Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.
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A/N: This is the first chapter of the sequel to the story Frostbitten. Please note that I wrote both of them at the same time, and both can be read separately, out of order, or together. I would encourage you to go and read Frostbitten, which clears up a lot of things that are assumed in this and references that will not be as clear with out it. It isn't mandatory, but it would make reading the following more meaningful. Enjoy and take care.
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Chapter 1: Setting the Stage
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Warning: This chapter is rated PG for mild swearing.
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"Charms strike the sight
but merit wins the soul."
-- Alexander Pope
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The sun rose in Brooklyn the same way that it rose everywhere else in the world. It rose in the east, but for all Spot Colons cared, it could have fallen right from the sky. Waking up in the morning only meant two things: That he would have to spend another day alive, and that he would have to sell more papers. No matter what the headline, he would have to sell what he had bought in order to make a buck or two. The Brooklyn leader groaned silently as he rolled over on the hard corncob mattress that furnished his makeshift bed. Automatically, his hand went to his neck to feel for the cross and key that dangled there. They were both in place and he fingered them absently.
Today was one of those days that didn't seem any different than the rest, but somehow you just know you would be better off staying in bed. Spot had never been one to listen to anyone but himself, so ignoring the little voice inside of his head; he rolled out of bed and started dressing. Nothing was too luxurious about his accommodations; in fact there was nothing at all luxurious about his abode. It was a one-roomed shack that he had claimed, as his own not caring to stay in the common newsy lodging house.
Pushing open the crude wooden door that barely kept him shielded away from the elements, Spot emerged from his dark room. Squinting against the rising sun, he breathed deeply of the morning. Already the day was hot. Of course it was hot, it was July in New York. The air wreaked of the rotted fish carcasses from the wharf and the dead bodies of rats that had died somewhere along the line. Human waste and trash baking in the early morning heat.
Walking towards the livery nearby, Spot adjusted his gray cap on his head. The livery had a half a dozen pumps that were never in use at this time in the day. He just used whatever one he pleased and no one bothered him. No one in their right mind ever bothered Spot Colons. He was a living legend, especially since the strike one year ago. Together with Jack Kelly, they had worked and fought down the newspaper lords.
Reflecting on the past year, Spot noted that there had been no real change. They had gotten the price back down, but for what? The pay was still lousy, the hours terrible. No one besides the boys even talked about it anymore. Their fifteen minutes of fame had been cut down to about five. The fame and glory of the newsies was short lived, no one wanted to hear about nobodies for too long. Sighing, he pumped some water over his head.
Damn, Spot thought to himself. Da watah is a'ready wahm, if the ground was already warm enough to heat the pipes and the water, it was going to be a scorcher.
Shaking his head after he was done, Spot wiped his face on his sleeve and put back on his cap. It was time to start the day and find something to eat. The last night's poker game had left him with enough money to actually buy a breakfast instead of steal it. Finding a merchant, he bought some fresh milk and drank the whole bottle. The sweet creamy liquid flooded his body with pleasant feelings. It was cold, the milkman had an icebox and anything cool was welcome. Pressing the cold glass to his cheek, he was refreshed already. The rest of the money was going to pay for lunch, or dinner.
Striding along the streets, he moved smoothly with a confidence that most boys would envy. There was no reason that he shouldn't be confident; he was Spot Conlon, possibly the best known newsie in the whole world! With his newly acquired height of five foot nine inches, his frame was now more intimidating than it had been. He was still thin as a rail, but that is how it was when you couldn't afford to eat most of the time. Spot Conlon's now how the body to back up the legend, but anyone who argued different got soaked.
Cane in hand, he walked to the gates of the paper distribution office and waited. As always he was the first boy there, the others normally came in a large group just before the gates opened, but not Spot. He was always first. There was no particular honor in being there first, but it established his role as a leader. It was a lonely life, never able to get too close to one person, but close enough that they would fight for him. All the boys held a large amount of respect for Spot, for his fighting skills and his deadly accurate aim with his slingshot.
