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.
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A/N: So now as you can see, we have Spot all blind, depressed, and yes, bald. We have Shadow being redeemed while having a fling with the rather flaky Spitfire. We have Emily betrothed to some guy known only to us as Mr. Van-Morris. We have three guys, one of which has been established as Emily's father, tied somehow to this Mr. Van-Morris guy. We have Lice, who we all just love to hate, who has out poor little Outsider captive, and Brooklyn under his control. Manhattan is as clueless as ever, but I did manage to work some of my favorite newsies into this plot. ^_^ So, I think that about covers all of the little plots I am trying to run and keep track of for the moment. Is anyone else completely confused? Good golly this is like some bad soap on daytime television. Anyway, enough of my babbling and onto the story.
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Warning: Rated PG for light language.
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Chapter 11: Crossroads
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"The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one…"
-- Francis William Bourdillon
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"What are you going to do about it, sir?" A mousy young man asked an older one as he paced restlessly in his fine home.
"I don't know," the older replied. "My hands are tied on this one."
"So you are going to marry her?"
"I don't see that I have a choice right now," The older man kept pacing.
"Surely there is another way, can you not take it to the authorities?" Proposed the younger.
"And tell them what?" The older man said. "That they have records of how I have stolen from my own bank?"
"You realize that no one knows besides them," the younger reminded. "They have sworn that."
"Yes, but they still know and that is too much," The older went over an expensive looking table and poured himself a drink of brandy. "Honestly, I don't know what to do Winston."
"Could you not do something to rid yourself of these problems?" Winston asked.
"Rid myself of them, what do you mean?" The older man poured a second shot of brandy down his throat.
"Perhaps you might consider having them - removed?" Winston hesitated, trying to find the right words. Just as he was about to down his third glass of liquor, the older man paused as the implication of his companions words struck him. Slowly, he turned and looked questioningly Winston, still holding his shot-glass in hand.
"Could you possibly mean what I assume you do?" He asked, shocked.
"It depends on your interpretation of my comment, sir," Winston answered respectively.
"I do believe you speak of murder, my good man," The older still sounded shocked.
"There is always that option, Mr. Van-Morris," Winston offered, and Mr. Van-Morris looked down at the brandy in his glass.
"I would hate for it to come to that," he spoke sullenly, staring at the liquor.
"Sometimes there is no other choice, sir," Winston pointed out.
"I consider myself a gentleman, Winston. A man of means and good-breeding," he lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank before speaking again. "Not a murderer," he set down the shot glass and began pacing again.
"It was only a suggestion, sir," Winston reminded and Mr. Van-Morris nodded absently.
"A suggestion - yes - a suggestion…" he lifted his hand and waved it, a signal of dismissal for the subservient Winston. Going back over to the liquor tray, he picked up the glass and filled it once more, drinking down the whole shot in one large gulp. The liquid burned as he coursed down his throat and he gripped the end of the table. Gasping as he slammed the heavy shot-glass down, he fought off the haze brought on from several previous shots. Now wasn't the time to be drunk, now was the time to be sober. For only in a clear mind would he be able to think of some solution to his problems at hand.
This was one crossroad on which he couldn't afford to choose the wrong path.
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"Well Cunningham, do you think there is any hope for the boy?" Dr. Ervin asked shortly after Jack left.
"The outlook isn't good," he frowned as he looked at the boy. "The conditions for the operation are -" he looked around the dingy room. "Less than ideal," he grumbled and took the bucket of water that Jack had boiled and dumped some sort of solution into it that foamed instantly on contact with the water. "The least we can do is sanitize the immediate area," he pulled some strips of clean cloth, probably used for bandages, from his bag and dipped them into the water before bending down and scrubbing the floor.
Taking his lead, Dr. Ervin took some of his own bandages and started with the cleaning. When the area was passably clean, he looked at the bed where Spot lay. They had already stripped it down to the mattress, which was stained terribly and no doubt was filthy. They had no other option though, neither of the men had clinics of their own and neither of them could afford one.
