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: Hmm… okay, this chapter promises the following things: angst, Manhattan, and more reasons to hate Lice. ^_^ You just have to love it don't you? I just wish Emily and Spot would stop being so stupid, but the muses control me and I do what they tell me to do. Don't hate me!
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Warning: I rate this chapter PG - 13 because of all of the normal reasons, angst, profanity, violence, you know, all the things that your parents don't want you to read….
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Chapter 9: Maybe
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"I have thee not and yet I see thee still…"
-- William Shakespeare
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Wringing her hands nervously, Emily sat in the kitchen. Lunch had long since come and gone and now she was starting to think about preparing dinner. No noise had been heard from the bunkroom as the rain continued to fall. The relentless torrents had died down to a steady patter of drops pelting the earth and quenching the ground. No word had come from her father, perhaps he had thought it wiser to stay where he was than to venture out into this terrible weather.
The haunting laughter of the strange departing boys stayed with her even now as she sat looking forlornly out the window. Something about the scene had seemed so out of place as she had thought it over and over again. The boy with two different colored eyes had paid her, but something had glinted in the corner of her eye. A single flash of gold and she knew she had seen it before. Though try as she might, she wasn't able to place where she had seen it before. A glint of gold, where had she seen that before?
Standing from her place at the window, she started making the motions towards making diner. The idea brought a sense of drudgery that she had never felt before. Something inside of her was restless, itching to get out and do something else besides sitting in the lodging house for her whole life. The strange urge had never come to her before, she had never wanted something different for herself. Always she had been content just staying where she was, but now…. It was as though she couldn't bear to stay here in the same place anymore.
But where would she go?
With that thought, all inspiration left her. She had no skills she could market, no abilities that set her apart, she knew well enough to know that she couldn't handle street life. It was a cruel cycle that had her trapped where she was. No worthless nobody couldn't make anything of themselves, and she knew it, so she went forth with the preparations for the meal. Where do you run when you have no where to go?
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//Have you ever felt so much,
You couldn't cry,
Or hurt too much,
To bleed…?//
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Spot could tell that the rain wasn't falling as hard anymore, not that it mattered. Well, maybe someone would be out now and maybe they would find him. Maybe they would kill him since he had no way of defending himself; maybe he would beg them to kill him. All he needed was a pair of strong hands to heave him over the edge and it would all be all right again. There wouldn't be any pain any more, there wouldn't be any memories, and there wouldn't be anything. He would finally be free.
Maybe his wounds were mortal, and he would die anyway. It didn't matter now, nothing did. The dark inky blackness that surrounded him was his only reality as he lay prostrate in front of the elements. Burning darkness pressing around him on all sides, choking his hopes and will to live, but he couldn't cry. It hurt too much to cry.
Then he heard what he thought were footsteps, fast footsteps, like someone was running. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but the vibration on the ground and the noises weren't from the rain. Perhaps Lice had come back to finish the job, he hoped it was. The voice he heard next wasn't the voice of his enemy though, it was a very familiar voice of a friend.
"Shit Shadow! It's Spot!"
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"Look!" Shadow exclaimed as he and Spitfire moved down the Brooklyn Bridge towards Manhattan. They had slowed their pace from a frantic sprint to a steady jog as they escaped from their danger. Though the rain had slowed, it still fell steadily and their clothes were soaked through. Their shoes were water-laden and weighed down their feet as they slogged along.
"Is dat a poyson?" Spitfire asked, but Shadow had already sped up towards the seemingly lifeless body. Easily, Spitfire caught up to him, and gasped audibly when she identified whom it was. Even through the bruises and sickening disfigurations over his face, she knew him. Something told her that she would know him anywhere.
"Shit Shadow!" She exclaimed. "It's Spot!"
"Whot happened ta him?" Shadow asked stupidly.
"Whot do ya t'ink? Lice did dis to 'im," Spitfire said incredulously.
"Shit," Shadow muttered, kneeling beside the fallen leader.
"Is he dead?" Spitfire asked, kneeling beside him and placing her hand over Spot's heart. She was relived to feel a beat. "No he ain't dead," she answered her own question. "Ya t'ink dat he's awake?" She poked at him gently and Spot drew in a sharp breath between his teeth. Stupid girl was poking his broken ribs!
