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. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: What is the point of the quote at the beginning of each chapter you ask? Most of the time, if you think about it, the quote ties somehow to the chapter that it is before. Make sense? I thought so. ^_^ You are all so very bright. Thank you all that are faithfully reading this and I apologize for taking some time in putting up these chapters. Finals are this week and I am kinds of stressed, but I love you all for reviewing me! ^_^ Enjoy!
. : ^_^ : .
Chapter 3: The Growing Storm
. : ^_^ : .
Warning: This chapter is rated PG - 13 for language and violence.
. : ^_^ : .
"Winged cupid painted blind"
-- William Shakespeare
. : ^_^ : .
The alley was dark and full of fog as footsteps pounded down the hard beaten earth. Echoes of heartbeats and shouted curses reverberated through the brick lined walls. Spot was running from something, but he wasn't sure what. Perspiration poured down his body, soaking his clothes and dripping into his eyes. Ducking around a corner, he pressed his back against a wall, breathing heavily, the key and cross around his neck raising and falling with every breath. A swift wind began to blow rising quickly to gusts that threatened to knock him down. A burning blackness came with the wind, circling around Spot, not letting him escape. Then the inky darkness opened and swallowed Spot, completely enveloping him in the eternal night.
Spot's own screams woke him from his dream. Shooting straight up in bed, he looked around the one room hut. Early morning light was peeking through the cracks in the walls. This wasn't the first dream of its kind. When he didn't dream about Emily, he dreamed about the darkness. Neither dream was preferable, but at least he didn't have to constantly question his feelings towards the girl. That stupid girl, she didn't deserve another single thought of his time. Muttering under his breath, he put the dream and Emily out of his mind and moved to get ready for the day.
Three days had passed since Fire had disappeared and there was still no sign of him anywhere. No one remembered where they had seen him last, and no one had any idea where he was, but Spot knew. Fire was in Queens. The dirty little low-life bastards, kidnapping a newsie from another group was unheard of. Lately he hadn't let any of his spies' go out anywhere; Manhattan included, so perhaps his little friend had moved there. It wasn't too odd for a newsie to switch groups when things got bad. Loyalties were sometimes hard to place, and Spot was glad he had never trusted much to the ingrate. Today after selling his papers he would have to take another trip to Manhattan.
. : ^_^ : .
//Why do they,
Think of stories,
That link my name,
With yours…?//
. : ^_^ : .
True to his word, Spot visited Manhattan. Again, many of the boys lay lounging about outside of the Lodging house. It was too hot to go out and do anything, and they were too tired to care. Most of them weren't even talking, but they perked to life when the legend approached. Inside, Spot was smiling slightly, he still had power over these boys. Jack stood and went over to Spot and they preformed their ritualistic spit-shake.
"One o' my boys is missin'," Spot started without delay. "He's ed'er heah oah in Queens," Spot spat on the ground after he said the rival territory.
"We ain't had no new boys 'round heah in mont's," Jack shrugged. Even with Spot's growth spurt, Jack was still several inches taller than his comrade was. He feared Spot. Anyone with any sense feared Spot Conlons. He was dangerous, but you couldn't tell by his calm expression. Now, however, he was dangerous and angry, you could see the black rage in his eyes. A terrible combination for whoever crossed him.
"Damn," Spot swore out loud and looked around the group of boys; all eyes were fixed on him. When he met their eyes, he would stare at them until they broke contact. It was highly satisfactory. "Any of you's heah knows a boy dat goes by Fiah?" Spot called out to the group. "'E carries a lightah in 'is pocket dat were 'is pops, like ta set t'ings on fiah," Spot's shaded eyes moved through the faces, all of them shook their head. Unsatisfied, Spot looped his arm around Jack's shoulder and pulled him to the side, away from the inspecting eyes and the listening ears.
"Whot's goin' on in Brooklyn, Spot?" Jack asked, knowing that there must be something. Visits from the leader of Brooklyn were rare enough, but to have two so close together was even stranger. There had to be something because Spot would most likely have sent one of his 'little birdies' to look for Fire, not lower himself to that menial task.
Squinting his eyes, Spot looked up at the sky. A few small clouds spread like spun wool over the azure pallet, and he seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke. "I gots a problem, Jackie," Spot confessed quietly, not one to openly proclaim the fact.
"Queens still beatin' youah boys?" Jack pulled away from Spot's grip so they could face each other and Spot snorted
"Shuah as hell dey ah," Spot leaned on his cane and shook his head. "Seems dat de ah creepin' fahder and fahder inta Brooklyn," he looked down at his feet them back at Manhattan. "If dis keeps up, we'se goin' ta have ta fight 'em," Spot scowled slightly. "I dunno how many of dem dere is, oah how good dey is goin' ta be at fightin'," Spot smoothed his face again, setting it with the cool uncaring mask. It was almost like he remembered who he was, what he was supposed to be. "'E says dat dis Lice is one helluva leadah," Spot let Jack digest all of what he said before asking. "Have yous hoyd anyt'ing outta Queens?"