The sad truth was that the rich were the only ones that got any semblance of decent medical care for that time. The poor, like the newsies, just couldn't afford it. Strange twists of fate, such as these, were rare to say the least. The terrible sadness of the situation had to be pressed to the side as they held the life of a young man in balance this day. The delicacy of the surgery and the number of unknowns made it look for a sore chance of the survival of the boy, but all they could do was try.
After scrubbing their own arms and hands with the same soapy solution, the two men prepared for the surgery. Taking out the sanitized over-coats they had brought along with them, they put them on before covering their hair, nose, and mouths for strips of cloth. Lighting a lamp, they situated it above Spot's head and Dr. Ervin took the Carbolic Acid from his bag. Swabbing it onto a cloth, he ran it over his hands and then Spot's bald scalp. Dr. Cunningham did the same thing with his own hands.
Taking an ether-filled cloth, Dr. Ervin placed it over Spot's nose and mouth for several long seconds, making it so he would stay asleep during the operation. During this time, Dr. Cunningham took the pulse of the boy, letting Dr. Ervin know when it had descended enough for him to finish the administration of the anesthetic. With a deep breath, Dr. Ervin looked at his older companion and took a deep breath.
"Here goes everything," he said, and so began the operation.
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//Take me in my dreams recurring,
Careless as a childhood dance,
Into one more taste of freedom,
One more longing backward glance…//
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The golden age of Brooklyn had come to a crashing halt as soon as the transition of power had occurred. At one point, Brooklyn had been feared, renowned for its reputation of being a powerhouse, a place where only the strong survive. Few would have ever dared challenge such a territory, but as everything in life, things end. So it came to pass that the reputation of Brooklyn was demolished in practically a single day and the territory was molded into one larger one.
Though the maps wouldn't change, the way of the newsies thinking would. No longer was Brooklyn separate; it was a joint territory, ruled by Queens. The ultimate humiliation for any borough was to be overthrown by another territory. Though it was rare, when it did happen, it took the world by storm. The newsie world, that is. The tyranny of Queens was oppressive to say the least, but as stated before, all things must come to an end.
The end however, wasn't in sight, and that was all the Brooklyn newsies cared about.
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//The spirit always burning,
Though the flesh is torn apart,
My spirit will keep on burning,
Though my flesh is torn apart…//
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Ghost and Fire had probably taken these events harder than all of the others. Ghost felt the terrible personal loss of Spitfire, and the inner-turmoil of not being able to do anything but stay there and obey Lice's orders.
Fire on the other hand, had felt the brunt of Lice's wrath and couldn't help but cringe whenever the Queens boys came near. He knew them. One of them had been the one that had questioned him so severely. Knowledge of his name had come later. Bruiser, how very appropriate.
Though you could have asked each of the newsies individually and each of them could have told of the horrors they had sustained under Queens, none of them dared voice a complaint. The price of their rising would mean three of their number's lives. For now, that didn't seem worth it. Even though only one of them was still held, no one in Brooklyn knew that, and that was how it was to stay.
Changes, even though they weren't too terribly great, were changes. The main was that Lice was now the leader, and Spot wasn't. Differences in their leadership were apparent within the first day. Also, the boys from Queens had first rights on any selling spot and first rights at the distribution office. The difference was now instead of being respected; the Brooklyn newsies were treated like second class citizens.
Spirits of newsies, though, are indomitable, and no one could ever hold them down for too long. All it would take was one injustice to severe, one slip in leadership, or one crack in the powerful façade and everything would change. Until that one event occurred, the Brooklyn newsies would stay on the down low, but when that one event arrived…. Let us just say that Queens had better be on their toes.
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//All my life I've wondered,
How it'd feel to pass a day,
Not above them,
But part of them…//
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Emily did the bare minimal after the news of her upcoming wedding and Spot's death. Her father had taken her to a dress store where she was fitted for a wedding dress. 'Something simple,' he father had said. Simple, as simple as marrying her off to whomever came across his way? It was disgusting. She felt cheap and degraded, but there was nothing she could do.
There was no one she knew, no where she could run, and she had no skills that could be marketed. Being too naïve for street life, and too weak to work in the factory, she knew that there was no place for her out there. How could she run when this had been the first time she had been out of the lodging house on an errand in more than three months? The city was as foreign to her as somewhere on the other side of the world.