In his hand he held his slingshot, it was finely whittled fork of wood. The rarity of trees in this heavily populated made his possession even more valuable. Also the finely carved patterns he had dug into it with his knife made it all the more so. An old discarded scrap of rubber was nailed to the ends, and it was obviously well worn. Spot never went anywhere without his prize weapon; it was what had kept him in power for most of his time as a newsy.
If anyone bigger or stronger challenged him, he had that slingshot out in a blink of an eye. Before the opponent knew what was happening, Spot had aimed and fired. Depending on the accuracy of the shot, the size of the shooter, and the strength behind the blow, it could do anything from knock the boy out to merely graze him. Although it rarely happened that Spot did anything but hit dead on his target. When he didn't, he had all the newsies in Brooklyn willing to fight for him.
Speaking of the boys, Spot shielded his eyes from the sun and looked in the direction of a far off street. Sure enough, here came the whole lot of them. Straightening and putting his slingshot in his waistband, Spot commanded the pose of a leader. The boys took their sweet time getting to the gate and several greeted Spot with a slap on the back or a nod, but every single one acknowledged him.
There were too many stories about things that Spot had done for the boys to ignore him. All of the stories from the past added together with the stories of the strike had a tendency to grow. All of the newsies had a knack for 'improving the truth' making Spot an urban legend. Some of the stories were so terrifying that some boys didn't even look Spot in the eyes. Very few boys ever thought of challenging him, and none of them had the courage to find out the truth of the legends. Outsider, Spot's second in command, took the space next to the leader, but was always sure to let him go in first.
The gates finally opened and Spot strode in and moved right to the desk. Slamming his money down, he demanded his papers. Even the clerk behind the cars was slightly afraid of this boy. Even though he appeared to be thin and lanky, the clerk had seen the results of some the various brawls Spot Conlon had been involved in. Besides, the ice behind Spot's blue eyes could freeze the warmest heart. Stepping to the side with his stack of papers, Spot scanned the front page.
"Fire in Harlem Rages," The headline proclaimed. "Drought spreads the fear of fire throughout New York," the subtitle announced.
The drought was the headline again. People were sick of hearing about the drought and the fires, today was going to be a hard selling day. Determined to sell all of his papers, Spot set out on the street, rising the cry of the newsie.
"Extrie! Extrie! Read all about it! Fire in Harlem kills dozens!" He called to the people on the street. "Arson suspected!" So began the long, hot day.
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//Should I stay or go,
Should I sleep or stay awake,
Am I really happy or is it all
Just an illusion…//
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It was before dinner when Spot had sold all of his papers. The milk from that morning had worn off long ago and he hadn't taken the time off for lunch. As he trudged towards his shack, he decided to stop by the lodging house for a visit like he usually did. Papers sold fast than they normally did, but for some reason he was more tired than any other time he could remember. The heat had drained him of all energy and he felt sick. Stumbling up the steps, he pushed open the door and dropped into the nearest chair he could find. There was no movement in the air, just a thick smothering heat. Almost gasping for air, he wiped his sleeve across his face. The grime and sweat came off, but his already sufficiently dirty sleeve left a new trail across his forehead.
"Oh my!" A soft voice exclaimed. "You look like you're going to fall dead," Spot opened his eyes to see the lodging house's owner's daughter, Emily. Her soft Irish accent played in his ears. The occasion of seeing her was rare enough, her father normally had her locked away somewhere or doing something. Sometimes she would come out and watch the newsies play their games, and he had even talked to her on brief encounters.
Remembering the time he had a particularly violent encounter with the Pullvine brothers, he recalled how she had cared for him. Of course Frost had been there too, she had been the primary caregiver at that time in his life. Emily had been there too though, taking care that he had what he needed as he was bedridden for a few days. At the thought of Frost, his teeth clenched. The last thing he wanted to remember was that stubborn girl.
"I'se justa lil' hot dats all," he straightened in the chair, dismissing his other thoughts and trying to gather some of his pride. It wouldn't be fitting for the Brooklyn leader to look anything less than in control.
"Your face is all red and dirty, you wait right there," She turned and was gone before he could protest. Probably going to find something to take care of him.