"Not a sound," Jack was frowning. "How many o' yous boys ah down?"
"Five ah outta sellin'," Spot reflected, sharing information that he wouldn't want anyone else to know. "Pro'ly 'bout ten in all can't fight," he watched his friends eyes widen.
"Ah dey yous fightahs?" Jack leaned against the lamppost behind him, the street's activity buzzing around them.
Jack knew the setup of the Brooklyn newsies. If a newsie stayed long enough with the Brooklyn group to be considered a true newsie, they were given a position. Most of the smaller, quicker, less conspicuous boys were Spot's little birdies, in other words, his spies. All collect information for him from the different territories. The bigger stronger ones were his fighters, they were the ones that helped to keep other territories out and keep his territory in line. The ones that didn't fit in either of those categories were his messengers, also known as runners. It was a highly organized and understood pattern that every Brooklyn boy knew. They also knew that having ten to fifteen fighters unable to fight took their ranks down considerably.
So when Spot nodded, affirming his question, Jack whistled under his breath. "We can't lose no moah o' dem," Spot said steadily. "If dese Queens' bastahds wanna fight, I'se not shuah if we'se can take 'em," Spot shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, not liking the fact that he knew his words were true, or that he had to admit them. Though if there was to be a territory battle, he wanted to make sure he could count on Jack to help.
"You knows that wes'll all fight foah ya," Jack lazily extended an arm to indicate all of the Manhattan boys before crossing it back against his chest.
"Yeah, I knows you will Jackie Boy," Spot gave his trademark smug grin, before his face fell into a stony mask that not even the most astute eye could read.
"You's woyied, Brooklyn?" Jack raised his eyebrows, taking a guess at his friend's hidden thoughts.
"Not wit' Manhattan on my side," Spot answered loosely, and Jack chuckled. The recognizable sarcasm in his companion's tone was relieving even if he hadn't gotten a real answer for his question. The mood lightened as Spot cracked a smirk to accompany Jack's soft laugh, and Jack knew that he was done talking of business.
"Whot evah happen ta dat goil ya asked Sarah 'bout?" Jack switched subjects, digging into his pocket, hoping to find a cigarette. He did, and was working on lighting it when Spot reacted.
"Whot?" Spot's eyebrows raised quickly, then he seemed to realize that he was showing some non-controlled emotion and lowered them again. "Oh, her," he looked off to the side and then back at Jack. "Whot 'bout 'er?" he was back to his calm, cool, collected self again.
"Who is she?" Jack asked, trying to gain some information on a girl that Spot just wanted to 'be nice to.'
"Just a real nice goil dats got a bad faddah," he shrugged as if it was common knowledge. "Guess ya could say I undahstand 'er," he shoved his free hand into his pocket and swung his cane in his other.
"She a newsie?" Jack was amused at his friend's non-accustom nervousness. It was rare that the great Spot Conlon showed anything but his obvious high opinion of himself. Though even in his uncomfortable behavior, he was still very much the cocky leader that everyone knew.
"No," Spot shook his head.
"Fact'ry woyker?" Jack tried.
"No," Spot mumbled.
"Street walkah?" Jack knew that his friend had been in relationship with all the girls of such.
"No," Spot shook his head at the last suggestion.
"She ain't some high class dame is she?" Jack rolled his eyes, knowing that this kind of relationship would be hopeless.
"Gawd no," Spot was getting tired of this guessing game.
"Oahphan?" Again Jack's suggestion was shot from the sky. "Bah maid?" he pried, growing frustrated at his friend's constant denial. "Shop woykah?" he scratched the back of his head before re-crossing his arms across his chest. "Den who in da hell is she?" Jack asked, perturbed.
"Ya know da daughtah o' da lodgin' house ownah?" Spot reached up and took Jack cigarette from his mouth, bringing it to his own lips. It was a good thing that Spot had taken it because Jack's mouth dropped at his announcement.
"Yous like dat goil?" Jack stood up straight, ceasing to lean against the poll.
"No," Spot denied quickly, coolly. "She just ain't got nobody an' 'er pop is rough on 'er, so I'se just bein' nice ta 'er," Spot explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world and Jack looked at him with disbelief.
"Yous jus' bein' nice ta a goil?" The skeptisism in his voice combed with amusement.
"Yeah, I'se jus' bein' nice ta 'er," Spot scowled as his friend as he began to chuckle, and then laugh. There was nothing funny about this situation and the way Jack was laughing made his hackles rise. Why would he even be laughing? If he knew Emily, he knew that he wouldn't be laughing. Or maybe he would be laughing harder, this thought made him even more agitated.
