Free Companies Inc. Presents:

Brooklyn: One Rainy Day

By Keza: Queen of Procrastination

AN: Woo hoo. Laaast chapter! Three chapters in less than ten days? -faints- this is unbelievable. For me. The… erm… -glances up- procrastinator. Never mind the fact that I'm putting off two huge school projects just to write this - that's beside the point!

Story-wide disclaimer: Newsies, are owned by Disney (in theory). Though I really don't use many newsies, do I? All other, unrecognizable characters were created by me, and therefore… yeah. Etc.

End Note: Yes, I've been planning on a sequel for a bit now. It's not going to be written in this same format (thank God!). Also, if anybody wants to be in it… feel free to just ask. Falco has a, um… interesting role in the next story (though I refuse to tell her what). And… yeah. Looking forward to writing it. More Ruin-ness!

Annnd, lastly… Thank you SO much to Falco, Misprint and Ali for faithfully reviewing every chapter (I think). -bows- youse ROCK! And to Sid with her oh-so-nice-make-me-feel-fuzzy-reviews, and of course, to Mondie, Anna Belle, Frenchy, Ribelle, Yoli, Derby, Abbe-chan, Naeth, Fearless, Kathryn and Gypsy for contributing reviews as well. WOO!

Last chapter. Only thing left is a short, short, epilogue. Enjoy. Review. Get me a bagel because I'm REALLY in the mood for one.

Chapter Ten. Watch.

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"The same goes for you," Spot said, the smirk on his face even entering into his voice. Watch leaned casually on his club - really just a short, thick pole - and studied the confused group down on the ground, his face void of any emotion. Luckily they had caught up to Sling before his attackers had made any moves. Behind him Watch could hear the Manhattan newsies talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Really, they had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was too late to back out. Besides, they had made a promise. Only the foolish broke promises like that, especially when they were with Brooklyn…

A slight commotion at one end of the alley broke out, distracting those below long enough for Spot to shoot off a marble - the first shot… it had begun then. Watch gave a satisfied grunt and worked his way with the Manhattaners to the back of the building, where they had climbed up. He was no good with a sling… but a club, well that was a different story. Gripping one end of the wood comfortably, he dropped the rest of the way down, half listening to the yelps of pain heard as the other Brooklyners let loose with their slingshots.

Immediately after entering the alley, Mush and Pie-eater darted to the other end, where Watch could see Wood's familiar blonde hair shining dully in the rain. He swiped a free hand over his eyes, trying to rid of the ever dripping water, then crossed the space to Sling, attempting to steer clear of marbles as he did so.

Sling stood pressed flat against a wall, fear shining in his eyes, helpless without his sling. Watch caught up just as one boy broke the circle and moved towards the Sling, knuckles braced and ready. Sling held an arm up in front of his face and tried unsuccessfully to melt into the wall. Sticking his leg out and twisting it sharply, Watch brought the boy down and then kneeled on his back, keeping him down before a light hit to the back of the head knocked him cold. Sling sagged in relief as he recognized the burly boy, but kept glanced over his shoulders as he approached Watch, paranoia striking deep.

"Where can I go? To get up high?" he asked breathlessly. Watch heard a noise and swung out until his fist connected with something - followed by a moan.

"Behind, that way," Watch told him, pointing. "Fire escape should work."

Sling nodded his thanks and dashed off, only to be replaced by Skittery, who was swearing profusely. Watch backed up and joined him against a wall, looking around nervously, trying to spot where their attackers had disappeared to. With them all wearing black, and the clouds and rain obscuring the moon, sight was a trying thing. He had no idea how the slingers on the roof were finding their targets.

"Broken," Skittery was saying, his voice a mess of anger, though a trace of fear could be present as well. Watch chanced a glance over. Obviously he was supposed to answer.

"What is? What happened?" he asked slowly. Skittery attempted to flex his left wrist and groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"I can't move it," he said weakly. "Damn… that hurts."

Watch ignored him and instead focused on the opposite wall, where an occasional shadow of movement could be spotted. Holding his club out in front of him protectively, the boy abandoned his position at the wall and moved forward slowly, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Behind him, Skittery rattled out another round of curses.

"Shit! There's more people coming -" his sentence was cut short by his own shout of pain. Watch made the mistake of looking back, hoping to see if the taller boy was ok. Immediately something slashed out at him, leaving a white hot line of agony that started from behind his ear, then traveled down and dug deeper at the side of his neck. He cried out, though more in surprise than anything, and spun back around, swinging his club like a baseball bat. The wood connected and crunched solidly, and a form fell against Watch's legs, forcing him to the ground as well. Watch grunted and rolled the body off of his legs, trying not to look, but the image was there anyway: chips of bone, rain and blood mingling and flowing freely from the boy's face, an impossible dent in his forehead. Watch slid back and then stood up, looking at his club with new horror. What were they doing? Kids weren't supposed to… they were never supposed to… kill.