"I t'ink he's awake," Shadow told her, taking her hand to keep her from prodding any further. "Spot, can ya heah me?" He asked and Spot only groaned, unable to find the voice to make any words.
"We'se gotta get 'im some help," Spitfire thought out loud. "We'se gotta get 'im ta Manhattan," She continued her thought.
"I don' t'ink he can walk," Shadow observed and Spitfire nodded.
"We'se goin' ta havta cahahy 'im," She frowned slightly as though deep in concentration.
"Do ya t'ink dat we'se can do dat?" Shadow looked at Spot and then at Spitfire, though she was strong, she wasn't that big. It could take a lot more than she had to give to get this boy somewhere safe.
"I'se can do it, if dats whot yous mean," She turned and looked at him with a withering glance. "I may be a goil, but I'se can cahahy him jus' a good as you," She gloated and Shadow didn't bother to argue, knowing that it wouldn't be any use.
"Whot if we'se hoyt 'im moah by cahahyin' him?" Shadow posed the question and Spitfire thought for a moment before answering.
"Well, he's goin' ta die if we'se leave 'im heah, an' I don' see how dis boy can get any moah hoyt, so I says dat we'se cahahy him," She moved down to Spot's legs and posed to lift him. "So huahy up," she ordered and Shadow moved, slipping his arm under Spot's armpits, supporting his head against his chest. Spot groaned painfully and Spitfire spoke before they lifted him.
"Yous goin' ta hate us foah dis Spot, but we'se gotta move yous," she informed and then nodded at Shadow, signaling him to lift the boy at the same time as her.
As they stood, Spot let out a noise that made him sound like he was in mortal agony. Slowly, Shadow and Spitfire began to move towards their destination, and only after ten steps, Spot lost all consciousness from the pain.
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None of the newsies in the Brooklyn borough dared to say anything as their new leaders sat around aimlessly, already looking bored with their current arrangement. Fire recognized him from the group that had originally beaten him and cringed whenever he looked at him. Though he was much stronger than he had been, lack of food and water had made him delirious for a few days. Now, he looked much worse than he felt and predicted that he would be selling tomorrow if the weather cleared. Perhaps the headline would be better, but probably would simply be stating how the rain had quenched the parched ground.
All of the normally rowdy activities that should have been occurring inside from the rainy weather weren't. Usually there would be a few games of poker going on, and groups of friends busily talking, gossiping about the latest news from certain circles of friends. None of these were happening though, everyone say around in their quiet solitude, alone but they were surrounded by others. So was the lonely life of the group, all of them burning with rage, but unable to do anything about it. The helplessness of the situation was devastating.
Maybe ridding themselves of Spot hadn't been the best idea.
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Lice woke up with a pounding head and the feeling that his face had been bashed into his skull. Prying open his eyes, he blinked a few times to clear his vision and to allow his brain to compute where he was. After awhile, he slowly began to realize what had happened. The two idiots had smashed him in the face and gotten away! A surge of nearly uncontrollable rage raced through his body and he moved as quickly as he could to work his way out of the box.
"Aces!" he roared, storming towards the entrance. "Aces, get youah ass ovah heah!" he cried out and met the terrified boy halfway. "Dey gots away didn' dey?" He demanded.
"Dey - I'se - hit -" Aces sputtered and Lice took him by the shirt collar and shoved him back against the boxes.
"Dey gots away, didn' dey?" He ground out from behind clenched teeth.
"Yes," Aces gasped and Lice loosened his grip momentarily, seeming to take mercy on him.
That proved to be a gross misconception because Lice regained his grip and slammed Aces back against the boxes, smashing his head against the wood. Stunned, the boy slumped to the ground as Lice went to the circle to see if their one last captive was still tied securely. He was, and he was till unconscious. At least something was going right. Holding the cane in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Lice headed for the door. Maybe he could find the tramps before they got to Brooklyn, but a strange thought came over him.
They wouldn't go back to Brooklyn if they knew that he had taken it over, the girl must have seen the cane, and she wasn't that stupid. Cursing under his breath, he mentally began to list off the places they might have run. Harlem, the Bronx, Stanton… Manhattan! Of course, Manhattan and Brooklyn had a strong alliance, especially since the strike. Swearing vilely, he pushed open the door to the raining out doors.
