"Don't be afraid, just walk to the light,
Let go of the past and get on with your life,
Somebody's waiting out in the night,
Ashes to ashes, walk to the light."
-Walk to the Light, Jo Dee Messina
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At first, Key didn't really know what to think when she arrived home to find a large crowd of people gathered round the apartment steps. Bewildered, the girl shoved her way through, wondering what business they had here.
Grasping the cold steel banister in her hand, she began ascending, a cool breeze blowing in her hair. Carleen would wonder why she had been out so late; no sense in worrying her. She could see lantern light flickering overhead, and fatigue was beginning to take over. The prospect of a warm, decent place to sleep and good company to relate the day's troubles to appealed to the girl.
Carleen's gonna halfta do somethin' about all dese people. Or at least da landlord. Anythin' ta get rid of 'em.
A hand placed itself on Key's shoulder, and she whirled, ready to defend herself. She didn't let her guard down, not even when she found herself gazing into eyes of pure blue that held a saddened, pitying expression within them.
The man was bearded and clothed in sheer black, a messenger of death. And for a moment, Key's gaze locked with his, and she thought she had never seen such a sorrowful expression.
"What's you name, child?" A deep, bass rumble. Key found herself having to think before answering.
"K-Key."
"Your real name."
This took a bit more thought, and the word sounded strange to her tongue, for she had gone under an alias for so long. "Mara."
"And you are the charge of the...the- you are the charge of Carleen?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come with me."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Spot Conlon slipped throught the doorway to the factory, back once more for reasons not even he could comprehend. It was cold, damp, musty, and most likely the answer, the lock his key had been waiting to open. Fingering the tarnished object that hung around his neck, he coughed as a sudden burst of motion caused the tarp to fall from one of the pieces of equipment, which caused him to inhale dust.
The newie turned, trying to find the source of the motion and failing. He would have continued his search had something not caught his eye. Following an unknown something, he took several turns down the corridors once bustling with activity, and for a moment saw a phantom shape dancing before him. Blinking, he shook it off.
I must be losing my mind. Phantom shapes. Abandoned factories. What am I doin' heah?
But he didn't have an answer to that. Instead, he continued, finding that feet taking him into a tiny, darkened room, devoid of all furniture.
"...don't let go. Whatever you do, don't let go, you hear me, Evyn?"
An immense grief.
"I won't."
And he released his grip.
Spot shook his head, trying to clear it and failing. Clenching his hand into a fist, he slammed it hard against a nearby wall, frustration overwhelming him. The boy whirled as a voice chimed out from the narrow doorway.
"You won't find the lock here, child."
Spot stared, bewildered. "Lock...miss?"
"The lock that your key is to open. Sit down."
For the first time, Spot noticed who it was he was talking to. The woman that had appeared to him in the factory just a day ago stood before him, clad in the same ragged clothes, hair limp and lackluster about frail shoulders. He drew in a sharp breath, bit his lip, then for reasons not even he could comprehend obeyed, seating himself on the frigid cement floor.
The woman seated herself in front of him, smiling as though she knew something the Brooklyn leader didn't.
"You won't find the lock here, child," she repeated. "The lock was destroyed. Your key is useless. At least the key in the physical sense."
"What the hell are you tawkin' about?"
She only chuckled at his frustration. "Listen, and mayhap you will recall something."
The woman began saying something, but reality suddenly vanished for Spot Conlon, and surreal shapes and patterns gripped him, increasing his pulse.
"It was the biggest mistake we ever made, Evyn. And I don't want you making one similar to it."
"I don't understand."
"No, you wouldn't," the woman replied from where she lay, gasping, struggling for every breath. "But let me tell you again: leaving Ireland was the biggest error we ever made. But...I was pregnant...with you. I was frightened...I-"
Evyn cut her off. "Stop worryin' yourself. Just rest."
"...you mother..."
"..came heah ta New Yawk from Ireland," Spot finished.