Lifting his cane, he whacked the cowboy over the head. His laughter stopped abruptly, but his eyes still shone with mirth as he rubbed the sore spot on his head. Jack knew that his friend could have knocked him out with that stick if he wanted to, so he was thankful that all he got was a lump. The black fire that shone in his friend's icy eyes told him that he had struck a nerve. Perhaps he was telling the truth and was only being nice to the girl, but that went against Spot's whole code. Perhaps after Frost's departure, he had turned over a new leaf, but that was highly unlikely.
So with his eyes still shining, Jack spoke, "Whotevah you say Brooklyn." Jack smiled knowingly, and his friend only scowled. "Whotevah you say."
. : ^_^ : .
//So here I stand,
For you to use,
Broken and bruised,
Dead and abused…//
. : ^_^ : .
"'Ow many o' da Brooklyn newsies can fight?" The same oaf that had questioned Pips circled Fire.
"I'se tellin' ya I don' know," Fire groaned from hearing the same question again and again.
"An' I'se tellin' ya dat ya do, yous a Brooklyn newsie, ya gots ta know somet'ing," The oaf stopped and stood in front of him. A ray of the day's last light glimmered through the dirty broken window of an old storage warehouse. The sound of rats scurrying among the boxes was heard in the stillness. Dozen or so boys stood in the circle surrounding Fire and the oaf. Their faces set as stone, in their hands were clubs or brass knuckles.
Fire looked ready to collapse, but he remained standing. His face bled from the nose, and his lips were cracked and dry. The bruises on his face were deep and many. His clothes were even more tattered and torn than before and blood splattered across them. His hair was tangled and filthy looking, almost looking matted beyond repair. The light shone down on this pathetic sight as the sun hurried away from the sky, hiding her self from the evils that took place beneath her light.
"Bruisah," A voice came from the crowd. "Come ovah heah," the circle of boys parted another one entered, his voice calm. "Dat's enough for now," he spoke with deadly authority that Fire had only seen in Spot before. This boy must have been some sort of leader because of the way he bossed around the group. His face was strongly set with strong features and a jutting chin. The most noticeable of his features were his eyes. One was as dark as night, the other the lightest sky blue possible. It was a uniquely grotesque combination and Fire felt himself cringe.
"I'se got some questions foah ouah lil' friend," the leader spoke, look on his face was friendly and amiable, but his voice was not. Swallowing hard, Fire steeled himself for the questions to come. Something told him that this boy excelled in being cruel. "You knows why we'se got ya heah, don'cha?" The boy asked Fire, his strange eyes flashing as his voice was as silk, lined with thunder.
"Yous t'ink dat I'se wit' Conlon's newsies," Fire managed to say from his parched throat, his last drink having been the night before.
"A bright boy," the lad with two-toned eyes smiled wickedly as his fist lashed out and pressed itself forcefully into Fire's stomach. Weak from hunger, Fire doubled over. "Now you's going to be smaht an' tell me whot I needs ta know," The leader growled.
Fire gasped for breath and the world began to spin around him. The lack of food wasn't new, but he had always had some source of water. Here he had neither. His nights hadn't been restful either, the questions would go late into the night, and his broken body screamed out in agony. At first he had been foolish enough to fight, now he was paying the price. The words he now heard were blurred and distant, as though coming from the end of a tunnel. The last thought he had was how much he hurt, then he hit the ground.
"Get up!" The boy known as Bruiser kicked at the lump on the ground. When Fire didn't move, he kicked harder then the two-toned boy held up his hand that Bruiser stopped mid-kick. His unusual eyes flicking over the limp form in the ground, then up to the larger abuse giver that he called Bruiser.
"We'se done wit' dis one," he muttered. "He ain't no good no more.
"But Lice, he ain't tellin' us not'in, just like dat oder brat," Bruiser complained.
"I don't cahah," The leader, Lice glared at the larger boy. "I ain't heah ta listen ta youah opinions, I'se heah ta get some answahs," Lice pointed at Fire on the ground. "An' he ain't givin' me none."
"'E will if we keeps 'im long enough," Bruiser muttered.
"We don' have da time, we'se gotta know now!" Lice yelled. "Now yous take 'im back ta Brooklyn an I want somebody dat can get me to Spot Conlon or da boy 'imself!" Lice threw up his arms in disgust. "Bruisah, Rat, Driftah," he listed. "Take dis wort'less t'ing back ta Brooklyn. Make shuah nobody sees ya," He snapped his fingers and everyone moved. After the area was cleared, Lice remained.