Grumbling, he waited. If she wasn't a lady, he wouldn't have waited, he would have gotten up and walked out of the boarding house right then. Emily was a lady though, and she was too sweet and innocent to hurt by his rude behavior. For as street smart as he was, she was naïve. Or so he was lead to believe. All she wanted to do was help him, her caring maternal instincts kicking into full swing. Being coddled wasn't one of Spot's strong points, but for her, he would bear it.
When she returned she knelt next to chair where he sat, then took a rag from a bowl of water and pressed it to his face. The water was surprisingly cool. The coolness on his hot skin felt incredibly wonderful. Closing his eyes he let her bathe his face and neck with the icy water. Faint memories of these same sensations played through his mind. Perhaps his mother had done this when he was a small boy….
"Dat's good," he murmured and heard her smile. "Where'd yous get da cool watah?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed.
"I'm not supposed to tell you," she spoke quietly, moving the moisture down his neck and back to his face.
"Why not?" Spot asked, curious but not willing to show it.
"Me da said I shouldn't tell any of the newsies about it," she drew back her hand quickly when he turned his head and sat up. Looking down at her, he wondered what she meant.
"Why not?" he asked again.
"I told you why," She whispered, her manner was so soft and gentle. Nothing like the girls on the street that he was used to. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were green. Her skin was smooth and healthy looking, and she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. It would be too easy to take advantage of such a girl.
"Youah pa 'fraid day I'll take 'is ice?" Spot inquired, realizing that he had been staring at her.
"Me da isn't afraid of anything," Emily shook her head gently. The way her hair was pulled back away from her face, it didn't move any when she shook her head, but Spot imagined the way it would if it was down free around her shoulders. She was an average looking girl, far from being beautiful, but she was cute. Spot noticed that her narrow nose turned up slightly at the end, adding to the little girl appeal of her face. Spot realized that he was staring at her again, and that she was looking up at him still, expectantly.
Tearing away his gaze, he looked down at the bowl she was holding on her lap. Normally, Spot wouldn't have even given this girl a second look except for a good time, but it was discomforting where the direction of his thoughts were taking him. His normal girl was tough and rough around the edges, they wore pants and suspenders just like him, and some of them even had short hair. This girl was nothing like them, she didn't have the quick tongue or the spitfire that the other girls had, she was different. There was a quiet, gentle beauty about her. Whatever it was, she was different, too different, and it was scaring Spot.
Yous just been alone too long, he comforted himself. It was true that he hadn't so much as touched a girl in months. The physical hunger that he felt was simply a product of the lack of fulfillment. At this point, probably anyone would look good.
"I'm shuah he ain't," Spot muttered, trying to gain control of his thoughts. "T'anks for da cool watah, it felt good," He thanked her politely and looked back at her a wry grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I won't tell youah pa dat I knows dat 'e has ice in da cellah," he laughed slightly when she gasped and pulled back, offended. His grin faded when she stood and moved back, seeming shocked.
"You mean – you – how could – I don't believe it!" She sputtered, and Spot was confused.
"Whot ah yous talkin' 'bout?" Spot frowned.
"How did you know where the ice was?" She looked a little afraid, he wondered why.
"I don' knows," Spot shrugged. "Just guessed," he stood and walked over to her. "I didn' mean nothin' by it," he said softly, sincerely. In fact, he hadn't even known this place had an operable cellar.
"I'd be in trouble if da ever found out you knew," She spoke quietly, like she was speaking a great secret.
"Den I sweah dat nobody will find out from me," He gave her one of his rare wry grins. "An' if anyone try's ta take some, I'll soak 'em," She looked puzzled at his last statement.
"Soak them?" she asked, almost more to herself than Spot, as if she was trying to wrack her brain for a definition to the foreign phrase.
"Beat 'em," Spot clarified and her eyes widened.
"You wouldn't really… hurt anyone, would you?" She inquired her eyes large.
"Nah, I'd just rough 'em up a bit so de would knows nevah to mess 'round with one a Spot Conlon's friends," he impulsively reached out and took her hand. It was a completely natural innocent gesture on his part as he led her over the wall where they sat, fingers still entwined, but it made Emily's face blush crimson. "Yous feelin' a'ight?" he asked, confused by her sudden change in color.