Then a thought hit him. To get to Manhattan from Queens, you had to cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and unless someone else was stupid enough to be out in this weather, no one would have found Spot's body. No one that really cared enough to do anything about it that is. Finding the corpse of her fallen leader would most likely strike the girl a hard blow and Shadow hadn't known that their intent had been to kill Spot Conlon, most likely it would shock him too.
Since they couldn't return to Brooklyn, no one there would be able to know that she had escaped and no one really cared about Shadow, he figured. Brooklyn not knowing, but assuming that he had the girl could really be much more of an advantage than he thought. If she ever did return to Brooklyn, it would be easy enough to re-capture her. This just meant one less person for Lice to worry about, one less complication and he was strangely relieved.
Maybe this was going to all work out anyway.
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Spot heard the voices swirling around him and he tried to talk, but it only came out a painful moan. Everything about him hurt, and moving his jaw seemed to be a terrible impossibility. He was going to ask them to kill him, but he couldn't talk.
Damn it, he thought bitterly as he felt their hands moved around him. They were going to try and help him. The slightest jarring of his body was excruciating, and as they moved step by step, every jostle or bump made his fibers scream out in agony. Letting out a loud groan, Spot remembered being swallowed in a different kind of darkness. The kind of darkness that brings momentary relief, before the nightmares overthrow it.
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Shadow and Spitfire still moved slowly even after Spot passed out. The longer they carried him, the heavier he seemed to get, but neither one complained. It was a few more miles to the lodging house when the muscles in their arms started burning like fire, but neither one complained. Maybe their arms would fall off before they got there. The inner-hatred towards the fiends that had done this burned stronger than the pain in their arms, and was what fueled them onward. On the verge of collapse the climbed the stairs to the Manhattan lodging house as the rain began to recede.
"Hey Kloppman!" Spitfire yelled. "Open da doah! It's Brooklyn!" She called out, not wanting to put Spot down to open the door, unsure if she could lift him again.
At first the door only cracked open, then swung open as the old man recognized them.
"Come in! Come in!" he waved at them as the trudged inside, dripping wet and tracking mud on the floors. "Is that Spot?" He asked dumbly, staring at the boy in their arms.
"Yea, ya gots a place we'se can put 'im?" Shadow asked, eager to put Spot down.
"Upstairs, follow me, upstairs," Kloppman repeated himself as he began to ascend the stairs. "Jack! Mush! Get down here!" The old man called as they climbed, and almost automatically, the two heads appeared at the top of the stairs.
Both of their eyes grew as wide as saucers as they saw what appeared to be a bloody and beaten Spot carried by two soaking wet comrades. By the time they could react, Kloppman, Shadow, Spot, and Spitfire were all almost at the top. Without a word, they moved down to take their fallen ally from the two weary travelers. Once the weight was free from her arms, Spitfire leaned back against the wall, slowly sliding to the ground and cupping her face in her hands. Shadow knelt beside her to make sure she was all right.
Meanwhile, the group was all crowding around Spot as Jack and Mush carried him to a bunk and lay him down. The buzz of questions fell on dead ears as Shadow devoted his attention to the shaking Spitfire and as Spot was unconscious and thus unable to answer the inquiries. Finally, Jack was able to attain some order in the group, quieting them to a dull murmur. Then he got the attention of Shadow and Spitfire and called them over. Shakily, Spitfire stood, with the assistance of Shadow and the look that the boy gave her let all of the Manhattan borough know exactly how he felt for her.
"Whot's dis all 'bout?" Jack asked, pointing to Spot.
"Queens -" Spitfire started but her voice cracked, the hours of keeping up her brave façade breaking under the harsh realities that she was now just beginning to realize. "Queens did dis," she held her head high and answered strongly. "Dey took ovah Brooklyn, an' de's got Outsidah in dere borough ta keep evah one undah control," She explained, leaning on the arm that Shadow offered her.
"Lice is da one dat did dis ta Spot," Shadow added. "I'se can almost promise yous dat," he looked at the fallen Brooklyn leader and cringed with guilt. "He wos tryin' ta kill 'im, but I guess dat he jus' didn' get da job done dis time," he shrugged and then wrapped an arm around Spitfire's trembling shoulders.
"So Queens took ovah Brooklyn?" Jack asked, startled.