Standing in the empty circle, the fading sun promising the fall of night soon. Clenched fists hung as his side as dark thoughts passed through his mind. Senseless ramblings went through his mind, filtering different thoughts through a web of confusion and hate. There was purpose behind those eyes though. In all of those jumbled thoughts there was a single burning reason, a single goal.
"I'se goin' ta get ya Conlon," Lice whispered vehemently to himself. "Just ya wait, I'se going to get whot I wants from ya," with those words, he too exited the circle.
. : ^_^ : .
//Tell me what you're thinking,
Cause I really want to know,
Tell me what you dream,
Let your real side show…//
. : ^_^ : .
The nightly escape route was becoming so normal, that Spot almost did it mindlessly now. The outcropping didn't seem as narrow, and the corner wasn't so treacherous. He found himself sometimes sitting on the first story of the roof sometimes and just thinking. The little landing had one window against the building that led out to the small space. Right underneath the roof was the kitchen. Tonight was no exception to the formed normality of Spot's exit pathway that is until he turned the corner.
As always, the roof was bathed in the moonlight, it's flat surface illuminated by the glow of the lesser sun. It's own reflected light refracting down onto the earth. Only something was very different tonight as Spot rounded the corner, the roof wasn't empty. Blinking, he frowned, thinking it must just be an apparition.
The ghostly figure stood in a nightdress on the roof, the thin white cotton material seeming out of place in the darkness. Long black hair flowed down her back and the white skin seemed even paler under the moonlight. It was Emily. What was she doing on the roof in the middle of the night, and why did Spot have to care? Cursing under his breath, he continued to move no point in just waiting around because of some girl.
"Whot ah you'se doin' up on da roof?" Spot called softly as he moved along the outcropping. Emily started at the sound of another voice and whirled around to see him there.
"What are you doing here?" She gasped, wrapping her arms around herself, obviously embarrassed that he had caught her in her nightgown.
"I'se getting' outta heah wit'out youah pops knowin' dat I'se heah," He moved carefully making quick time to the roof. "Whot 'bout yous?"
"I was thinking," Her eyes followed him along the wall. "You could get yourself killed doing that!" She reprimanded.
"Nah," Spot shook her head. "I'se pretty good at dis," he jumped from the fairly large gap from the ledge to the roof. "See?" he said, spreading his arms to show he was fine. She looked at him warily and he knew that she was uncomfortable, so clearing his throat, he sat on the cool hard surface of the roof. Trying to ease her discomfort, he attempted a start at conversation. "Whot cha been t'inkin 'bout?" he started, beckoning for her to come sit by him. She hesitated but came.
"Things," she answered, sitting beside him, but not too close. Her hair fell around her face like a veil, shielding her face from view.
"Whot kinda t'ings?" Spot prodded further, brushing her hair behind her ear so he could see her face. 'Gawd she's got soft heyah,' he retracted his hand quickly, not wanting to think about it. Trying to think of something to do with his hands, he leaned back on them, supporting his weight as they sat.
"You don't want to know, it's silly really," she smiled to herself, then looked back at him. "Why were you sneaking out this way?" She scrunched her little, upturned nose.
"You'se faddah locks da doah at curfew," he informed, noting her deft attempt to change the subject. "I'se guessin' dat youah da don't know dat yous sneakin' out heah ta t'ink at night," Spot tilted his head to one side, and his cap fell off. He made no effort to retrieve it.
"No," she turned her head away again, blushing as she curled her legs to her chest the snowy white gown she was wearing covered her feet.
"Whot ya need ta come out heah ta t'ink 'bout?" Spot pried, he wanted to know what she had been thinking. It promised to be interesting. In many ways her mind functioned much like a child's, but in so many ways, it didn't. Their previous conversations had revealed that there was much more than one would gather from a brief first meeting.
"Do you really want to know?" She asked weakly, her voice soft in the night air.
"Yeah," Spot sucked in his breath when she looked at him again with those bright green eyes.
"Well," she paused. "I was thinking about love," she answered.
"Love?" He blinked, surprised. What could have inspired such a girl to think about that?
"Yes, love," she nodded. "Have you ever been in love?" she inquired.
"I… uh… I'se t'ink I was once," Spot sputtered, referring to Frost.
"Who was she?" Emily looked up into his eyes like she was trying to see inside of them.
"She were a goil dat lived heah," Spot swallowed. "You remembah Frost doncha?" He asked and Emily nodded. "Dat's 'er. I t'ink I were in love wit' 'er," he exhaled deeply, that hadn't been as hard as he thought it would have been. Confessing to someone that he might have loved another human, if only he had told Frost that when he had the chance… shaking that thought from his head, he returned to the conversation. "Has you ever been in love?"
"I don't know," Emily frowned. "How do you know if you're in love?"