The woman didn't look the least bit surprised. "Yes, that's right, child. She did. And then she died."
Spot's eyes misted over, and he wasn't sure if it was he speaking the words he was speaking. "I was...five years old. She'd been sick...for quite awhile...she..."
And when he looked up, the woman was gone once more.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Spot left the factory, more puzzled than frustrated now. The key hung around his neck like a lead weight, and every step was a struggle. He managed to elbow his way through the ever increasing crowd of people, regretting the fact that he had decided to skip selling papes for today.
I'se gonna starve ta death today, he mused, feeling the ache in his gut increase. Maybe I'll be able ta get Crash ta spot me a couple of cents.
The Brooklyn leader grinned as his mind wandered back to the days when he had been devoid of all nicknames but Evyn, an alias. After exasperating Net with the fact taht he was always broke and constantly borrowing money, the nickname Spot had somehow stuck.
Suddenly, the boy turned as he felt a slight pressure against his left hip. Used to having to fend off pickpockets and thieves, he turned, whirled, striking whoever it was full in the face.
Key tumbled backwards, realizing her mistake: she had gone for the same victim twice. Spitting out a bit of blood, she rose from the pavement, disoriented.
Spot, seeing who it was chuckled in amusement. "We gotta stop meetin' like dis," he mused, offering no helping hand, just watching as she dusted herself off.
"And you gotta stop hittin' goils."
"Dere's no room for courtsey in da streets."
"Dere's no room for swell-headed boys who t'ink dey own da place."
"I do."
"You wish."
Spot stepped a bit closer, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in what could have been a genial smile and what could have been a threatening expression. Key watched him carefully, waiting for any signs that he was ready to launch into an all-out fist fight.
"What's dat?"
Spot blinked, surprised at the sudden change in topic. "What's what?"
"Dat." Key gestured towards the odd-looking contraption he had clutched in one hand. Spot chuckled.
"Don't tell me ya have no idea what a slingshot is?"
"I have no idea what a slingshot is."
"My God, wheah ya been for da past hundred years? C'mere. I'll show ya how ta use it."
To this day, nobody really knows what made the Brooklyn leader take a fancy to the girl who had tried to rob him twice. He simply did.
Reaching over, he placed something cold and hard into her hand. Key stared blankly at the marble. "A kid's plaything? You newsies got bettah things ta do?"
With the absolute superiority only Spot could project, he went through the entire lesson with Key, leaving her feeling frustrated, irate, and, to put it simply, inferior when it was over.
Giving a throaty laugh, the Brooklyn leader tucked the slingshot back into his pocket and pulled of his hat, revealing a head of fine, dark hair. Bowing mockingly, he recited the age old lines.
"Ladies foist."
"Foist ta wheah?" Key muttered. Spot righted himself.
"To your home. Carleen'll be waitin'."
"How da hell did you get dat information? Who da hell do you t'ink you are, pryin' like dat?"
He gave a genial wink. "Spot Conlon, newsie leader of Brooklyn."
"I'll tell ya what y'are. A glorified puppy dog."
Spot was on her in a flash. Fingers clenching around her collar, he slammed Key into a stack of barrels and crates placed there for his convienience. Drawing a fist back, he let it hang in midair, quivering with pent-up energy. Key's eyes held a wild, feral look, like a hunted animal. Spot's expression was kept carefully blank.
"Lissen. I didn't heah ta pick a fight wit ya. But I will if you insist. So watch your mouth, or I'll watch it for ya."
Heedless rage and frustration caused Key's actions to be irrational and common sense to leave her for a moment. Wrenching herself from the Brooklyn leader's grip, she staggered backwards for a moment then finally managed to find her balance.
"Don't. Touch. Me."
"I do what I want," Spot replied smoothly, watching her emotions unravel, watching as he got the upper hand. When she spoke up for the second time, there was an undeniable quaver in her voice.
