"Hey, mister, you have to cheer up." said Helena as she and Skittery walked down Broadway.
He smiled a little. "I know, I know."
It was hard. Skittery felt so guilty. Even though he knew there was nothing he could do to get the girls back, he wished there was.
Helena grabbed Skittery's arm, causing him to twitch a little. "How many papers do you have left?"
Skittery flipped through his stack of papers. "Sixty-five, why?"
"You need to take a break."
"What? I can't-"
"Because you've already sold what, thirty-five? You need to rest."
"I can't do that," Skittery sighed. "The headline's awful. I wanna sell all my papes so I can afford dinner."
Shaking her head, Helena dragged Skittery over to a bench next to the sidewalk. "Is taking five minutes to breathe really going to mess up your whole day?"
He looked at her seriously. "Yes,"
"Ugh! You're not optimistic at all!" she smacked him on the shoulder.
"Why do you think Racetrack calls me 'Glum and Dumb'?"
Helena pushed him to sit. "How about I try selling some 'papes'. I bet I could sell five in less than ten minutes."
He laughed. "You're outta your mind."
"You don't think I could?"
"Honestly, I don't think you could sell one." Skittery smirked.
She grabbed five papers out of his hand. "Time me."
Helena opened to the first page, scanning it until she got to the middle. A slow smile spread across her face. She nodded, turning on her heel and practically skipping to the corner.
"EXTRA, EXTRA!" she called, waving the papers in the air. "WOMAN FROM NEWPORT DIES SUDDENLY!"
That caught the attention of some bystanders, two people bought newspapers.
"CAUSES UNKNOWN, AUTHORITIES STILL INVESTIGATING."
Three people stepped up to buy papers. When they weren't looking, Helena turned to stick her tongue out at Skittery.
"HOW WILL THIS AFFECT NEW YORK AND WHO WILL BE THE NEXT VICTIM OF THIS MYSTERIOUS CASE?"
Several more people came, asking for papers. Helena had them follow her to Skittery when she ran out. Once everyone left, Helena sat back down, crossing her arms.
"Ha! Eight papers sold."
Skittery laughed with her. "Wow, gotta admit, I underestimated you." Helena smirked in return. "What was the real headline, anyway?"
"Newport Woman Dies At 103."
"Huh, no one has to teach you how to improve the truth."
She handed him the money."Is that what you call it? I just embellished the story a little bit."
"Well, you were really good." Their eyes met for a brief second. Helena looked away blushing.
"Thanks, I guess it's because I'm a writer. I want people to be interested in what I have to say." Her deep, blue eyes lit up, Skittery could see she really loved the press. "There are so many untold stories, truths to be uncovered. Like what happened with your strike. Imagine what would have happened if reporters like my uncle didn't write about it."
"Pulitzer and Hearst probably woulda beaten us." That hit him hard. "Our world would be completely different."
"It could have been so much worse." Helena began to tear up, her voice wavered a little bit. "Which is why we have to get Chase and Spark's story in the papers. New York is so big, there are lots of problems. We have to make people care about them."
Skittery looked down at Helena. She really was concerned for their lives. All of their lives. She was different than any rich girl he had ever met. Even though she was wealthy, she knew what pain was. Skittery hadn't seen her like this before, though. Spark and Chase's disappearance must have affected her more than anyone realized. How long had she been keeping emotions like this bottled up?
He put his arm around her as an attempt to comfort her.
"Thanks," she sniffed. "I'm sorry, I just-"
"No, it's ok."
They sat like that for a while, Skittery with his arm around Helena as she cried. He didn't know what to say, and she didn't really want to talk anyway.
She looked up after a few minutes. "You should- you should sell the rest of your newspapers."
"Nah, you're right. Five minutes ain't gonna ruin my day."
Helena perked up a little. "Can we talk about something happy, I need a distraction."
"Ok..." Skittery didn't know what to say.
"Um... How do you guys get your names? Is there a reason for them, or do you just get named once you become a newsie?"
"Ah, good question." He thought back. "It depends on the newsie, really."
"Ok, so how did you get your name?"