He drew in a deep breath, wincing as his throat and neck objected harshly, a rough reminder that the blood slowly covering his shirt was his own. Still backing away from the scene, he almost tripped over Skittery, who was laying curled up, receiving blows without any protest. He couldn't move. Without thinking Watch raised his club again, whacking Skittery's attacker on the temple hard enough to force the boy back a few steps before he collapsed. Watch reached down and gripped Skittery's hand, about to pull him up when a horrid thought finally entered his brain. Skittery wasn't reacting. Skittery isn't moving. Skittery isn't getting up.

Watch knelt down in an almost panicked state and rolled Skittery over, and thankfully, the boy was breathing. No, not breathing - coughing, horrible spasms that wracked his whole body, he managed to spit out a few teeth before emptying his stomach on the stones, breathing heavily while the rain washed it away. He grit his teeth as Watch helped him up, then stood on shaky legs and tried to avoid touching fresh bruises.

"Those boys," he rasped to Watch, disbelief and horror etched clearly on his features. "What the hell are they doing? This ain't no alley fight, they don't wanna soak us," he stopped, doubling over to throw up again, then caught his breath and wiped his good arm across his mouth. "They want to kill us!"

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Watch couldn't think of a time that he had been happier to see Jack Kelly. The boy was everywhere, wreaking havoc with his pummeling fists and sharp words. Watch remembered how they had sent the other boy, Swifty, to alert Manhattan. He couldn't believe the kid had gone so fast. It boggled the mind.

But Manhattan had only been there for ten minutes or less when the opposing force just… pulled out. With Manhattan's arrival they had been losing their advantage, true, but that was obviously not the reason for their retreat. Watch caught Spot's attention as the lithe boy jumped from the stack of crates he had been perched on.

"What's happening?" he asked, putting a hand against the nearest wall to steady himself. More loss of blood…

"Lion!" Spot spat, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I saw him and that damned hair of his!"

"Bronx," Watch agreed.

"But didn't we already know that?" Jack emerged, wiping blood away from his mouth and squinting slightly through a swollen eye.

"Yeah, we knew it," Spot said. "So why are they pulling out?"

The rest of the group gathered around their two leaders, each quietly nursing their bruises and cuts, some more serious than others, a few with barely a scratch - those being the boys who had stayed on the roof, and Ruin and Mercy, who had only shown up minutes before. Spot scratched dried blood off from the skin under his eye and peered through the rain to the other end of the alley, where more shadowy shapes began to take form and get bigger.

"Aw, gee," Racetrack groaned from where he crouched on the ground. Spot's jaw opened a fraction wider.

"Bronx pulled out," he repeated. "So who's that?"

"And where's Harlem?" Ruin's bitter voice was heard. "Where's Mouse with Harlem?!"

"They'll come," Spot assured him. "They've always come through for us."

"Who is that?" and questions similar echoed through the bunch.

"Where the hell did Bronx get so many extras?" Gambler's voice was a mix of surprise, doubt, and fear. Spot heard these emotions and turned angrily.

"What, you don't think we can take 'em?"

Gambler met his gaze coolly.

"I never said that, Spot," he told his leader calmly.

"Let's just leave it with what we know," Mercy snapped. "Harlem ain't coming and the Bronx is bigger than we thought."

Watch glanced over, studying Mercy intently - for some reason his hand kept traveling to his vest, as if touching it for reassurance. Watch never knew the older boy had any 'lucky' clothing, but it was certainly possible.

Silence stretched on, one group of boys standing hunched over in the rain, soaked through, both their bodies and minds warped. The second group making their way steadily towards the other, determination and confidence stamped on their faces. If one had looked out on these events, perhaps from a window, or a shop nearby, they may have just smiled and shook their heads, chuckling at the antics of 'kids these days.' Or maybe they'd do the opposite, sigh sadly and turn away, not allow their eyes to watch the unfolding events, while inside they cried at the cruelties of 'kids these days.'

The new attackers didn't hesitate, once they were inside the cramped alley way they charged forward, shouting threats and insults as they approached their silent victims.

Mercy found his hand at his vest again and quickly brought it down. He had seen the brutality of the former boys, and if this new crowd was anything like that, he didn't know how anyone would survive the night without permanent injuries… or worse. And if his plan, a new idea quickly taking shape in his mind - if it was to work, he knew he couldn't tell anyone.

He looked over at Ruin, who had slid a knife out from his sleeve. Mercy followed suit, gripping the handle of his small blade tightly and watching the rain splash off the metal with some sort of detached fascination.

The people nearest to the Bronx boys had broken from the rest of the group and ran towards them as well, screaming challenges with hoarse voices. They were tired, yes, but nothing would stop them from defending the one place they could call home.

And is that what all this fighting is about? Mercy's thoughts commanded more of his attention. A piece of land? Is it even that? Or just an excuse for a fight? He mused, staring thoughtfully into his warped reflection of his blade. Standing there, feeling the rain drum on his shoulders and sluice down his back, he remembered again the realization he had made years ago. The realization that had landed him in this business, a business of mercenaries and false enemies, false friends, false fights. Which side was he fighting for? The good side or the bad side? And if he won, would that mean it was the good side? Because good always wins? No.