"I said," she paused, taking in a ragged breath, "don't touch me. I just wanna...I just..."
The unexpected occured when a single teardrop coursed down one cheek, giving way to torrent of raw feelings, pent-up rage and weariness. The girl crumbeld against the wall she had been thrust into, sobbing wildly into her hand.
Spot backed up a bit, unsure of what to do, feeling oddly responsible. Going down on one knee, he brought himself almost to eye level with her, tone becoming cajoling.
"Hey...look. I didn't mean anythin' bad, it's just..."
She sniffed, looked up and gave a glare half comprised of amusement, half of true scorn. "Yeah. I know. 'Cause you're the almighty Spot Conlon, right?"
"Yeah," he replied with a half-grin.
And words just came streaming out of her mouth, words she had been wanting to spit out for days. The words and phrases were connected with the occasional curse and layered with profane comments.
"...she's dead. I just came back to da place, and dere she was...oh God, I..."
Spot didn't even have to ask the name of the deceased person. He had seen Carleen's face around the place; a harlot who sold herself in whichever place she thought would attract the most "clients."
Reaching out, settled one arm awkwardly around Key's narrow shoulders. "Ya got a place ta stay?"
"No." Then, more viciously: "But I don't care."
"Yes, ya do."
"Okay, so I do. So what?"
Spot hesitated, looking the very definition of uncertain. "So...I, uh, don't usually take in street waifs like da likes of you, but I'll make an acception dis time. Come wit me."
"I'm not goin' back ta dat kinda life."
"What?"
"Newsie life. Dere's no future deir."
Spot rose, hands planted on hips, voice becoming mocking. "Like dere's a future in runnin' around as a pickpocket? Get your head unburied from dat mound of sand and open your eyes. Look around ya. You're alone. You're runnin' a dangerous "career". Ya got no support. Ya got no place ta stay. And, from da looks of ya, ya got no cash, either."
"I don't care."
"Newsie then, newsie now, right?"
Key glanced upwards through a haze of tears, feeling undeniably stupid for breaking down in front of a perfect stranger. And as she watched him, slight frame outlined against the last rays of daylight, something sparked, and she nodded.
"So...about dis place ya offered?"
Spot laughed. "It ain't exactly da classy lodging a lady of your stature deserves," he informed her mockingly, "but it's a place. Follow me."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Brooklyn lodging house was a rowdy place, be it before or after dark. Key hearkened to the familiar sound of rough laughter from within, stepping up ever so slightly. Spot mumbled something and entered, a chorus of greetings going up when he did. Key followed, feeling a sudden rush of kinship towards the newsies that she had once belonged to.
Spot gestured for the girl to pick out any avaliable bunk. He began heading off towards a corner of the room to brood near a shattered pane of glass when somebody rose from a nearby table. The boy was tall, lanky and piped up in a high nasal whine.
"Heya Spot. Just wanted ta let ya know; Cowboy's waitin' for ya outside. Ya must've missed him or somethin'. Losing your edge, Conlon?"
The comment was teasing, genial, but Spot stopped any further merriment dead in its tracks with a single withering glance. Silence fell, and the Brooklyn leader began the standoff with his hapless charge.
"I heah another word outta your mouth as of tonight, I'll make sure you regret it."
The boy fell silent.
Not much of a standoff.
Key flopped onto her bunk, rolling her eyes. "Tyrant."
And suddenly, the need for something, a smoke, a drink, anything that would eventually lead to a round of brooding seized her. The girl rose, unnoticed, then slipped out the door after Spot.
It was dark outside, and chilly for a summer's night. She considered leaving for one of the taverns, but realized that she would never be able to make it back before curfew. Pulling a cigarette out of her pocket, she lit up and took a long drag.
Spot was nowhere in sight, but she thought she heard hushed voices drifting towards her from the left. Leader meeting. Better stay out of it if ya wanna live, she thought dryly.
