Welcome to Sunday! Here you are, and here I am!

Review Responses:

lucykeeven7: Thank you! Race is amazing! The "erster" sequence was one of my favorite parts to write, it's such a great line. Also, thank you for the super-speedy review, that was cool to see! Here's some more for you!

JustVildaPotter: WOOOOOOOOO! KONY TIME! Yes! I've achieved KONY chapter perfection! Yay! THERE. IS. MORE. TO. RACE. (Louder, for the people in the back!) Oh my gosh, you noticed! Good job! Davey and Sarah are also supposed to be getting accents, I don't know how noticeable that is yet.

AndrewKeenanBolgerFan: Thank you so much! KONY seems to be everyone's favorite chapter so far, and that's awesome!

Here we go!

Chapter 47- Hotshot

Sunday, September 19, 1999, 10:50 a.m.

Hotshot Sung had been in Manhattan for ten minutes, and he had already made a grave mistake. Spot was going to be pissed.

Following his entrance to Jacobi's diner, Hotshot had singled out Race and relayed the message Spot had ordered him to deliver. The result had been the blonde boy stalking out of the restaurant, leaving Hotshot to stare around in wonderment before moving on to his next point.

"Um, alright," he rubbed his hands together, scanning the crowd. There was a suspicious absence of Manhattan's Captain Jack, but Spot had prepared his second in command for such an event. Hotshot asked eagerly, "Who's Jack's second?"

Smalls came into view then, making Hotshot beam. There was a leader he could speak to. But rather than declare her position as Jack's second or temporary replacement, Smalls pointed out the doorway behind her with one thumb. "That would be him."

Shit. That wasn't going to work. He'd insulted Race, so there was no way the boy would listen to him now. Hotshot searched frantically for anyone else exhibiting authority, and as luck would have it, he recognized The Walking Mouth, who had come to Brooklyn with Jack to propose Manhattan's idea of going on strike. "Hey, Mouth!" Hotshot called.

The boy stepped forward, correcting, "It's Davey."

"Whateva'. Yer one a' Jack's second-in-commands, aren'tcha?"

"I guess so."

"Excellent. You can take this message."

A red-haired boy snarked, "You gonna insult him too?"

"No. I got good news. Fer all a' youse, really." Making certain that Mouth's attention was directed towards him, Hotshot cleared his throat. "Newsies of Manhattan, it's come ta the attention a' our leader an' my best friend, Spot Conlon, that this protest a' yours has actually been goin' very well. So, Spot's decided, afta' much consideration, that we, the students of Brooklyn, are goin' ta join yer strike."

There was a silence, and then Mouth queried, "You- you mean Brooklyn's actually with us?"

"As of this mornin', yeah. Ya can count on us."

"We got Brooklyn!" the redhead shot out of his chair and rushed out the door, presumably in pursuit of Race, so the news could be passed on.

"Oh my god," Mouth reacted, eyes open wide. He turned to his little brother and a boy Spot always referred to as "Thomas", both of whom were standing behind him. "We did it, we actually did it!"

"Huzzah!" the little boy cheered, while Thomas picked him up and spun him around in the air.

"You're magic, Katherine!" exclaimed a girl who shared a lot of Mouth's features.

A young woman with red hair laughed, albeit slightly nervous-sounding. "Never underestimate the power of the press."

One guy with his ankle propped up on an additional chair excitedly shoved the girl sitting next to him. "This changes everything!"

Similar joyous shouts rippled across the dining room as his friend opened her mouth to respond, but Smalls butted in before the other girl could form her first word. "What does it change, Finchy?"

"Weren'tcha listenin', Smalls?" wondered Mush, one of the few people Hotshot actually recognized. "We got Brooklyn now."

"Yes, and?"

Hotshot told her, "You got us, you've hit da motherload."

"Lot a' good that'll do us, now that our strike is ova'."

Turning his attention to the boy with glasses- Specs- who had spoken, Hotshot had no choice but to question, "Whaddaya mean yer strike is ova'?"

"The bulls skunked us yesterday, an' wit Pulitzer declarin' a blackout, there ain't no chance of anotha' headline."

This was news. "In short, we're dead," Smalls concluded. "Powerless."

"Youse don't need no stinkin' headline ta keep up da strike effort," scoffed Hotshot.

"That's why Brooklyn wasn't interested in joinin' us 'til we made da papes then, was it?"

She was absolutely correct, and Hotshot knew it, but that still didn't give her any right to call out his entire borough. "Look, I'll bring Spot 'round tomorra'. He an' Jack can work this out."

"Well, lemme jus' get Jack, then." Smalls headed for the door, then spun back around. "Oh, wait, I can't. In case ya ain't noticed yet, he's been missin' since las' night."

"So were you," Finchy's companion pointed out, "an' you turned up."

"There's a difference, Sniper, between someone goin' missing an' someone not bein' looked for."

"But you disappeared. Left without warnin'. We didn't know where ya-"

"I went home!"

"What? Why didn'tcha tell us that?"