"Dat's a hard question," Spot told her. "But I don't know much 'bout love," he told her, looking into her eyes. "I guess dat you jus' knows... but I don't knows much 'bout whot love is, but I knows a lot moah 'bout whot love ain't."
"Then tell me about that then," She shook her hair behind her shoulders.
"'Bout whot love ain't?" Spot asked, unsure of what she meant.
"Yes," she nodded her head, her slight accent playing in his ears.
For a moment he just looked at her, completely unable to think of what to say. Words had never been his strong point, he hadn't ever been able to spout out poetry like some of the boys. Turning his profile to her, he frowned slightly, staring into the brick wall of another building. Taking a deep breath, Spot attempted to describe the feeling he knew all too well.
"Love ain't dat feelin' dat you gets in youah gut when ya sees dem," Spot spoke slowly. "It ain't when ya heaht beats real fast neither," he thought hard before continuing. "Dats just when ya likes a poyson, I don't t'ink ya feel dat when ya loves somebody," He shook his head. "I guess dat yous can feel some o' dat, but dere is somet'ing else dere too," he tried to find something, anything to place the feeling, but failed. "But I don't knows much 'bout nothin'," he shrugged, trying the rarely used self-deprecating humor.
An awkward silence ensued, both mulling over their own thoughts while knowing that they should say something to each other. Neither one of them knew exactly what they should be saying. The summer night sky was clear for the most part, except for the few patches of clouds, so thin you could almost see through them. Tiny pinpricks of light shone against the black canopy, as the noises of a city night turned around them.
"Whot ya askin' me all dis foah?" Spot finally asked, this conversation brought up an assortment of painful and uncomfortable emotions.
"I - I just thought that you might know," Emily stuttered slightly and she looked away from him. "You know so much about - things I don't. I've never even been out of Brooklyn," She admitted, a slight trace of awe and longing tainted her voice. "But you are so - free," she looked at him again with her large green eyes. "You've seen so many things that I - I can't even imagine," Emily's eyes scoured his face, like she was reading him. "I bet you've even kissed someone before," she said in her plain, soft, childish way.
Something inside of Spot cringed and he looked away before answering. "I'se kissed goils afoah," he didn't tell her that just tonight he had traded the last of his 'kisses' he had won from the poker match. He also didn't tell her how much more he had done besides kissing.
"I wonder - sometimes - what it's like to be kissed," Emily looked up at the sky wistfully, her voice growing very distant. "What's it like?" she turned back to look at him, a childlike glow radiated from her luminous green eyes and he swiveled his head to look at her.
"Ta be kissed?" His eyebrows shot skywards, and she nodded. "Well," he hesitated, getting his thoughts together. "It's like…" he drifted off and blinked a few times as though being broken from a spell.
What in the hell was he doing? Sitting on the roof of the lodging house with a girl he couldn't get involved with, talking about everything they shouldn't be talking about. Somewhere he had let his guard down, and it made him edgy that he hadn't even noticed. This wasn't the way he acted, this wasn't the way he was! He was Spot Conlon, and no big pair of green eyes was going to change that.
"Why you askin' me 'bout dis?" He asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, bringing back up the masks that had fallen.
"Oh, I guess it's because - oh never mind - this is silly," she blushed and even by the glow of the moon Spot could see the color deepening on her pale cheeks.
"Tell me," Spot pried, almost commanding, his curiosity piqued.
"It's just that -" she paused, seeming almost to try and decide if she was going to tell him or not. A strange flickering of emotions crossed her face as she looked up at him, almost like she was searching for something. Finally she opened her mouth to speak again. "I - I'll never know," she hesitated, frowning at the non-sensible words that came out as she spoke. "I'll never know what it is like ta be kissed," She clarified softly. "First hand that is," a gentle smile full of sorrow pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I know that I'm not pretty, me da has told me so," she raised a hand and pushed the dark locks of hair away from her face.
"You's not ugly," the denial sprang to Spot's lips as he took her hand in his and she looked down at his hand as his fingers intertwined with hers.
"You're a sweet, lad," she smiled again. The same wistful smile full of longing and her voice grew very far away. "When I was little, my mum used to tell me stories before I went to sleep. She told me a story once about the stars," She looked up at sky, the relatively clear summer night provided quite a canvas for the stretch of beauty before them. "She said that every time two people who truly loved each other died, they became a star," The stars stretched above them, winking and twinkling at them and she smiled again, closing her eyes. "I used to pray every night that I would become a star so I would be beautiful and live forever," she sighed deeply before turning to him. "But I suppose that sounds silly to you, doesn't it?" Her eyes were distant as they looked into his, the moon played over her smooth skin and he grinned slightly.