Skittery blushed. "My name?" He didn't have an exciting story about his name. It was, in his opinion, pathetic. He was embarrassed, but it had been so many years he couldn't change it. "You really wanna know?"
"Yes," Helena looked even more eager to hear.
"Fine." he resigned. "I been a newsie since I was five, right? Well, I was a pretty shy kid, with my parents' sudden death and I was so young. I didn't like to talk or nothin'. Kloppman had me sell with other newsies so I could make money for food. The older boys who used to be at the lodging house named me because they said I always looked like a scared little mouse."
Helena giggled.
"Yeah, I know, it's embarassin'."
"No," she tried to stifle her laughter. "It's adorable."
Chase and Spark tried to sleep. Last night they were too shaken to rest. By now, they were completely exhausted. It was so hard, though. The basement was freezing. The girls would have huddled together if they weren't still tied to the bed frame.
Spark's hair was still wet from the morning, she shivered a lot. Her ankle hurt whenever she tried to move it. She wished she could take off her boot to take a look. She hoped it wasn't broken.
At around noon, they heard someone come down the steps. The two girls sat up and tried to look alert, expecting to see Shade or worse, the Delanceys.
It was Prima.
"Hi, girls." she simpered.
"What are you here for?" asked Chase, narrowing her eyes. "Shouldn't you be with your brother, planning Spot's demise?"
"No, silly," Her high-pitched laugh was annoying. "That's been planned for months."
"Oh," that was no more comforting.
Prima untied Spark and Chase's ropes.
"What are you here for, then?" Spark asked, rubbing her aching wrists.
Prima pulled a measuring tape l from her pocket. "Your measurements."
"What for, to see how much weight we lose?"
Prima laughed again. "It's not my fault you didn't eat your breakfast. I'm here to take measurements for the show."
Chase looked up. "Everyone keeps talking about a show, what show?"
Prima paused for a second. "Can't tell you."
Chase rolled her eyes. Prima liked making them wonder. It was like she took pleasure in their discomfort. A family trait.
"Yous better stretch, Shade doesn't wanna give ya's too much freedom."
Chase leapt up right away and shook off the stiffness in her arms and legs. Spark was a little slower to rise due to her ankle.
"Ahh!" she couldn't put too much weight on it.
"Spark!" Chase ran to help her friend.
Prima just stood back tapping her foot. "I don't have all day. I have to get these measurements to the tailor so they'll be ready in time."
Chase shot her a murderous look. "She is hurt!"
"Not my problem, but Shade is my problem. If I don't get these measurements in on time-" Prima's expression changed from haughty to anxious. It showed in the newsgirl's gray eyes.
"If you don't get them in on time, what?"
"Nothing. Just help Spark over here. She can lean on the printing press."
Chase put her arm around Spark and helped her cross the room. Spark did her best to limp along. As Prima measured, Chase took a look at Spark's ankle. She carefully pulled Spark's boot off and examined the injury. It was badly bruised. Spark's ankle bone was heavily outlined in purple and black, but it didn't appear to be broken. Chase ripped the sheet that covered the press and wrapped Spark's ankle tightly with the bandage.
"Thanks Chase," said Spark.
Prima wrote down Spark's last measurement. "Alright, Maddie, you're all set."
Spark's head shot up. "What did you just call me?"
Prima leaned against the press, crossing her arms. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Spark took a close look, deep in Prima's eyes. "Vivienne?"
A/N: "Newport Woman Dies at 103" was a real headline December 1899. I used to have the link but somehow I lost it... I think I may be a day or two off with the date (the only record I can find for this headline is December 31) I'll fix this eventually but please forgive my non-accurate reporting.
Anyway I said I would talk about "The Turn"'s original villain. In "The Prestige" there is some drama involving Nikola Tesla (one of my favorite science people!) and Thomas Edison. Edison was stealing Tesla's inventions and passing them off as his own (based on the whole "War of Currents" which was a very real historical event). Before I created Shade and Prima, Thomas Edison's son, Thomas Alba Edison Jr. was the villain. He was 23 in 1899 and I thought making a young, charismatic, but intimidating villain would be fun. When I scrapped "The Turn" Shade and Prima were created. A lot of Edison's charisma stayed with Shade but at the same time Shade brought his own quirks.