"Yes," she ducked her head. "I'm fine," she sat next to him and noted happily that he didn't pull away his hand.
For Spot, taking a girl's hand was nothing new it was almost routine. For Emily it was a landmark. It was comfortable as they leaned against the wall, it was still desperately hot, but they were comfortable. So they talked, something that they had never really done before, but it was refreshing. In fact, Spot found in most enjoyable. Who would have thought that he would have found amusement in such a simple girl? They were happily conversing when Emily's father came in through the door.
"Emily, what are you doing?" Her father boomed and Spot felt her hand slip out of his quickly.
"I was just talking to Spot, Da," She answered weakly, her eyes on the floor.
"Is dinner ready?" Spot could hear where Emily had gotten her accent, her father's strong brogue showed clearly.
"No da, I was just about to –" She was cut off by her father's booming voice.
"I come home from a hard days work and this is how you repay me?" He was mad, but his anger was unjust, thought Spot. "Now you get in the kitchen and get to work!"
"Suah," Spot sprang up as Emily retreated to kitchen. "I t'ink dat it wos moah my fault dan Emily's," he addressed the lodging master, this was the first time he had ever spoken to the man.
"What's your name boy?" he growled, but Spot stood strong. Even if he was the lodging master, the honor of a true lady was at stake.
"Conlon, Spot Conlon," He spoke his name with pride, and recognition flickered over the man's face.
"I've heard of you," he spoke more calmly now. "Yous some sort of leader for all these boys, aren't you?" He looked Spot over more carefully.
"Yes suah, I am," He held his head high, the man was about his height, but he was much sturdier when he came to build. It really didn't matter anyway; fighting the Lodging house's owner was career suicide.
"You used to stay here, didn't you?" The broad man asked.
"Yeah I'se stayed heah," Spot nodded. "Got me own place now," he met the man's eyes unwaveringly.
"Well tell your boys to stay away from my Emily," he growled. "I don't want any of those girl newsies near her either. I don't want any of you street rats putting ideas in her head, you understand?" he ground out.
"I don' live heah suah, so how's it dat yous gets ta boss me 'round?" Spot challenged, folding his arms across his chest.
"Obey me, or get out now," the man pointed to the door and Spot walked towards it.
"It was nice talkin' ta ya gent," Spot bowed regally as he swept up his cane and exited the door.
Outside Spot was still his cool collected self. Inside, he was fuming. The way that Emily's father treated her wasn't right, almost like she was more of a servant than a daughter was. Where had he been all day and where did he get the nerve to come in and bark orders at her? It probably was his entire fault that Emily was in trouble. He should have never come in there or talked to her. It took a great effort for him to pull his thoughts away from the situation as he started for the docks. On a day this hot, it was guaranteed that some of his boys would be down there swimming.
He would return to the lodging house later. He had a few things he needed to settle, and some people to talk to. Besides, no one told Spot Conlon what to do!
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//I took a walk,
Around the world,
To ease,
My troubled mind…//
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Sure enough, several of the boys were diving off the docks with the help of a huge rope swing. Spot himself rarely took part of this sport, but found it fun to watch. Perching himself on top of some crates, he sat like a king on his throne. He was a king in a way, a king of the newsies, the king of Brooklyn.
Some of the other newsies came and talked to him, Spot was quite popular. He knew them all, he knew their stories, their background, but no one knew his. Perhaps that was why they were all afraid of him. He knew something about each of them that they didn't want to be spread around, so the didn't want to get on his bad side. Intimidation, friendship, loyalty, and respect were what summed up the unwritten newsies' code.
Outsider came from his play when Spot had situated himself on his 'throne'. The second in command exchanged words with the leader who listened carefully. No one else heard the conversations, no one ever tried. If the rumors and gossip and Spot Conlon was true, they didn't want to risk it. After a time, Spot straightened and looked around before speaking.