"It ain't like youse were gonna go lookin' fer me anyway! I went home, an' I called Jack, an' waited for one a' youse ta try ta reach me, but none a' you did."

"I'm sorry, but we were a bit preoccupied with-"

"For the whole night?"

Sniper's face flushed. "We all thought ya didn't have access to a phone. That don't mean we weren't worried sick-"

"Like hell you were worried!"

Hotshot had to input something to halt the onslaught of Smalls' frustration. "Girl, didja expect 'em ta call an entire search party for ya or what? C'mon."

Smalls clenched her jaw. "All I expected was fer some a' the people here-" she gestured at Sniper- "ta actually give a damn. But whateva'." Sitting down, she crossed her arms. "It don't matta'."

It seemed that was the end of that, because Smalls said nothing more. This allowed Hotshot another attempt at sorting out the reasons behind the claim that Manhattan's strike was over. "So, lemme get this straight: Jack's been missing fer 'round half a day now, an' youse ain't gonna strike without a leader, yeah?"

Specs said, "That ain't the half a' it. Two a' our guys're in the hospital 'cause a' the riot yesterday." Worry flickered across his face before he continued. "An' like I said earlier, Kath's been kicked outta the newspaper business, an' we lost our professional reporter. Unless we get back that attention, Smalls is right. The strike is dead, and we're powerless."

"Ya only think that, 'cause ya got no one ta rally behind. But if ya appoint yerselves a new leader-"

"We already got a leader," the redhead had reentered, alongside Race. "Racer here-"

"You's outta yer mind," Smalls cut him off. "Race is the least fit ta lead outta anyone-"

"Then why don't you take control a' the strike?" Race challenged, "If you's so high an' mighty?"

"I ain't takin' control a' nothin'."

"Then I'll do it."

"No, that's not what I mean. I ain't takin' control a' the strike, 'cause the strike is nothin'. We already said it's ov-"

A small, shiny object came hurtling through the air and smacked right into Smalls' mouth, preventing her from completing her words. After impacting the girl, it clattered to the floor, and she knelt down to pick it up. When she raised the object in front of her face, Hotshot was able to tell what it was: a spoon, which must have come from one of the many table settings that the newsies were not being at all considerate of.

"For Pete's sake, Smalls," said Race, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. "Lighten up."

Incredulous, Smalls gaped at him. "Did you just throw a spoon at me?"

"Yeah. I did. What're you gonna do about it?"

"Anthony Edward Higgins, you did not just hit me in the face with a spoon."

Shrugging, Race picked up another spoon from one of the tables. Brandishing it in Smalls' direction, he threatened, "Are ya scared a' cutlery, Annie Smalls?"

"That ain't my last name," replied Smalls, grabbing a spoon with each hand. "An' no. I ain't scared." She drew back her right arm and let that spoon go flying.

Race ducked, and it missed him. As he straightened up, he lobbed another spoon at Smalls, growling, "It's on, Hughes," through the interference of his cigarette.

"Spoon fight!" Hotshot yelled while Smalls retaliated again.

In an instant, a free-for-all commenced, with newsies running left and right to grab spoons from anywhere a spoon happened to be. Cutlery flew through the air for a solid five minutes, until Hotshot climbed onto a table, wielding a fork. That drew Mouth's attention to him, and after the dangerous eating utensil had been wrestled out of Hotshot's hand, the taller boy hollered, "That's it!"

Around the table they were standing on, spoons clattered to the floor, accompanied by much annoyed groaning, some of which came from Hotshot himself.

Mouth demanded of him, "You were sayin' something about us not having a leader?"

"Right," Hotshot sighed as he was forced to return to business. "With Jack outta the picture, you'll need ta decide who's in charge temporarily."

"How does that work?"

"Ya pick someone, an' that's da new leader."

"But is there a system, or-"

"It ain't that complicated. You really jus' pick whoeva' wants da job."

"Oh. Then Race, I guess you-"

"I should say," Hotshot was quick to interrupt, "whoeva' wants da job, that can actually do da job."

"Ya mean ya want us ta pick Davey?" Race confirmed.

"Uh... who's Davey?"

"I'm Davey," said Mouth.

"Right. Yeah, you'd be a good leader. Jack does trust you. But I was thinkin' someone more like... the Queen a' da Bronx."

Smalls huffed. "I ain't Queen no more."

"That don't stop ya from leadin' Manhattan."

"Manhattan ain't mine ta lead."

"But it can be. Temporarily."

"No."

"Fine. Then Davey, Mouth, whateva' yer name is, you's in charge."

The boy being referred to nodded. "Okay, sure. Specs an' I can... hang on, where's Specs?"

It was a valid question. At some point between the spoon fight and the present moment, when Hotshot hadn't been paying attention, the tall, bespectacled boy had disappeared. Which wouldn't have been a problem if anybody else had been attentive enough to see where he had gone, but unfortunately, no one had picked up on that information. "It's fine," Hotshot reassured Mouth, "he'll be back at some point. Until then, ya can take charge an'-"

"I can't lead everyone alone!" protested Mouth, vigorously shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Then ya can work with Race."