Spark gaped at Prima. "I thought you were-"
"You thought I was what?"
"Dead."
Chase stepped in between the two girls. "Wait, how do you know each other?"
"Oh," said Prima. "Me and Maddie go way back."
Spark was still in shock. "She was one of our newsies before-"
"Before Spot became a murderer." Prima seethed.
The other two girls jumped back at Prima's sudden anger, which she was directing toward Chase.
"Spot isn't a murderer." said Chase. "He would never-"
"But he has."
Chase looked from Prima to Spark. "What do you mean?"
Prima sat back and waited for Spark to speak. Spark took a deep breath before beginning. "Spot did kill one person."
"Two people." Prima corrected. Her voice was still bitter.
"No," Spark said. "No matter what the rumors say, Spot only killed one person. And you and I both know that was an accident."
Chase felt dizzy. He was known to threaten, but to her knowledge Spot hadn't ever acted on it. No one had ever told her this before. Not even Spot. "Why?"
Alexander was always a quiet child. He rarely spoke. Coming from such a loud family, he almost never got a word in anyway. He tended to disappear into the background. He was pushed even farther into the background when he was four years old. His mother gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl named Michael and Vivienne. It made him a great listener.
"Keep an eye on that one," His grandfather would say. "He has his secrets."
Alexander's parents were Vaudeville performers, they mainly lived in Brooklyn, but they never officially settled down anywhere. He practically grew up on the stage. Although he was very quiet, Alex was a great performer as well. He was more comfortable in front of an audience than his own family and were a poor family, steady jobs in the entertainment business were hard to come by. They managed what they could. Alexander's father got him a job as a newsboy, selling the New York World. It brought them extra money, and his mother hoped the socialization would bring him out of his near perpetual silence. But Alex still preferred the stage.
When Alex was 11 years old, his parents finally found a steady job at Coney Island. Unfortunately, the owners didn't want children in their show. Vivienne, Michael, and especially Alexander were heartbroken. They always hoped one day their whole family could perform together.
"One day," Their mother promised.
So the three of them were forced to continue selling newspapers. Their favorite spot was outside Coney Island, so they could wait for their parents to leave work. Every time their parents came up with a new act, the three children would sneak into the park to see. That was as close as they could get to the Coney Island stage.
Alex's parents were a huge success. A few years later, they were recruited by a traveling Vaudeville company. The money was too good to pass up. But again, children were not allowed. It took a lot of thinking but Alexander's parents did decide to take the job. They wanted their children to have a better life.
Alexander didn't understand, though. It wasn't fair that he had to live with his grandparents while his mother and father traveled. It wasn't fair that he had to take care of the twins. And it wasn't fair that he was still stuck selling newspapers.
Alex wanted to disappear. To become someone else. He liked performing because he could be anyone but himself. He was too quiet and reserved. Always a wallflower. Always invisible And what was that getting him? Nothing. So he became someone else. His "friends" had given him a nickname. He hadn't cared for it. They had decided to call him Myth because he was so quiet they wondered if he was actually there. And that's what he became, a shadow of his old self, and a darker one at that.
Myth spent most of his time out, away from his grandparents and siblings. He traveled in different circles, moving up in the newsies' world. He got into gambling, drinking, smoking, he wasn't opposed to trying anything. Well known throughout the city, he became one of the toughest and dirtiest fighters. All the girls loved him and most of the guys were afraid of him. He built up quite an entourage, his own gang within Brooklyn. There was one guy he couldn't get on his side, and it was his best friend: Brooks.
"You're gettin' too violent," Brooks said. "Kids shouldn't be fightin' each other. You can't let them."
"It's good for them. They gotta see how it's like in the real world." Myth rationalized. "Plus, you gotta admit it's fun to see those little brats goin' at it." he laughed.
"No, sorry. I can't. I got a whole city to think about here." It hurt Brooks that he and Myth were drifting apart. They had been through a lot together. "And what about your little brother and sister, you want them to deal with all this?"
"I'm tellin' ya, it's good for them."
