant sight. The Delanceys had corned Crutchie, and they were attacking him, kicking and punching like their lives depended on it. On the sidelines stood the police officers, too busy rounding up the other gang members to pay any attention to the victim of the Delancey brothers.

Next, three things had occurred quickly and in succession. Firstly, Crutchie had grabbed one of his crutches while bracing himself on the other one; he began to try and give the Delanceys a taste of their own medicine. Second, one of the police officers had noticed the boy trying to stick up for himself, except the man only saw the slender gray crutch being used as a weapon. As that officer rushed over to where Crutchie's battle was, Jack had done the same, but skidded to a stop upon catching a glimpse of the man's face. It was the Spider. William Snyder was a member of law enforcement. If Jack had gotten any closer to the scene, the Spider would have spotted him too. But instead he stood frozen in the background, watching as Snyder wrenched the crutch from Crutchie's grip, shoved him to the ground, then proceeded to hit the boy's legs with the medical device turned weapon. Unsatisfied with one blow, Snyder continued to hit Crutchie, and each time the boy cried out in pain, Jack had to keep himself from screaming, which he managed by biting down on his fist. His feet were rooted to the pavement, and he didn't know what he could do to help, because if he brought attention to himself, it would only make the situation worse.

Once Crutchie had been sufficiently beaten- according to the Spider's standards-, Oscar and Morris had forced the younger boy to his feet. They disregarded the fact that he was barely able to stand, ignored the pained noises Crutchie was making, which only made Jack want to scream more. Instead, he'd looked on as Snyder brought out a set of handcuffs and bound Crutchie's wrists with them, growling, "It's off to da Refuge with you, kid."

Crutchie had tried to break away then, and as he was doing so, he caught sight of Jack. Face lighting up, he had screamed "Jack!" before Morris and Oscar forced him towards a police car. "Jack, help me!"

"Crutchie!" Jack hadn't been able to stop himself from calling out his friend's name, which of course made the Spider notice him.

Snyder had whirled around and bellowed, "Sullivan!" The sound of his voice had sent a shudder through Jack's body, for every single memory of his years in that man's so-called care came flooding back to him at the same time, like a dam breaking inside his brain. It was all there: the screams, the pain, the fear; just as he had left it all the last time he'd shoved those thoughts away.

Instincts taking over, Jack had responded to the Spider's shouts the only way he knew how. He took off running. So unconventional had his route been that he hadn't known he was making his way toward Duane Street until he was there, clearing the steps two at a time in his race to the top floor.

When he reached the apartment door, he stood, panting for a moment. Instead of climbing out the window next to him and taking the fire escape to his penthouse like he normally would have, Jack pounded his fists against the door. His heart was pounding just as loud.

In Jack's opinion, it took way longer than it should have for Mr. Kloppmann to answer the door. Really it was only a few minutes, but it felt like years of waiting before the old man calmly cracked open the door for the frantic teenager. "Francis? What are you doing here?" The sound of that awful name triggered the memories again, making Jack's breath catch in his chest. Suddenly, he found he couldn't speak. To his relief, Mr. Kloppmann could see this. "Jack," he said, more gently than his already gentle tone had been. "What happened?"

Jack swallowed, then stammered, "D-da cops." That was all he could manage, but it was all the explanation the older man needed to understand the situation. After all, he was used to his foster kids getting in trouble with the law.

As Jack made to turn towards the window, Mr. Kloppmann stopped him. "Hold on." Holding onto the doorframe, the man reached for something just out of Jack's line of sight. When he filled the doorway again, he held a thin white envelope out to the boy. "This came for you."

Staring at the envelope as he took it, Jack tried to ignore the fact that the letter was addressed to Francis Sullivan, focusing instead on the return address. Santa Fe University. That was strange. He had sent in his application the month before and applied for early decision, but even with those factors, it was much too early for him to be getting a letter from a college. Maybe this was a response to one of his many scholarship applications?

"Thanks," he told Mr. Kloppmann, stuffing the envelope into his pocket and turning toward his exit. While the old man closed the apartment door, Jack pushed open the window, climbed out onto the fire escape. Once there, he looked at the letter again, torn between ripping it open now and forcefully forgetting about its existence until several months later, when he would reach into his jeans pocket to seemingly discover it. Before he could make his decision, a police car went racing down the street below, sirens wailing. Jack's breath caught again as he remembered the riot.

So, they finally had their headline: "Newsies Crushed as Bulls Attack". What a story that was going to be for Katherine to write about.

As if summoned by his thoughts of her, Jack's cell phone beeped, signaling a text. He flipped it open, greeted with a Hey, where are you? from the student teacher.

Noticing he had other messages to attend to, Jack didn't reply to her. He had no less than five missed calls from Race, and a few more from Katherine. No voicemails though, meaning they didn't need him urgently, they only wanted to get a hold of him. Specs had texted him multiple times, frantic from the looks of it. The most recent message read, We're missin Crutchie too. Are ya ok?

Oh god. Crutchie. That lousy, dumb crip. He had been calling for Jack's help, and all Jack had done was run away, terrified of the Spider as usual. Lousy, dumb crip. He was just too damn slow. Why hadn't he just bolted away from school grounds when the others had? Jack's breathing, no longer stuck, quickened as memories of the past hour came roaring into his mind. Guys fighting, bleeding, falling. All because of him. Good ol' Captain Jack. It was his fault. All of it.