"Yeah," Spitfire nodded solemnly. "Lice 'as Spot's cane," at this, all other questions about leadership dispute flew from Jack's mind.
"An' whot's dis 'bout Outsidah?" Jack continued to inquire.
"De's got 'im back at da Queens' borough, de's keepin' 'im so dat none o' da Brooklyn newsies will try ta fight," Shadow set his jaw firmly.
"Who ah yous?" Mush asked then, pointing to Shadow and the boy realized that they were going to have no idea that he was. Gauging by the fire burning behind the boys' eyes, he reasoned that it wouldn't be in his best interest to inform them of his part in all of this. So he simply told them his name. Spitfire said nothing.
"Is dere anyt'ing we'se can do foah Spot?" Spitfire asked and all eyes shifted to the afflicted legend on the bunk. It was apparent that there were things that needed to be fixed that they didn't have the knowledge to tend to.
"I knows a guy," Race piped in. "Got a couple yeahs o' med. school undah his belt," he took the customary cigar from his mouth and looked around the room. "He ain't allowed ta charge nuttin' foah his soyvaces cause he ain't got no license ta be a doctah 'round heah," Race took a long drag before continuing. "Plus da bum owes me foah erasin' a lil' racin' problem dat he had," Race said the world little as such that anyone who heard knew that the problem had been anything but small.
"An' wheah is he?" Itey asked curiously.
"I gots his cahd 'round heah some wheahs," Race answered absently, waving his cigar around in the air.
"Well go gets it!" Jack exclaimed and his comrade strutted over to the small nightstand where he stashed his things. Jack turned to the two that were waiting impatiently and gave a small smile, trying to explain and excuse Race's slow behavior.
"He an' Spot ain't always had da best relationship," he informed and that was all the two needed to know. They were all relatively quite as they waiting for Race. Holding a professional looking card, Race held it in one hand, his cigar in the other as he squinted at the paper. Moving it closer than farther away from his face as he seemed to be finding the perfect angle at which to read it, Race stopped pumping his arm and read:
"Christophah P. Oyvin," he started, speaking out boldly. "578 East 57th street," he over enunciated every word. "Apahtment numbah 12 C," He pretended to be offended when Jack ripped the card from his hands and started scanning it himself. "Manhattan," Race added finally before turning the main attention of his mouth to enjoying his cigar.
"Swifty," Jack beckoned, still looking at the card. "Take dis," he handed it to him. "Sounds like dis place is goin' ta offa thoid avenue," without another word, the spry boy was off down the stairs and out the door into the rain outside.
"Ya t'ink dis guy'll be able ta help Spot?" Shadow asked, still holding Spitfire close.
"Maybe," Jack muttered and looked at his ally. "Maybe," he repeated as if to assure himself.
The fact was that this Christopher P. Ervin might be their friend's last chance.
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Afternoon came and went and the rain continued to fall. Three men huddled upstairs in a small room spoke in hurried hushed tones. All of them looked exhausted. Their clean-shaven faces had long since grown a five o'clock shadow. Red rimmed, bloodshot eyes quickly darted around from one to the other as the conversation remained heated after what had probably been hours. None of them had really noticed the rain, or had they noticed the fact that they had almost been debating for a day without break.
"There's too many risks, too many unknowns," a small man with a handlebar mustache and bad toupee argued.
"We aren't going to be able to accomplish anything without risk, Lindstrom!" An extremely large man pounded his fist on the table.
"We aren't ready, we need more time, more time, this isn't safe. There are so many things that could go wrong," The small man, now labeled as Lindstrom continued to protest.
"That's our job, things can go wrong," growled a sturdy man with a heavy Irish brogue.
"I don't like it, I don't like it one bit," Lindstrom continued to mutter.
"We don't have a lot of time to get this done, men," the extremely large man reminded.
"People are going to get hurt, we can't help that," the Irish man added.
"I'm sure there is a way that we can do it without having anyone be hurt," Lindstrom continued to insist.
"You're going to be the one getting hurt if you don't quit your sniveling," the Irish man growled and the extremely large man gave him a warning glance.
"We have to stay calm about this," The extremely large man coached.
"We have to take action!" The Irish man roared.
"We have to have a better plan!" Lindstrom cried back.