Striding out into the darkness, the girl went shoulder-to-shoulder with somebody and staggered backwards, a bit disoriented. Squinting, she tried to make out who it was.
"Sorry."
Male. And genuinely apologetic. How rare.
Then again, Key had a biased, stereotyped idea of males.
"'S all right," she replied curtly, trying to restrain herself from making a jibe or joke on how tall the figure was. Instead, she inquired, "You heah wit Cowboy?"
"Yeah."
Silence.
Extended silence.
"Well, I gotta get goin' now," the figure told her, not waiting for a goodbye. And she watched as he retreated.
Snoddy shot a backwards glance at the girl he'd crashed into, a single thought crossing his mind. I wonder who she is?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Spot came in late, frustrated and completely angry with Jack. Who did the Manhattan leader think he was, trying to dump one of his problem newsies on Spot?
He collapsed against the wall, burying his face in his hands, grateful for the silence, although it was temporary.
"Spot?"
It took him awhile to recognize the voice. When he finally did, he glanced up, replying in a husky whisper. "Key?"
"You awake?" silence. A scoff. "Well, of course you're awake."
"And what, may I ask, are you doin' up?" he inquired coldly. Key chuckled mirthlessly.
"Dat's my business. I was just about ta leave."
Spot shrugged. "Hey, you're choice. I offer ya shelter. I'se done my part. It's your choice, what you're gonna do wit da help you'se been offered."
She chuckled again. "Don't sound so offended, Conlon. I was goin' for a...a walk."
"At dis time of night?"
"Yeah."
"You do a lotta strange things. And I like dat."
In the quiet that followed, the only noises heard were heavy breathing, a few snores and the clop-clop of horses' hooves passing by.
"Key."
"Hmm-mm?"
"Mind if I come along...for da walk? I could use it."
"I mind. But I'll indulge ya dis one time, Conlon."
"It's Spot."
"Spot. We had a dog named-"
"Shaddup."
In the still of the night, two figures stole silently from the Brooklyn Lodging House, heading out into streets blanketed by a star-strewn sky.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Is it possible to be able to taste the flavor of someone's personality when no words are spoken?
Perhaps in some cases.
But eventually, the chatter began to flow between Spot and Key; the only noise filling the empty streets. Spot was eager to hear of what had become of Net, his previous mentor, and was a bit crestfallen when he found that the girl had recieved no information on the boy other than his name and former occupation.
The dup paused, and Key seated herself on the pavement, back against the wall of an old, abandoned factory, the very one Spot had been paying visits to.
Spot glanced up at the building with an equal amount of longing and loathing in his eyes, then dropped into a sitting position beside Key. He sighed, gazing up at the crescent moon that illuminated the night sky.
"So, um...Conl- Spot. I meant Spot. Ya have any idea what dat key of yours is supposed ta open?"
Silence.
"No."
The Brooklyn leader sat still, recounting and recalling of the events that had very violently shaken his recent life; from the need to discover his own identity, to the shattered, blurry dreams, to the woman. Always the woman. She appeared out of nowhere, then vanished like smoke.
"So, ya know her name?"
Spot turned to Key, inquery in his eyes. "What?"
"Da woman ya told me about. Da one ya met at da factory."
"Her name's Sadie. Sadie Weber."
Key shot him a strange glance. "How did you know dat? Ya told me you had no idea..."
Spot stiffened. "I- I don't know. It just...it just came out."
"Uh-huh," came the drowsy reply. Spot gave an indulgent laugh and nudged her gently.
"Ya gettin' sleepy?"
"Yeah."
He gathered her up, helping her to her feet. Dissheveled hair, drowsiness and the lack of sharp retorts and banter put the girl in a vulnerable image. Glancing upwards, she smiled at the moon.
"Rest in peace, Carleen."
The words were a whisper, the tears left unshed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"You!"