"They're still young. It's dangerous out there. Your little sister needs you. Your brother can take care of himself, but Vivienne, she needs someone to watch over her. Imagine if something were to happen."
Myth shrugged. "That's life, ain't it?"
Brooks stared at Myth for a long while. "You're insane."
"What did you just call me?"
"You're crazy! Go ahead, steer Michael down your path, but I won't let yous ruin Vivienne's life so you can have your fun."
Myth faced Brooks so they were exactly eye level. His dark eyes were dead, but his rage was heard in his words. "You better hope you never run into me again." And with that, Myth disappeared, taking Michael with him.
Brooks sent Vivienne to the girls' lodging house. There was always a chance Myth and Michael might return if she stayed with her grandparents. They didn't care whether she was there or not, she was just another mouth to feed. Spot Conlon, Brooks's second-in-command, kept an eye on her. They became pretty good friends in the short time she spent with his gang.
It was a quiet six months for Brooks, Spot, and Vivienne. No one expected the storm to return so soon. Myth had spent his time gathering even more followers. All of the kids who didn't feel accepted by Brooks or his friends joined Myth. They were ready to fight. It was their turn to live like the king.
Myth met Brooks in front of Prospect Park.
"Hey'ya Brooksy," Myth smirked. "Ya miss me?"
Brooks looked up from his paper when he heard Myth's voice, sadness in his eyes. "Honestly? Yeah, I did." He missed the old Myth.
"Huh," Myth wasn't expecting that response. He tried not to let it show. " Here's my last offer. Join and it'll be just like old times. Myth and Brooks: Kings of Kings County."
Brooks sighed. Myth hadn't changed. "Not the way you're runnin' things."
Myth shook his head, pushed up his sleeves and pulled a gold handled cane from his belt-loop. "Then I guess we're gonna have to fight for it. Whoever lives gets Brooklyn."
Brooks put his hands up, trying to stop his former friend. "Look, we don't have to do this. Why don't-"
Myth had already taken a swing at Brooks, knocking the wind out of him. He clutched his stomach. Brooks's eyes filled with tears. Not because of the hit, Brooks had been fighting most of his life. He just didn't want it to come to this, fighting with his best friend. But there were the kids to think about. He had to protect his city.
Brooks straightened his back and got into a fighting position and the brawl began.
Spot heard the commotion from down the street. He had just walked Vivienne home. The sounds of the fight echoed down Washington Avenue. He ran toward it, thinking it could be the sounds of a good headline for tomorrow. Spot froze when he saw the fight. Brooks lay on the ground, covered in blood and bruises, as Myth beat him with a cane. Several newsies stood by and watched.
Spot had to do something! As Myth pulled back his cane to hit Brooks again, he grabbed the handle and snatched it right out of Myth's hands.
"Wrong move, Dot." said Myth. Spot was so small, he could easily get him out of the way and finish off Brooks.
Spot thought fast. Myth lunged at him, but he stood firm. Myth had made one crucial mistake. Spot gave him a shove, which may not have done anything if Myth's position was not weak. The older newsie fell back, hitting his head on the curb. The blood began to pool soon after. The other newsies fled the scene when ambulance bells were heard.
Brooks and Myth didn't make it through the night. It was only a matter of time before news was spread throughout the whole city. Spot Conlon became a legend over night.
Chase stared straight ahead, letting the story sink in.
"See," Prima said. "Your beloved Spot ain't the valiant king you make him out to be."
"Prima!" Spark exclaimed. "You know it was an accident!"
Prima slammed her fist into the printing press."How do you know, were you there?"
"No, but-"
"Who told you about it, then?"
"Spot did." Spark admitted. "But you weren't there neither. Who told you?"
"Shade, he was there."
"And you don't think he coulda lied?"
Prima put her hands over her ears. "Stop it! Stop it! You're wrong, dead wrong!"
The loud shouting brought Chase back. She spoke calmly as tears filled the corners of her eyes. "I know Spot, and it sounds like you did too." She put a hand on Prima's shoulder. "You and I both know he's not a murderer."
The two girls made eye contact for a brief second before Prima broke it.
"Liars!" she screamed, running up the steps and slamming the door behind her.