"We have to make a choice!" The extremely large man added his two cents before continuing. "We are going to do this in exactly four weeks," he decided for his co-workers. "We can work out the details until then, but no more changing the date! The more time we waste, the harder it is going to be and the more people will get hurt," he looked back and forth between the two other men. "All right?" he asked and when neither responded, he repeated the question, summoning a grumble out of each of them.
"Are we done with this now?" The Irish man asked.
"Yes," Lindstrom decided. "When shall we meet again?" He asked.
"Two days from now, the warehouse," The extremely large man set the date for the second time that night.
"Fine," The Irish man and Lindstrom agreed simultaneously.
Then one by one, the men exited from the building, each taking turns and waiting for the other to disappear for some time. Finally all three had left the building, going on with their lives whatever they might be. Two of the men went to destinations unknown to us, but one of them went to a place known to us very well. A place that is even very familiar to some. Walking down the rain-laden streets, this man set a direct course to the Brooklyn Newsie Lodging House.
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Dinner was just ready when the door burst open on the Brooklyn Lodging House. Emily had just been putting the piping hot food onto a plate when her father came tamping into the kitchen, trudging mud and rain onto her clean floors. Whatever had kept him away from home had obviously not made him very happy.
Knowing better than to ask about where he had been, Emily moved into the side room where the table was kept and placed the plate in front of the chair she knew her father liked. Taking a match from the pocket of her apron, she lit the lantern in the middle of the table, blew out the match, and replaced the tall glass chimney over the flame. As she moved out of the room, her father called her back.
"Yes da?" She asked, preparing herself for some form of abuse.
"Get yourself some food and come in here, I have some questions for you," he instructed, digging into his food and Emily was stunned, but obeyed. What could he possibly want to know? Had he found out about Spot? If he had, she didn't want to imagine the beating she would have to sustain.
Placing a modest helping of food onto her plate, she fetched some utensils and joined her father at the small table. For awhile he didn't speak and Emily didn't press conversation. Everything inside of her burned with the accusations she was sure she was going to hear. Maybe her father had killed Spot, maybe that is what he wanted to tell her before he killed her too. Maybe he was giving her the dignity of a last meal before slaying her with his own hands.
"Emily, how old are you?" Her father asked suddenly and Emily nearly dropped her fork, but managed to grip it in her trembling hands.
"Sixteen, da," she answered obediently.
"Really, I thought you were older, but no matter," he brushed off the subject, and took another mouthful of food.
What does my age have to do with anything? She wondered, pushing at the food on her plate with her fork.
"Sixteen isn't young you know," her father informed and she simply nodded. "I have some news for you," he told her bluntly.
"What is it, da?" She asked, not enjoying the tone in his voice and she looked at him expectantly.
"It's all been arranged, there isn't any way to get out of it now," he almost seemed to be trying to comfort her, brace her for the news. Inside of her chest, something constricted as her heart rate escalated.
"What is arranged, da?" She gripped the tablecloth hanging over the side of the table until it became wrinkled in her right hold.
"Emily," he set down his fork and looked at her straight in the eyes. "You will be getting married in four weeks," he told her. "You'll need to start packing your things right away."
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Swifty cut through street after street, running, dodging, moving as quickly as possible as he was known for. Thought he had left the card back at the lodging house, the address was burned in his mind and he knew exactly where he was going. Third Avenue was such a large street it was hard to miss, the side streets such as East 57th were the harder things to find. With so many of them poorly marked and some even mislabeled, it was hard for him to discern between them sometimes.
Finally, he came to a building with the crude numbers 578 hanging in their lackluster splendor. Just his luck, it appeared to be an apartment building of some sort. Maybe this day would look up for him after all. Charging inside he looked for 12 C. Up three flights of stairs, he ran and found level C then headed down the hallways. While this building wasn't tenement qualities, it wasn't exactly the Ritz. Walking down the hallways, Swifty dripped on the wooden planks as he read the numbers on each door until he found the one-labeled 12. Tentatively, he knocked. The door opened.
"Mr. Oyvin?" Swifty asked, doffing his hat and wringing it in his hands, sending more water to the floor.
"I am he," the middle aged man said from the door. "What can I do for you?" he asked, carefully staying inside of his apartment, not fully opening the door unto a stranger.