The woman spun around from where she had been inspecting fruits and vegetables at one of the market stall, finding herself staring down at none other than Spot Conlon. It was the same dark-haired lady the Brooklyn leader had met twice now at the factory. Her gaze was not one of surprise, but on of knowing, as though she had expected the boy to show up.
"Yes, child. We meet again," she chuckled. "Have you found your lock, yet?"
Spot was tempted to give a snarl and tell the daft creature to stop babbling on and on about keys and locks. Instead, he shook his head, impatient. "Ya never finished da story."
"What story?"
"You know what I'se tawkin' about."
"Ah, yes, but was it for me to finish? Or is that a task left to you?"
"I don't know what da hell you're tawkin' about."
"Yes, you do. You're just not trying hard enough to comprehend it."
"What?!?"
She stopped, drew in a breath and smiled. "Ashes to ashes, child. Walk to the light."
A woman, eyes of pure blue, smiled down at him.
"Tell me again," he pleaded.
Without a trace of weariness, she indulged the child. "All right, Evyn. There was a time, not so long ago, when we lived in a place far, far away from here."
"Ireland, right?"
"Do you want to listen, or are you going to interupt every two seconds?"
He fell silent, crestfallen.
"You're father..." she paused. "God only knows where he is, if he's still alive. But I'll tell you this much, child. I was pregnant with you, there was hardly any food, hardly any money to support even myself."
"So you left."
"Yes. I left. And came here, to this...this- place."
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"We're going to live and die here, aren't we?"
"Who told you that, child?"
"Marie."
His mother's face was filled with doubt at her own words, but she spoke them anyway. "Don't believe everything Marie says, you know how she is. But no, you don't have to live and die in this factory, child. You can change the course of your life if you set your heart and soul to the task."
"But how?"
"I don't know. But you'll find a way."
Spot sat up, glancing around. His bunk. The Lodging House. Filled with newsies. His newsies.
"What da hell am I doin' heah?"
He didn't have time to think, didn't have time to comprehend even as he was dragged back into an abyss of pure gold and blue.
"I'm your sister. Of course I won't leave you."
He looked up, eyes frightened and trusting at the same time. "But Mama left us. And Papa left us."
The girl...Leah...leaned down and brushed her brother's few locks of hair aside. "Mama had to leave. And you didn't even know what Papa was like. But you know what I'm like, and I don't have to leave. And you'll get better; I'll make sure of that."
And, child that he was, he believed her words.
But she left him.
Shattered machinery. Screams. A Messanger of Death, informing him of the loss.
An immense, gut-wrenching grief that only the one experiencing it could comprehend. A cry like that of a wounded animal tore itself from his throat, tears streaked the boy's face, even as he
sat up in his bunk, glancing around at the now-empty room. Swearing under his breath, he didn't make a move, just sat there, chest and narrow shoulders heaving, gasping for air and forcing down the tears with a deft sort of control.
Key glanced at him strangely as she entered the room.
"Spot. Ya weren't heah before."
"What...what happened to da others? Why aren'tcha sellin'?"
"Sell? In dis kinda weather? Their down at da piers makin' da best of da rain," she informed him with a grin that betrayed she knew more than she was telling.
And suddenly, the gasps swelled into full-blown sobs, even as Key seated herself beside him, not making a move to touch, unsure of what to do.
"S-Spot?"
"Deir gone. Both 'a dem."
"Who?"
"Forget it. Ya wouldn't..."
"Spot. You need ta take a walk. We need ta take a walk. Da piers. Dis evening."
"I am not...tellin' me problems...to...a...goil...especially you."
Key raised an eyebrow.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I used to lay down in a field of grass,
Watching the clouds go by,
Imagining the places I would go as they passed..."***
Evening at the pier was a lovely affair, watching the sun go down in a blaze of light and glory. Key squinted into it rays, sensing Spot shifted uncomfortably beside her.
Drawing in a breath of cool air, the girl spoke. "So...you're a hundred percent sure dat her name's...what was dat? Sadie? Sadie Weber?"