Attempting to distract himself from the rapid thumping of his heart and the chasm that was opening in his stomach, Jack bolted up the metal stairs, punching and kicking the railing as he came out onto the rooftop. Along the way, his phone slipped out of his hand; it slid and clattered down the metal steps behind him. Jack didn't turn around to pick it up. It wasn't important. Right now, all he wanted was to close his eyes and-

Think of Santa Fe. But why should he do that when he had a letter burning a hole in his pocket that would tell him if he could actually get there? All he had ever wanted was this chance, to go far away, somewhere Snyder and the shitty mess that was New York City could never, ever find him. A place he could wake up without the new day reminding him of what had transpired on this one. If this letter's news favored him, he could go down to the train station that night when the city finally went to sleep. And with the old, gray moon looking down on him, Jack would buy a ticket. Get on a train bound for Santa Fe. If the odds were in his favor. In the event that this wasn't the case-

No. It had to be good news. He was going to have left this city, by this time the next day. Jack was done. No more running, no more lying. No more fat old men denying him a fair price for the pape. It would just be him and the desert. Out there, the moon would be so big. Yellow, too. So bright it would light up the night sky like sunbeams. Sunbeams.

A mental image of Crutchie's smile came into focus, and Jack's panic began to build again. No. NO. He couldn't think about that. Couldn't fall apart now. Not when his dream was about to come true. Yeah. Santa Fe.

Jack tore into the envelope, not trying to be neat about it in any sense of the word. His current state, a combination of near-panic and frantic anticipation, resulted in him completely mutilating the paper sleeve. Slowly, and with more care than he had used on the envelope, he unfolded the single sheet of university-issued stationary that had resided within. Then he began to read.

Dear Mr. Sullivan,

It is of course unusual for a potential applicant to receive information regarding his/her application this early in the semester. However, after reviewing your transcripts, we thought it best to inform you as early as possible. Mr. Sullivan, we regret to inform you-

Jack's hands shook as he skimmed the rest of the typed information. He hadn't been accepted. And if this letter was anything to go by, he never would be. His grades were insufficient, as were his funds. Even with the artistic talent he had shown- Medda had been right in telling Jack he had natural aptitude- there was simply no way the University could consider granting him a spot, not to mention a scholarship. He was nothing to them.

The shock of it all, the fact that it was over before it had even begun, was what broke Jack. Within seconds, the letter, crumpled on the edges by his fingers in his anger, had drifted to the ground. His heart thundered in his ears, and he couldn't seem to draw breath properly. Every time he took in air it would come by way of a shuddering gasp. This inability to breathe scared him more, and tears began streaming down his face. He hadn't cried this way since he was a little kid, and back then he'd only become freaked out over stupid things, like the first time a teacher or set of foster parents punished him. It was different now. His reaction was warranted, for Jack was no longer a child, and he was facing real life for what felt like the first time.

There were indeed many firsts at play here. His first college rejection letter. First rooftop breakdown. A lump in his throat constricted his airway further as Jack thought of the previous hour, his first failed strike, and following it, Crutchie's arrest, or the first time he'd lost the second most important thing in his life. And just now, he had lost the first most important thing. In addition to that new experience, it was also the first, the very first time he was admitting to himself that he had never had a chance at this dream. He was going to live and die in New York. Just like his mother and father.

Until this moment, Jack had quietly harbored his fears and worries regarding the possibility that he wouldn't make it to Santa Fe. Truthfully, the doubt had always been there, but before, Jack had kept up his optimism. Now, the truth was there, cut open and gutted right in front of him. He couldn't catch a break. He never would. For the rest of his life, he was going to have to take what he was given. Like his father before him, he would spend his life in the service of others, breaking his back for someone else's sake every single day. Trapped in New York. For ever and ever. Even at seventeen, he had no future. It was all over for him. Everything he had ever hoped for.

He had always thought that when New York life no longer suited him- which it never had- he would be granted the privilege of a change of scene. That he would be able to go west, where he wanted to be, far from the lousy headlines and all the deadlines in between.

Santa Fe. The city had become something of an old friend to him. Always there, just in case he needed something to fall back on. His reliable pal in New Mexico. Gone, now. Completely gone.

The tears wouldn't stop coming, and his breathing wouldn't slow. It kept coming in rapid bursts, and as much as he tried, he couldn't stop his whole body from shaking. Jack sunk to the ground, tucking his knees to his chest at first, before he realized that only made it harder to breathe. So instead he crawled over to his sleeping bag and sprawled out on top of it, not bothering to move any of the numerous pencils that were sure to break under the weight of his body.

Warm tears streaked down his temples, trickling into his hair. Jack didn't bother to wipe them away. It had been foolish, he realized, staring up at the dimming sky, for him to spend his whole life dreaming. Though, until now, that was all he had seemed inclined to do, because he knew he wasn't getting any younger, and hoping for a brand new start kept away that anxiety. Santa Fe was his motivation. His drive. Those thoughts, the possibility of wide open desert spaces, and clear, fresh air, were what he needed to get through each and every day. And his friends may have laughed at him for it, called him "Cowboy", but he'd accepted that title. He had always been a cowboy. Always a dreamer. But now...

The newsies had lost the strike. Crutchie had lost Jack's protection, and Jack had lost one of the friends that meant the world to him. But most of all, Jack no longer had the thing that made him who he was. If he wasn't a cowboy, he was nothing, no one. There was no place for him. Not in New York, not anywhere. The only possible place where he could have belonged turned out to be just as real as the scenes he painted on Medda's backdrops. His dream was dead.

Jack Kelly had nothing if he didn't have Santa Fe.


And there you have it. The end of Act 1.

Okay, now this story's going to go on a little break for a while, so I can get a good amount of chapters written before I start posting again. But don't worry, I'm not abandoning this. I just need to take a minute to figure out where the heck my plot is going and such. An intermission, if you will. I'll come back as soon as possible, you can count on that.

If I completely wrecked you, feel free to scream at me in your review. And while you're at it, send a virtual hug for Jack, would you? (He needs it. And so do I, if we're being honest.)

I guess, happy New Year?