"Nah," he said sincerely. The childish fantasy was strangely appealing to him; maybe because he knew that he still held onto his own dreams like that. Sometimes they were the only things that got him through the day. The romantic daydreams of a child whose soul care was how they were going to have fun, the innocence of youth so bitterly spoiled before its time. Leaving only fragmented memories and the tattered dreams of a child. "I t'ink dat youah muddah musta been a helluva woman," he was slightly surprised when his own very mild language didn't offend her. Maybe she wasn't as innocent as he thought she was, oh but if she only knew how much he censored himself for her sake.
"Yes," Emily agreed. "She was."
They looked at each other for a long time, the moonlight playing with their minds. A strange kind of feeling settled over Spot's entire body. Contentment would have been a good word for it. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like this and he liked it. He could have sat on that roof for the rest of his life with Emily and never been dissatisfied. Possessively, he squeezed her hand tightly, never wanting her to leave him. This time she didn't blush, or look embarrassed, she smiled at him, and her eyes sparkling and it looked like all the stars in the sky were shining in them. Looking up at the sky, they sat on that roof in silence for a long time. Leaning against Spot's shoulder, fingers still locked, Emily sighed. Looking down at her, then back up at the sky, Spot smiled.
. : ^_^ : .
//Peace is what they tell me,
Love am I unholy,
Lies are what they tell me,
Despise you that control me…//
. : ^_^ : .
As tired as he was, he couldn't help but swing his cane from side to side as he walked. Something very strange had been happening to him and he wasn't quite sure what, and he wasn't quite sure if he liked it, but something was happening. Butterflies weren't pounding in his stomach, and his palms weren't sweating like they always had before when he thought he liked a girl. The heart racing rush he was used to have abandoned him, and he was confused. He had just told Emily that love wasn't all of those things, that it was something deeper, and his own definition was starting to haunt him.
Then again, he had confessed that he himself hadn't known what love was, and that you would just 'know' when it struck. It couldn't be love then, could it?
Since he didn't have any of the normal symptoms of love, did that just mean that his unusually long celibacy was wearing on him? Frost had been gone for months. At the thought of Frost, Spot's hand automatically went to the cross the hung from his neck. The bitter feeling of loss filled him at the reminder of Frost's untimely departure. Strangely, the loss didn't strike him as hard as it normally did. Somewhere along the line, the pain had receded and Spot wasn't sure when it had happened but it had. Maybe it had happened when Emily had come along….
Shoving his thoughts of Emily aside, he tried to focus on the memory of Frost. Pausing from his walk, he pressed his eyes shut and tried to picture her in his mind. There were the dark eyes and the masses of chestnut hair, the nose that looked like it had been broken and the thin lips, but he couldn't configure them to form her face. Swearing under his breath he clutched his head, why couldn't he remember the image of her face? It hadn't been that long had it? As he tried to formulate any kind of a simulation of her face he was taken back to so many different painful places.
The memories of her standing on the bridge, her face turned from him. The images of her running from him, leaving him with nothing but her retreating figure in his view. The times she had ducked away from his touch, how she had looked up at him with her big green eyes. No, wait, Frost's eyes had been black, not green. Where had the green eyes come from? A face that was most definitely not Frost's formulated in his mind and he swore as Emily's face continued to construct again and again. Why had the one thing he had left of Frost left him? Was it the lack of use, the repressing of those painful thoughts? Was it because he didn't want to remember? Was it because of Emily?
Shaking these things from his mind, he reasoned that it was simply because he was tired. That he was too, exhausted would have been a better word for it. Late night hours were his habit, not the best choice when he had to rise at the crack of dawn. Though the less time he slept, the less time he dreamt. Many long bloodshot hours had been spent awake in the dark. Always to be spent alone though, he never did seek solace in the arms of another.
It wasn't for lack of opportunity that Spot hadn't been with a woman. The streets of Brooklyn were full of hardened young girls or woman who would let him do anything he pleased for a low price. The bars were full of girls who flaunted their sexuality and invited the stolen kisses and rude treatment.
Also there were the girl newsies that had joined the ranks of Brooklyn over time. In fact, their numbers were substantial enough that the old boarding master, Emily's father, had made a separate room for them out of an old unused storage closet that had been filled with junk. The money he had paid for it had been quite lofty, but he had money coming in from some outside source. The money couldn't be that extensive because he was still the owner of a Lodging house for a bunch of runaways and orphans. Poor Emily, the way her father cut her off from everything in the outside world made Spot sick.
Again he was thinking about that girl. Why was it that whenever he started to think about something, his thoughts would always drift back to her? Spot didn't want to like this girl; he didn't want to have anything to do with her! Everything about her were things that he had laughed about in the past, the naive behavior, the unhardened heart, the innocence, all of these he had mocked in people before. Manners and kindness didn't get you far in Brooklyn, period.