"Yeah. I'se five hundred percent sure."
"Dat cloud's shaped like a three headed tree stump."
Spot gaped for a second, then broke into laughter. "Ya need a hobby."
"I got a hobby."
"Cloud watching?"
She smiled sleepily. "Yeah. I was...what was I like? It's hard ta remember. A dreamer, I guess. Kinda reckless, but hey, weren't all little kids?"
"Yeah. I guess." His tone turned wistful. "I just wish I could...remember...well, you know."
"Yeah. I know."
Somewhere there's a dreamer, looking for a dream,
Somewhere there's a drifter, trying to find his way,
Somewhere someone's waiting, to hear somebody say..."****
"Well, actually, I don't know. I don't know what it's like, not ta have any self-identity. And I won't lie about dat, either."
"T'anks for da honesty," came the dry response. "Do me a favor and don't add sympathy to it."
"I won't. But I will add one thing. You'se can do it."
"What?"
"You're lookin' for yourself. Tryin' ta find out who ya are, where ya come from. Well, Spot, I got news for ya. I believe, wit all my being, dat a boy like yourself is unstoppable when he sets his heart and soul to things."
"Dat so?"
"Uh-huh."
And somehow, he knew that she meant it.
I can't even count the ways that
I believe in you,
And all I want to do is help you to
Believe in you..."****
Spot leaned over and allowed his arm to stray over her shoulders once more. The girl leaned into the touch, as though both were seeking comfort from each other.
And in a way, they were.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The gust of wind that swept off Spot's cap. Sent by fate? I think not. Sent by Irony? I think not.
More like sent by Annoyance, Spot mused as he gave chase. Elbowing his way through the usual crowd that trod the boardwalk, he set his jaw. That cap was his favorite- hell-his only cap, and he wasn't letting it go without a fight.
Scampering over gutter and debris alike, the Brooklyn leader followed the breeze. Crashing into one of his newsies, he zoomed past Key's selling spot and came very close to being turned into a mess of blood and guts on the road. Thankfully, the carriage stopped just in time.
Not bothering to waste time on apologies, the boy darted onwards, seeking, ever seeking.
The relentless gust of air finally came to a stop at the entrance of Brooklyn's graveyard. Spot clutched the iron gates (flung wide open) for a second, panting, then bent down and retrieved the precious item.
Then, he froze.
"...Sadie'll take care of you for now, child."
Striding a few metres forwards. Only several feet away from the cluster of tombstones.
"But where are you going?"
"Away. For now. But Sadie- she'll be good to you."
Amongst the tombstones. Searching. For what?
"I love you."
No response. Never again.
The leaves of the trees above were rustled by a slight breeze, and Spot found himself dropping to his knees in front of one particular grave. It was a simple affair, but it struck him- hard. The Brooklyn leader knelt like that for what seemed like eternity, gazing at the inscription on the tombstone.
"Spot! Hey, Spot!"
"Wha-?"
Key approached him at a slow jog, finally stopping before the tombstone. "I was wonderin' what you was doin', runnin' around like dere's no tomorrow. Hey, whatcha got dere?"
"I'm not sure myself," he replied, baffled. He turned his face towards her. "Dat lady I been tawkin' about? Sadie?"
"Yeah?"
"She's dead. Been dead for five years now."
And in one, terrifying moment, everything, everything fell into place. His mother, coming to New York from Ireland with his sister, barely a child, more of an infant. The sickness that had taken his mother, the accident that had taken his sister, the fever that had ravaged his memory.
And that one terrifying moment was more than enough.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
And you shouldn't make promises,
That you can't keep..."***
A warm drink, two wet, tired people who hadn't managed to avoid the rainstorm upon coming home, and an intimate conversation. All that was needed now was a roaring fire.
Unfortunately, the Brooklyn Lodging House lacked a fireplace.