There is no evil. There is no good. No black, no white. Only a thousand shades of gray in between.

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Ruin spat gravel from his mouth, hating the gritty texture on his tongue, and rolled to his feet, standing to face his adversity again. The boy - damn, though he didn't look like a boy, he was so big - stood there mockingly, a knife in one hand, crude wooden board in the other. Already twice had Ruin been fooled by his tactics, he feinted with his knife, and when Ruin moved to answer, he found himself on the ground, hit soundly with the board. But no longer, he would make the first move this time. Switching his own knife deftly to his other hand, Ruin stepped forward, not even bothering to shake away his bangs from where they lay plastered over his eyes. He raised his knife hand to strike, and noticed with horror the way his opponent's eyes flashed past his shoulder, behind him. Still in mid movement, Ruin could do nothing as he felt a blade's edge cut deep into his shoulder, hitting bone and barely stopping there.

With a cry he hit the ground hard, jerking again as the blade was yanked free. On his other side, a heavy boot slammed into his side, knocking the breath from his lungs and hitting his ribs sharply. Ruin gasped for air - it was hopeless, there were so many, and they were so tired. If Harlem didn't come…

A crack as the boot hit again, this time connecting solidly with his ribs. Ruin's fingers scrabbled for his knife as he fought to get up, but was forced back down. He finally managed to roll over on his back, shouting as his shoulder rubbed against the dirt, the gash exploding with new pain. He gave up trying to move the arm that shoulder was attached to, and instead clutched his knife with his other hand, his left, his weaker - but only slightly. Cautiously he backed up, the knife held out in front of him with a quivering arm, spitting blood every few feet until he hit against a wall. But he couldn't escape his attackers and their leers, their jeers. There is no escape.

It didn't take long for Mercy to find who he was looking for. Standing in the shadows, away from the action, directing most of his minions with a few shouted commands, though few of them need any direction. He knew this boy must be the district leader, he carried himself with the same kind of air that Spot Conlon did, the confident, all-important kind of thing. But Mercy wasn't prepared to see who the leader was - until he turned to face Mercy's direction, and both of their faces mirrored surprise.

Mercy recovered first. He quickly crossed the remaining steps and grabbed the boy's upper arm, drawing him close while his other hand whipped the gun he had stolen from Spin's captors and rested the barrel to the side of his head. Mercy didn't waste any time or breath exchanging comments and insults.

"Call them off," he hissed. The boy swallowed nervously, his eyes rolling up in an attempt to see the gun that could kill him at a moment's notice. With Mercy's attention focused on his face, the boy's free hand moved behind his back, where he flashed a signal. A moment later the hand dropped back to his side.

"What do you want me to say?" he demanded to Mercy.

"Something," Mercy said back. "Anything."

The boy shuddered and drew a deep breath, knowing better than to argue.

"PULL BACK!" he bellowed. Many of the attackers stopped, confused, but a few saw his situation and did pull back, guarding themselves warily as they began to filter out of the alley.

"Again," Mercy ordered.

"PULL BACK!" he shouted again, his voice cracking as it started to go hoarse. And still the two remained in the shadows. "Now let me go," he said quietly. Mercy reluctantly drew the gun from his head, then dropped his arm. The boy rubbed at his arm, where he would find finger shaped bruises the next morning. Then he looked up at Mercy and just sneered. Mercy didn't have time to react before a heavy club slammed into the back of his skull, tossing him head over heels to the ground. Completely surprised by the action, his finger jerked, pulling the trigger sharply. The leader and his only remaining minion fled.

Still unsure of why the boys had suddenly been called back, and just as suddenly had left, Wood leaned against a wall, appreciating what rest he could get. Then a heavy 'whack' was heard only moments later, immediately followed by a gunshot. Those remaining in the alley froze, their eyes wide and mouths gaping.

The next few minutes were full of confusion and chaos. Bells and alarms sounded as the cops rushed in. Anyone who could move fled the scene as fast as they could, those who were stuck on the ground, whether injured, unconscious, or worse, were not so lucky, and were quickly scooped up by the police. Hurrying back to Brooklyn's lodging house, one small boy, Rocky, managed to relay information to Spot.

"I know why they pulled back!" he gasped. "Mercy had their leader at gunpoint-"

"Who was their leader?"

"I couldn't see!" Rocky admitted, ashamed. "But when Mercy let him go, they did something, took the gun and shot him, I think. That's what the gunshot was…. I couldn't see very well," he added cautiously. Spot groaned and helped support Mush, who had sprained his ankle.

"The only person that knows who is attacking us," he said, his voice filled with bitterness. "Is the one laying cold in the alley," for Rocky was right, and Spot hadn't seen Mercy among the escaping newsies. But there were many, so many, that he hadn't seen. He could only hope that the bulls helped them heal up, instead of the other way around. As they approached the docks, the wind picked up and blew the clouds away from the moon, offering a soft glow that reflected radiantly in the many puddles occupying the city.

And the rain let up.

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