Kicking at a stone with his shoe, he watched it skip down the rugged street. These streets weren't even covered with the lowly cobblestones that so many were. These streets were where people killed and got killed. These streets were full of death and fighting; he wondered how many times he had fought for his life and honor on these passageways. His friends had died on these streets. So had his enemies, cursing Spot till the end. These streets weren't where Emily should have to live.
Swearing aloud at the thought of Emily, he kicked the hard packed ground. The ground was so hard that not even a small could of dust reward him for his efforts. It really was dry here. All of these old wooden buildings were mere kindling sticks if a spark struck them. Spot's shack was no exception, but the old brick building where the newsies lived should keep Emily fairly safe. If anything happened she would have a better chance of getting out in time.
A string of vile curse words flowed from him as freely as if he was spout flowing water. Why did every thought have to tie back to Emily? He didn't want to like her, he didn't want to think about her, and he didn't want to care. The real Spot Conlon didn't care about anyone, especially not some girl who didn't know the first thing about life on the streets. A girl who didn't know the first thing about being alone in the world didn't have a place in Spot's world.
Everything about his life wreaked of the streets and his few skills professed his wayward ways. Five skills in which Spot excelled were cursing, spitting, lying, stealing, and poker, not necessarily in that order. Along with the skill of poker came the cool hand, steely eye, and the mastered work of cheating. Spot could out-spit, out-curse, or out-lie any boy in the area. Perhaps that was why he was the leader. Being a leader was a lonely life though. No one he could really talk to, maybe that is why he was attracted to Emily, he felt that he could confide in her.
Slamming open the door to his shack, he mentally reprimanded himself. A man was a master of his thoughts, and he was going to master his. No more thinking about that girl or how she had cooled him down, or the girl who listened to him, or the girl who had the father she didn't deserve, or the girl who… Slamming a fist against the old wooden plank wall, he pounded until he felt his frustrations of the day leave him. There was no reason that he should have to feel so out of control. He was his own master, and he had to remember that, and no pair of pretty green eyes was going to make him forget that.
A loud crack made him stop his mindless assault of the boards. The one he had been pounding had split, cracking at the place of abuse. Looking at his hand, he grimaced, as he couldn't see anything in the dark of his hut. Stepping outside into the semi-dark he inspected the damage. All of his knuckles were bleeding, seeping blood slowly. He should have known better than to slam his fist repeatedly into wood. Splinters made dark slashes in his skin and he smiled bitterly before returning to the darkness. It already hurt and he knew it would only be worse in the morning.
Hopefully it wouldn't get infected, though infected wounds wouldn't be new to him. In the refuge he had plenty, but the scars that had once covered his arms and torso were beginning to slowly fade away along with the painful memories. Though like everything that has left a scar, it will never completely fade. There will always be a remnant of a memory, a touch of remembrance.
Exhausted, he stripped down to the absolute minimal of clothes and lay down on his uncomfortable, lumpy, makeshift bed. At least he had a mattress, which was more than a lot of people had tonight. Drifting off in the blissful state of subconscious utopia, his last remembered thoughts were how he hoped he wouldn't dream about Emily.
. : ^_^ : .
//Pain so real,
There is no dream,
It's all you feel,
It's your being…//
. : ^_^ : .
The next thing Fire remembered was waking up to a pounding in his head. Wheah am I? He wondered. Am I still in Queens? His questions went unanswered as he tried to open his eyes. Darkness invaded them, slowly different things began to become clear. He was out on a street, he wasn't in the warehouse anymore, he was free, and oh how he ached.
Trying to stand, he tried to get his bearings. Where exactly was he? Bracing himself against the wall of a building, he finally recognized the border area between Queens and Brooklyn. They must have dumped him here after he passed out. Shakily, he began to move but he hurt everywhere. Every few steps he had to stop to regain his balance, his equilibrium shot. The urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming, but he knew he had nothing in his stomach to give, so he forced himself onward step by painful step.
It was going to be along trip back to the lodging house.
. : ^_^ : .
The next day the boys were abuzz as they approached the gates of the distribution center. Spot noticed their change in moods and decided to investigate. He knew that if he simply listened he would probably get more information out of them than if he interrupted. The mix of voices talking in excited tones was surprising. Many of the boys that had been taken out were back now. Worm was back again and so was Fish, he noted with approval. Maybe they could take on Queens. Listening to the conversations was a little harder this morning because everyone was talking to everybody with voices higher in pitch and faster than normal. One word that Spot heard more than once was 'Fire' and the other was 'found'. Finally he spoke.
"Whot's dis 'bout Fiah?" his steely eyes roamed the group.
"We'se found 'im dis mornin'," Outsider informed, coming forward to his customary spot beside his leader.