But Spot and Key could live with that.
After a change of clothing, the duo sat opposite each other in a darkened corner of the room, discussing the day's events. When all conversation had been worn thin, Spot leaned back and let his eyelids fall halfway over blue-green eyes. Key observed him, saying nothing, just letting the silence speak for itself.
"I finally get it," he stated softly, eyes fixed on a point only he could see.
"Get what?" Key blinked owlishly. "Oh."
"A bit slow in da head today?"
"A bit repetetive?" she retorted. "Dat's da phrase you'se been throwin' in over and over and over again." She paused. "But...ya gotta right to it."
"I certianly do," came the immodest reply.
"So tell me."
"Hmm?"
"Tell me again," Key repeated, tone almost childish. "About...who you are."
Spot related the story with a certain kind of glee, as though he were reciting a piece of work for an overly-zealous teacher.
"Me muddah...she was from Ireland." He clutched the now-empty tin cup in his hand, looking thoughful. "I'm not sure who my faddah was...she never told me, I don't think."
"Things were gettin' harder and harder...how was she supposed t'support herself and a child? So came heah, ta New Yawk, pregnant wit me, accompanied by me sister...Leah...and started woikin' at da factory. Work dere, dig your own grave. It's hard, brutal labour...it- it kills. She got sick...and died. It was long and slow, but she died, eventually."
"Where did dat leave you?" Key inquired.
"In da care of...Sadie. Sadie Weber," he said with an almost rueful grin. "Sadie and Leah, me sister. Leah was da brooding type, always moping around, da pesscimist. The 'think about tomorrow' type."
"Sounds familiar."
Spot didn't rise to the playful jibe, just continued. "Spent several years in dat hellhole. Workin', day after day, doin' da same thing. Dey made up songs, y'know? Songs dat fit da monotony...da rythm of life in da kitchens."
Key tried hard to picture it, but couldn't.
"My sister was...taken...in an accident. Somethin' wrong wit da machinery."
His gaze turned thoughful, brooding, as though he were struggling to remember the last half of the story. "I...I was sick. I ain't really sure, but I t'ink..."
"Ya fell asleep 'cause of da fever and never woke up for awhile."
Spot glanced at Key surprised. "Yeah. Dat's it. How'dja know?"
"I make it my business ta know."
Spot shook his head, grinning at her insolence. "Anyway...I woke up. Just like dat. Scared, no idea where da hell I was. I stayed at da factory for a liddle longer. Sadie had left awhile back...who knows why? I stayed, dat is until I got kicked out."
"Why?"
"I wasn't what'cha might consider da healthiest child around," he stated dryly. "Always gettin' sick. Dat's when Mr. Shire figured I was no good to 'em anymore and, well, out I went wit all of yesterday's trash."
"And dat would be da part where Net found ya, right?"
He leaned back and nodded distractedly.
"You know, it's kinda funny how...well, I remember, but I don't. I'se got da basics down, just tryin' ta piece it together, make it all make sense."
Then, without warning, he reached down and removed the key from around his neck, placing it around Key's instead. She blinked, surprised. "What's dis for?"
"I ain't got no use for it anymore. Keep it."
She gave a mock-indignant expression. "So, I get da castoffs, huh?"
"It ain't a castoff. You wouldn't believe how much dis means ta me."
"A key?"
"It was curiosity dat kept me goin'. Curiosity sparked by dat object ya wear around your neck now." He paused and grinned. "Dat, and a lotta stubborness. I ain't really sure what I'm supposed ta think of da reflection I see in da mirror every day."
"I know what I see," Key replied smoothly. "I lookit you, and see a damn good image. But...why do I get da key?"
"'Cause it looks good when ya wear it," he smirked, then leaned forwards and drew her into a kiss.
Key had no objections whatsoever.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
***="I Will Be Loving You", by Tara Lyn Hart
****= "I Believe In You", by Amanda Marshall