"Hey Flash," Spot called as the boy climbed back up onto the dock. "Whot's da news from Manhattan?" Flash, a small incredibly fast little boy, who happened to be one of Spot's 'lil' boidies', approached the leader.
"Nothin' to report," he shook his head. "DeLancey bruddahs have been causin' some trouble, but notin' dat de can't handle," the small newsie briefed his superior.
"Wheah's Pips?" Spot scanned the surroundings, it was possible that the boy hadn't finished selling, or wasn't back from scouting, or just didn't come to the docks.
"Nobodies seen 'im," Flash answered. "Not since 'e went ta Queens 'round noon," Flash backed away from Spot a few steps as he hopped suddenly from his perch on the boxes.
"He went ta Queens alone?" Spot's eyes narrowed as he looked down at the boy who was practically shriveling under his inspection.
"As fah as I knows," the boy wrapped his arms around his bare torso, hugging himself.
"Da idiot," Spots fumed. "Da moran," he started stringing off curse words that would make a sailor blush. By the end of his rant, he had all of the boys, dripping wet or dry, attention. Looking around the group, he searched one last time for Pips. "Nobody goes ta Queens alone," Spot commanded. "Nonya evah go ta Queens wit'out one o' da fightahs," he grabbed his cane, made sure his slingshot was in place, and stormed away from the docks. There were some things he needed to do.
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//An artificial,
Season,
Covered by,
Summer rain…//
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Sarah and Jack were sitting together watching her little brother Les practice his fake swordplay with a stick against Snipeshooter. The boy was growing more every day. Jack couldn't help but feel proud of the little brat. Talking casually with Sarah and the other boys around him, Jack sat on the steps of Kloppman's lodging house. It was too hot to do much, but the younger set seemed immune to the heat.
Since the strike last year, Sarah and Jack had developed into just friends. They were very comfortable together, but they weren't romantically inclined. The kiss they shared at the end of the strike had been the only one, but they newsies still got a few good jokes out of it. Taking it in stride, Sarah never complained, but she turned a very satisfactory shade of red.
Race and Crutchy sat together playing cards, Dutchy was talking to Snoddy about something or another, and Specs was brooding by himself. Lately, that was all the Specs seemed to be doing, but he still sold papers, but after that, he liked to spend time alone thinking. Everyone respected that and left him alone. Boots, Swifty, and Mush all were talking with Jack and Sarah. Davey was busy making sure that the two boys fighting with fake swords were safe.
"Look!" Itey yelled suddenly as he came out of the lodging house. "Its Spot!" He pointed and every newsie stopped what they had been doing and looked in the direction Itey had pointed.
Sure enough, that confidant swagger could belong to none other than the great Spot Conlon. His cane swinging, reflecting light in the sun, the slingshot at his waist, ready for use at a moment's notice. Even though he was at the distance of a good fifty yards, you could pick him out easily. Standing quickly, Jack moved to greet the famous boy with the customary spit-shake. Jack was the only one brave enough to go up to Spot and greet him, the others went back to their business, but stayed as quiet as possible, trying to hear what the great one had to say.
"Heya Jackie Boy," Spot spat in his hand and clasped it with his fellow leader's and headed over closer to the lodging house.
"Spot Conlon," Jack smiled. "Whot brings ya round dese heah parts?"
"My lil' boidies have been tellin' me t'ings, Jackie," Spot moved over to the steps where he had been reclining only a few moments earlier. Sarah moved out of the way, knowing the importance of this to Jack. She personally thought it was silly for such a boy to be treated so much better than the rest, but she knew better than to say anything. "Dey's been tellin' me dat some o' my boidies ain't been comin' back from Queens lookin' too good," he pulled out his slingshot and one of his shooters. "Whot's you hoyd 'bout dis?" Spot aimed carefully and fired. A bottle, that had been sitting on a barrel about twenty feet away, shattered.
"I'se not hoyd much outta Queens 'cept dat de gots a new leadah awhile back," Jack was used to his friend's deadly aim, and was accustom to his displays, but all of the other boys cowered slightly. Even Specs was snapped out of his deep reverie.