"You knows Racetrack?" Swifty asked. "Shoyt Italian kid?" He clarified. "He says he knows ya from racin' an' dat yous got some doctahin' undah youah belt," he babbled on before the man could shut the door. "An' me friend got beat bad suah, real bad, an' he's goin' ta die if he don' get no help an' we ain't got no wheah else ta go," Swifty begged. Knowing that if he didn't get the doctor, somehow all of the blame was going to be transferred onto his shoulders. "Can you's help me, please?" he added the please almost as an after thought, manners were a rarity among the newsies.
"So you're a newsie?" Christopher P. Ervin asked curiously, raising his brown eyebrows. "How bad is your friend?" he lowered his eyebrows quickly into a scowl.
"Bad," Swifty didn't know the extent of his injuries, but knew that they were many and that they could be deadly if not treated correctly. "We ain't got much money, but wes'll find somet'ing ta give ya Mr. Oyvin, I'se sweah in on me muddah's grave," he pleaded earnestly. "Please," he added again and with that word, something softened in Mr. Ervin's steely eyes.
"Let me get my things," he said firmly and shut the door, leaving Swifty waiting in the halls. It was a few minutes before he came out again, but this time he had his coat on, a black bag at his side, and a hat pulled firmly over his head. "Where to?" He asked, and Swifty led the way.
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Along with Consciousness came the pain of awakening. Everything all over his body hurt as Spot woke. Though he couldn't feel the rain pounding on him anymore, he felt that he was still soaked. The pain was so intense that he couldn't find the will to form any words for a long time thought he heard voices swirling around him.
Wheah da hell am I? He wondered silently, opening his heavy eyes and finding that he still could see nothing. The realization was harsh and he closed them again quickly, not wanting the reminder of his disability.
"He's awake!" A voice exclaimed far too loudly for his pounding head. The truth was that someone could have whispered and it would be too loud for him. At the boy's proclamation, the whole room seemed to fly with excited voices and hurried speech, Spot wanted to yell at them all to shut up. The idiots, the morons, couldn't they see that he was trying to die here?
"Spot," he heard a voice say his name, but it sounded very far away. "Spot can you hear me?" it asked and he groaned in response. "Spot, are you all right?" The voice asked and Spot wondered if he didn't look as bad as he felt. If he did, that was probably the stupidest question ever asked. Where was your voice when you needed to give someone a verbal beating they would never forget?
Frustrated, he groaned again, trying to find the ability to speak, he wanted to know where he was. Why didn't he recognize the voice that was talking to him? Why didn't he know where he was? Why wasn't he on the Bridge, dying? Oh yes, he remembered now, Shadow and Spitfire had found him and brought him here. Wait, but where was here? Swearing mentally, he cursed everything he could think of in the world, anything from people to the plants that he had never really thought about before. He cursed the rain, he cursed the day he was born, he cursed the city, and he cursed his friends, his enemies, everyone and everything, including Frost and Emily.
"Spot, I need you to open your eyes," The voice spoke again and he obeyed. Even though it hurt to do so, he could accommodate them, couldn't he?
When he managed to pry open his eyes lids, he heard someone making humming noises along the lines of, 'uh-huh,' and, 'hmm,' and his favorite, 'mmm.' The hum where the person made a long series of 'm's rise and fall with the tone of their voice as though they had discovered some great secret.
"Spot can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?" The voice asked and Spot parted his cracked lips painfully. Hissing as he drew in a breath, he tried to speak without moving his jaw or lips. Though his tongue had been cut by the multiple times his teeth had smashed down on it, it was practically the only part of his body that function without complete agony.
"No," he managed after a long pause.
"Why not?" The voice asked.
"Cause," he lisped. "I can' thee," he spoke painfully slow.
"Has he always had his eyesight?" The voice asked someone in the room and they answered.
"Yeah, Spot heah's always been able ta see poity good," Spot recognized the voice as his ally, Jack Kelly.
"Spot, did you suffer any blows to the head during this fight?" The voice asked him and Spot wanted to sit up and yell at this person. How completely dense could he be? Right now his head felt like a ripe melon ready to explode, and he was asking him if he had suffered any blows to the head? All he had to do was look at his face, he had multiple cuts, bruises, and swelling covering it. Who was this wise guy anyway?
"Yea," Spot managed, unable to rant as his condition prevented him from speaking very much.