Race brightened at this news, but Mouth rapidly shot down the idea. "I don't know how ta work with Race."

"That's fair," Race said, moving his head from side to side in a quick, thoughtful motion. "I dunno how I'd work with Davey eitha'."

Hotshot complained, "Well, someone's gotta step up ta help da Mouth. Smalls, I know ya don't wanna, but since you got leadership experience, I'd say yer da best option we got."

"Ain't that nice fer you," she replied.

"Jus' work wit Mouth fer a day, give a couple orders, an' Spot an' I'll work somethin' out fer tomorrow."

"Ya want me ta give orders?" Smalls stood up, then climbed atop her chair. "I got an order: all a' youse quit partyin' an' start lookin' fer Jack."

"And if we don't," Finchy pressed, "what happens then, o' queen?"

Smalls glared at him, jumped down to the floor. "I don't care. Youse can do whateva' ya want, 'less Davey says otherwise. I ain't a leader, an' youse can't make me inta one."

She was being so stubborn, it made Hotshot want to bang his head against the table. "Alright, we get it. Mouth, whaddaya say?"

"I..." Mouth didn't follow up the single word with any sort of thought. Instead, he proposed, "Maybe we should all jus' go home. We'll regroup at school tomorrow, an' figure out what ta do about the strike. For now... I dunno what else ta do, but Smalls is right that someone else should go looking for Jack."

"Someone otha' than me," added Smalls.

"So, we could split up, maybe some people go with Hotshot ta Brooklyn, there's the possibility Jack could be there, right?"

"No," said Hotshot, "absolutely not. Jackie-boy don't come nowhere near Brooklyn, 'cept when he's got a bone ta pick wit Spot."

"Why don't we jus' get Spot ta lead us?" Race suggested before Mouth could stammer anything more.

That was actually a smart idea, Hotshot realized after a second of internal debate. The newsies of Manhattan clearly needed someone who actually knew what to do about their problem, as well as a person who had some idea of how to lead Jack Kelly's wayward band of friends. Spot, Hotshot was certain, would be perfect for this position.

"Y'know what," he agreed, nodding at Race, "I think he'd be on board with that. I'll talk ta him."

Relief spread over the Mouth's face. "That would be appreciated."

"We can all meet up tomorra', like ya said. Same place, same time?"

"Um..." Mouth glanced around the restaurant. "There's school..."

"Spot an' I can come ta you, then."

Smalls remarked, "Oh, so now you'll come ova' ta Manhattan at a moment's notice."

Paying her no mind, Hotshot went on, "I'll get everythin' sorted wit Spot. We's gonna get this strike back on!"

"Yeah," Mouth agreed, with less excitement.

"Meanwhile, youse can work on findin' Jack."

"Sure."

"Excellent." Hotshot spat into his hand, then offered it to Mouth. "Pleasure doin' business wit ya."

Obviously opposed to shaking hands, Mouth simply nodded, saying, "You too."

As he exited the restaurant, forced to resort to using his shirt to wipe his hand dry, Hotshot mentally ran back the notes from that entire interaction. Smalls was being stubborn today, which would probably cause future problems- not for Hotshot, however, he'd leave dealing with her up to Spot. Then there was Race, who seemed eager enough to get involved in leadership that Hotshot was going to make a point of telling Spot of the other boy's idea. As a matter of fact, Race's suggestion was worth sharing right away. There was no sense in waiting another three hours to share the news; also, there was the risk of Hotshot forgetting the plan between Manhattan and Brooklyn, something that would surely piss off Spot.

With that in mind, Hotshot dug out his phone and quickly dialed the number of his best friend. "Yo," he greeted immediately after hearing Spot pick up.

"Didja find Race?" was Spot's way of returning the pleasantry.

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine. They's all good... well, 'cept fer Jack. No one knows where 'e is."

"Eh, Jackie-boy'll turn up."

"That's what some a' his friends thought. Though I think Smalls is real freaked out."

A silence as Spot heard this, and then: "I bet Race is too."

"He seemed okay."

"Well yeah, he always seems okay. That don't mean he is."

"Uh, right. Anyway, believe it or not, that idiot-"

"Don't call 'im that."

Something was off about Spot today. Hotshot remembered how jumpy his friend had been after receiving Race's frantic voicemail the day before, and chalked up his standoffish behavior to that. It was a lucky thing Hotshot hadn't yet mentioned his blatant insulting of Race, for that would set Spot off more.

"Sorry," he apologized. "As I was sayin', Race actually had a great idea. Seein' as Jack is missin', he figured you could help Davey da Mouth ta lead Manhattan. I figured you'd agree, so I said yes."

Another silence, which dragged on for virtually a million years. Then Spot shouted, "You did what?"

And that was when Hotshot knew. He'd made a grave mistake.

There you are! Hotshot in the house!

As always, please review, and I'll be back next weekend!