"Whot have ya hoyd anyt'ing dis new leadah?" Spot turned his slingshot over in his long fingers of tapered bronze.
"I'se heard he ain't nuttin' like Brink, an' his name be Lice," at the mention of the vermin, Spot scratched his head.
The parasite was so common, especially among boys like these, that there was nothing thought about this name. Lice lived everywhere in this city, crawling in the mattresses, the bedclothes, and the people. It was near impossible to eliminate the problem, and no one really cared. It was an accepted fact that people had lice, and were going to have it.
"Is he tough?" Spot questioned, the previous information nothing more than old news to him.
"Must be ta take ovah doze boys," Jack shrugged. "'Specially aftah Brink," Spot nodded in agreement.
Queens played by their own rules. They hadn't been very active in the strike, they were closed to most newcomers, and decidedly hated anyone who wasn't them. Brink had accepted visits from Jack and from Spot due to their high positions, but no one else. Whoever had taken over the boys was a daring and probably very strong leader.
"I'se been t'inkin' 'bout payin' 'im a bit o' a visit, make shuah he knows not ta touch me boys no moah," Spot informed lazily.
"Who's been hit?" Jack inquired, watching his friend as he thought.
"Red, Ghost, Pastah, Fiah, Fists," Spot listed off the boys one his fingers one by one and Jack whistled under his breath. "Pips weren't back from 'is route when I'se came ovah heah."
"Does ah some o' yous bettah fightahs, ain't it?" Jack frowned.
"Some o' dem," Spot nodded, knowing the others were his spies. "Da Queens' boys are stepping ovah da line heah. Dey hit any o' youah boys?"
"Not any o' mine," Jack motioned for Race to come over. "Any woyd from Queens?" He asked the short, dark boy.
"I ain't been down dere since da new leadah got in. I t'ink he's got somet'ing against outside bettin'," Race chewed nervously on the end of his cigar.
Spot regarded the short Italian with cool calculating eyes, knowing that he was terribly uncomfortable around him and with good reason. Memories of long ago flashed in his mind, and he smiled before turning his gaze elsewhere. Though he had just gotten there, Spot felt the need to return to Brooklyn before the night came upon them. If Pips did return, he wanted to be there.
"Well Jackie boy," Spot said, standing. "T'anks for de infoahmation," he spat in his hand again, and Jack returned the gesture.
"Any time Brooklyn," Jack answered sincerely, and watched as his friend's eyes roamed the group before landing and staying on the only girl among them.
"Hey you," Spot addressed Sarah. "Yous a goil," he stated bluntly, and she held back laughter. "What do ya do foah a goil ta make 'er feel special, but not make 'er t'ink ya like 'er?" Spot asked, he knew he sounded stupid, but he didn't show it.
"Well," she seemed to be searching for the right words. "You could spend time with her," Sarah answered, smiling. "Just be nice to her, most of the time that is all a girl wants," she said honestly.
"Ah you shuah?" Spot scowled slightly, surely it had to be more complicated than that.
"I'm pretty sure, just be nice to her, that is better than most gifts," Sarah refrained from making some sort of comment about how cute this whole situation was. One thing Sarah had learned from being around newsies was that they didn't like the word cute and they sure didn't want to be mothered. She had also heard from Jack that Spot was getting over a broken heart.
"A'ight," Spot nodded to her and then to Jack, then turned and walked away.
Once he was out of sight, Jack let out a long deep breath. There was something very dangerous about his friend, something lethal that had never been fully tapped. Though he knew that when threatened, or angry, Spot would unleash the smallest bit of it, but never very much. Already he could see that poison surfacing, creeping over his cool and calm exterior. If he knew Spot at all, he knew what he was thinking. The Queens boys had better be careful, Spot Conlon was on the warpath.
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A/N: Agh, I don't know what is wrong with me lately. I just haven't had the ability to sit down and write a really long chapter, so I apologize this one is kinda puny. I don't know… maybe I've been writing too many one-piece angst fictions and it is wearing off on my length ability. Oh well, I hope you enjoyed it, now leave me a review and tell me exactly what you thought, then go read the rest. ^_^