The terrible truth was probably, more than anything else was she didn't want to run. Well, not really anyway, she had no desire to or motivation. The only reason she had before was gone now. If she refused to marry this mystery man, her father would probably beat her until she complied. So convinced was she that she was nothing and capable of nothing that she never dreamed that she might be able to complete anything on her own. When in truth she had held more responsibility than many girls had her age ever did.
This didn't matter though, what mattered was what she knew, and she didn't know that. All she knew what that he father had told her she was worthless, and that is what she believed. At one point, she might have believed otherwise, at one time she had someone who told her differently, but what did you do when that one person was gone?
It seemed as though her path had already been chosen, and in a way, it was.
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//An artificial season,
Covered by summer rain,
Losing all my reason,
Cause there's nothing left to blame…//
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There wasn't any pain. That wasn't what Spot had expected when he woke. Every other time he had waken all he had known was the intense pain that racked his beaten and broken body. Eyes fluttering open, he was surprised that everything around him was light. No, wait, that couldn't be right, he couldn't see anything. Turning his head from side to side, he saw an endless expanse of white. There were no shapes, no walls, no color, just white everywhere. It was practically blinding. How ironic, he could see only to be blinded by what he did.
Squinting against the brightness, he stood shakily. Feeling his face, he didn't feel the cuts or swelling he knew covered it. Frowning, he looked around again and still saw nothing but white. Where was he?
"Hello Patrick," a familiar voice came from behind him and he whirled around to find the same woman he had met that one fateful day.
"You," Spot hissed, angered at her presence. "Whot ah yous doin' heah?"
"I'm supposed to be here," she answered simply. "You, however, are not."
"Whot?" Spot scratched his head, already confused.
"Do you know where you are, Patrick?" she asked.
"No," he shook his head taking a few steps toward her. "I don' know whot kinda fancy trick yous playin' lady, but I ain't goin' ta fall foah it," he growled.
"There are no tricks, boy," she almost sounded like she pitied him. "You are at a place where you must make a decision," she said plainly.
"No," Spot shook an angry finger at her. "You ain't goin' ta do dat ta me again lady," he growled. "Last time yous did dat I ended up blind," and as he said those words he was reminded that he shouldn't be able to see any of this.
"No you wouldn't be able to see this normally," she answered, seeming to read his very thoughts.
"Den why can I see it now?" He questioned, almost not wanting the answer.
"Because Patrick," she paused, looking him deeply in the eyes and Spot felt naked. "You're dying."
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Pain, throbbing pain in the back of his head. Someone was groaning, why wouldn't they stop? It was making his head hurt worse. Wait, it was he that was making those noises, why couldn't his stop himself? Lifting his head, he tried to pull open his eyes, and with much difficulty, he did. Where was he?
Outsider saw the same things he had seen when he had managed to open his eyes earlier. The same boxes and crates, and the same sheets and dirt floor, one thing was different though. There were boys in the room with him now. Lots of them, ones he had never seen before, and it was then that he knew he was probably in trouble.
Attempting to lift his hand, he was stopped by something holding it down. What was it? Ropes? Why was he tied? Obviously there was something that he couldn't remember that he needed to and he struggled to fill the gap in his memory. Brooklyn, he definitely wasn't in Brooklyn. Then where…? The question that was trying to formulate never was finished because it was answered for him by the voice that followed.
"He's awake, go get Lice!" Someone called and then it all came crashing back.
Spot was gone, Queens controlled Brooklyn, and he hadn't done anything about it. In fact had probably caused most of the problem. The shame and the self-loathing of the realization hit him, making him nauseous. The pounding in his head as the tiny men with big hammers did their work. Dropping his head, he closed his head again, giving into the merciful blackness that was closing in around him.
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//Peace is what they tell me,
Love am I unholy,
Lies are what they tell me,
Despise you that control me…//
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Ten minutes until closing, only ten, no more, no more… So went the nervous ramblings in the man's head as he sat in his office. Nine minutes until closing, no more, no more… he changed his mantra after looking at his pocket watch. The seconds seemed to move so slowly as he fiddled nervously with the pen on his desk.