"On da lodgin' house steps," Ghost piped up.
"Is 'e dead?" Spot asked coolly, cursing Emily's father for keeping the door locked.
"No," Spice entered the conversation. "'E's just in a bad way."
"How bad?" Spot's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"'E weren't awake when we left 'im," Spice cowered under the intense stare.
"Anybody know who did dis?" Spot scoured the group of quiet boys who seemed very out of place on this rough busy street. Just like a boy in his Sunday best playing in a mud puddle, they looked very out of place. All of them shook their heads; some of them looked at the toe of their boots or plucked imaginary lint off the front of their shirts. "Queens," Spot breathed, enraged. Thankfully for all of them, the gates opened and they headed for the day's work.
Da bastahds ah goin' ta pay foah dis, Spot made the mental promise. Is'll make dem pay oah die tryin', it was frightful how true that statement, though silent, would become.
. : ^_^ : .
//Shadow play,
Dancing across my wall,
Shadow play,
Isn't real at all…//
. : ^_^ : .
A shadow lurked in the darkness, waiting, waiting for that perfect moment to come out into the sun. The shadow smiled mirthlessly as he watched the boys and girls file into the large courtyard that they knew so well. Poor saps, it chuckled throatily. How little did they know... their world was about to be turned upside down. The immortal Spot Conlons was about to be toppled from his throne of greatness and learn what it was like to be humiliated. Yes, soon, it would be very soon, but not now. The time was later. Later everything would fall into place, later everything would be perfect, later Spot Conlon's power would be destroyed. Melting into the crowd, the shadow blended into nothing, and disappeared.
. : ^_^ : .
//In a hurry,
To get things done,
Rushing, rushing,
Till live is no fun…//
. : ^_^ : .
Things were bustling on the streets of New York. Everyone rushing somewhere that they thought was important but far from it. Woman held children close to their skirts as they bustled along, buying bread for their family. Men rushed gruffly through the byways that they knew by heart as they hurried to some appointment for which they were late. Despite the number of people, selling was lousy. Maybe it was the heat. It was just as hot as every other day, no breeze to offer relief, no atonement for the people in this hell.
"Extrie! Extrie! Read all 'bout it!" A newsies' cry could be heard echoing throughout the whole city. The boys and girls cried out with their headlines, improved or not, trying to sell their papers. Trying to make it through the day, trying to survive in their damn-awful surrounding and scrape enough together to afford a bed and a meal that night. The only newsie that didn't seem to be having a problem was the dubious Spot. As always he was selling his papers left and right, using his charm and skill to move his merchandise faster than the next guy does. The ladies loved him, the mothers had pity on him, the men respected his shrewd approach, and the children looked at his ever-present cane and his slingshot in awe.
The infamous Spot Conlon worked his magic throughout the day. Selling papers better than even the Cowboy over in Manhattan with a style and class that all the other Newsies envied. He was aware of all this of course, not a day went by that he didn't know he was superior to his comrades. Also a day didn't go by that he didn't feel the pangs of hunger or the longing to be someone else… anyone else. For being feared had its advantages, but it also had it's disadvantages. Being famous and revered didn't compare to the feeling of someone actually caring about him. Is that why he was drawn to Emily? She didn't fear him or treat him differently, she just accepted him. No, he wouldn't think about it, not here, and not now. Now was time to sell papers and think about important things. Now was the time that he would think about Queens and what exactly he would do about them.
Could they take them if they went into a battle with them? Should he go over to Queens and try and find the disreputable Lice? He wouldn't go alone. Spot might have had power and guts, but he didn't have brain and more than just half of one. No one was that stupid, except maybe the few idiots that had gone too close to the border alone. Clenching his teeth at the thought, Spot took a nickel from a man who grabbed a paper and didn't bother to get change. The chances for dinner were looking good tonight. Maybe he would get together with Cowboy and a few others and try to work this out before it was too late. This whole situation was a time bomb and he was left holding it, the timer growing closer and closer to zero.
Tonight he would have some answers, tonight he would talk to Fire, and tonight he would get to know what he wanted to know. At least that is what he hoped today. Today he hoped that his papers would sell, today he hoped that he would be able to find the answers to the questions he had, today he just wanted to survive. But tonight he would get answers. Maybe tonight he would be able to disarm the bomb in his hands before it exploded in his face.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: Love it, hate it, flame it, praise it, just review it! Reviews means more motivation for more writing, - cough - cough - - hint - hint - Nah I'm just kidding, I'll write anyway, but reviews really does make it better. ^_^ You all are writers, you know what I mean. Candy-corn for all of my beloved reviewers. Thanks to for coming back and reviewing chapter two, I love you guys. Take cares everyone and may the muses be kind to you. ^_^