"I might have bad news for you my boy," The voice informed him solemnly. "I do believe that you are blind," he said and the whole room gasped and then went to a deadly hush.
"No thit," Spot swore even though it pained him to do so.
"Now this could just be temporary, but I don't think that it is," the voice informed. "Now there are a few options here," he seemed to not just be speaking to Spot, but to the whole group. "I didn't graduate medical school, but I only had one semester to go. During my time there I studied under a man who was obsessed with the workings of the eye," he continued to weave his tale. "Basically, he had a surgery that he was trying to perfect where blind people, under certain circumstances, could be healed by this procedure," he continued. "I think that the possible condition your friend is suffering from is a blood clot caused by the blows to his head, and the blood clot is causing pressure on certain parts of the eyes or the brain, and it is keeping him from seeing," he made it more clear.
"Cut to da chase doc," Jack interrupted. "We'se ain't inta all da fancy talk," he informed in his normal fashion. "Whot's it goin' ta take ta do dis t'ing ta fix Spot?"
"I have some connections in the medical world, and I could get him the operation for free if your friend is willing to partake in the procedure," The voice kept talking. "His volunteering would be a great help to the medical community, but…" the voice drifted.
"But whot?" Jack asked.
"But there has been very few of these operations preformed," the voice told him. "None of them has been successful," He sounded hesitant.
"Whot do ya mean by successful, ya mean dey still couldn't see aftah da opahations?" Jack asked.
"I mean, that all of the people this surgery has been attempted on, have during the surgery," A hush fell over the room.
"Do it," Spot rasped with his lisp.
"Whot did you say?" The voice asked.
"Do it," Spot repeated painfully.
"You know that we aren't sure if your condition can even be treated with this - "
"Do it," Spot repeated.
"You could die," the voice said again.
"Do it," Spot repeated. It ain't like I got anyt'ing ta live foah anyway, he thought bitterly.
Quickly after this exchange, the voice left and didn't come back.
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Christopher P. Ervin walked over to Jack after Spot had given him the consent to perform the surgery.
"You seem to be in charge around here," he said jokingly and Jack cracked a small smile. "There won't be any fee," he hesitated. "Does your friend have any family?" Christopher asked.
"No," Jack answered hurriedly. "No he don't," he amended his quick reply with something a little more tactful. "But whot you weah sayin' 'bout all da oder people dyin', dere is still a chance dat Spot could make it t'rough?" He asked.
"Maybe," Christopher answered. "Just maybe."
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: I know I said that I would have this posted on Sunday, but there has been some things happening out of my control… Bah humbug, oh well, it is over now. So I apologize for the stupid chapter, the stupid length, and the stupid delay on the update. I bet you weren't expecting that plot twist were you? Moving along, for anyone who cares, I'm sorry and the update on Frostbitten will be coming as soon as I can get it all figured out. I'm sorry, I've got problems. Ha, ha, but which one of us don't? Well, here for all of those lovely other people with problems, here are a few lovely shout outs.
Ireland O'Reily: Yeah, Spitfire rocked my socks in the last chapter. I hope this one wasn't too big of a let down. I am kind of in the middle of a lot of things right now and I am just trying to get things posted, so I apologize for the lameness and shortness of this late update. Emily and Spot really are pathetic aren't they? I personally would rather slap them…. But thanks for your kind words and your faithful reviews!
Fearless: !! is that a good !! or a bad !!? I am confused!
Annie: Ha, ha, this gets you through school? Well I am flattered. Yea, my brother would cheer for Lice too! Argh! And he would have laughed when Spot got hurt, I just know he would! . : * Growl * : . Anyway, Shadow and Spitfire as a couple, well, I had kind of been hinting at it in previous chapters, but I never thought I would act on it. Who knows, I kind of like it. Spot and Emily didn't get together in this chapter, did they? . : * Tear * : . Don't chew your nails! That is bad! Anyway, tell Stan that to chill out! He sounds like a major case for a brother. Well thanks for reviews! Take care.
Kaylee: I got Racetrack in this chapter and there is no girl in life? Are ya happy? ^_^ Well I hope so, thanks for the faithful reviews! ^_^
Woohoo! Reader count is now up to… errr… wait… down to . : * 4 readers * : . Phooey! Anyway, take care and review! If you have read this far into the story, you might as well try it out and click the little button down in the corner. ^_^