The small man with the perfectly manicured handlebar moustache fidgeted in his leather chair as he tried to focus on the numbers on the papers in front of him. Though every time he attempted to do so, his eyes would blur and he would reach for his pocket watch, waiting for the second hand to tell him it was time to close the bank. Maybe this was all a mistake, he really shouldn't have agreed to this, but if the bank went under at least he would have some money left over wouldn't he?
"Lindstrom!" The loud voice boomed as the office door crashed open. It took all of the small man's will power not to scream like a small girl.
"Y-y-yes sir?" the nervous man stood, trying to calm the erratic beat of his heart.
"You will need to close the bank today, I have work to do," the man was obviously someone of authority to throw orders as such.
"Y-yes sir, Mr. Van-Morris," Lindstrom agreed readily, trying to control the nervous stutter he had developed. Then as quickly as he had entered, Mr. Van-Morris left.
Letting out a long breath he hadn't known he had been holding, Lindstrom eased back into his seat shakily. His head hurt, it hurt a lot, and this stress wasn't good for him. Why had he ever accepted this job? Reasons, there had been several, but he couldn't remember a single one right now. Why had he picked this path? Why had he moved down this path on the crossroad? Kneading his right temple with his right hand he pulled his pocket watch out and looked at it.
Seven minutes until closing, only seven, no more, no more….
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"Dying?" Spot nearly choked.
"Yes," the woman nodded. "I had wanted to tell you differently, but you insisted."
"So is dat why yous ah heah?" Spot spat angrily. "Ta makes fun o' me dyin'?"
"No," she shook her head gently. "If you want to live you shall, if you don't you will not."
"Yous t'ink dat I'se wanna die?" Spot accused, losing himself in his anger.
"I know you do," she said confidently. "You've wanted to die for a long time now, haven't you Patrick?"
"How da hell would yous know?" he bellowed. "Yous a'eady ruined me life, so yous goin' ta ruin da rest o' it now? Go ahead!" he spread his arms as if to offer her a free shot at him.
"I'm not going to explain how I know, we don't have time," she said simply. "But there are some things you need to know," she spoke seriously and Spot felt it best to listen to her. "You want to die, Patrick," She told him easily. "You've wanted to for years, ever since you killed your father."
"Dat wos an' accident," he denied quickly.
"That doesn't matter now," she shook her head. "All that matters now is the choice that you are about to make," taking a deep breath she stepped closer to him, reached up, and held his face in her small warm hands.
"Whot ah yous doin'?" Spot asked, uncomfortable.
"Do you want to live, Patrick O'Connor?" She searched his face with her deep, unfocused eyes. When she looked at you, it was as though she was looking right through you, seeing everything you thought or felt.
"Whot kinda question is that?" Spot asked indignantly and tried to step back, but found it impossible.
"A very important one," she pleaded quietly. "Do you want to live, Patrick O'Connor?" Spot felt chills run down his spine as she said his name.
In that instant as he looked down at her face, Spot knew that he was at a crossroads. It was the decision that he made right now that was going to effect his whole existence. If the previous visit of this woman was any proof at all, he knew that she was something to be reckoned with. Everything was pivotal on what he said right now, not only what he said, but also what he meant. For one brief instant Spot held his own fate in his own hands and was the master of it. Exhilarating as it might seem, he knew that it was not a matter to take lightly. So slowly, his answer began to form in his mind.
"Yes," he spoke softly. "I want ta live."
A beautiful smile shone on the woman's face as she dropped her hands and stepped back. " I know you do," she said and he knew it was the truth. "Then live you shall Patrick O'Connor. Live you shall," with those final words the complete whiteness that had surrounded him began to fade into the swirling blackness. Then, there was nothing.
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//Today,
The minutes seem like hours,
The hours go so slowly,
And still the sky is light…//
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So as it seems to do quite regularly, time passed. Hour after painstaking hour rolled by and the Manhattan newsies were on pins and needles the whole time. There weren't any more fights, but there was definite tension. Spitfire didn't allow Shadow to comfort her as she sat alone the whole day, deep in thought. So it passed. There was nothing that anyone could do, no papers to sell, and no cards that anyone wanted to play. All of them waited sullenly around the entry area.
Bored but not wanting to do anything. Tense, but to relaxed to get up and stretch. The terrible reality was that none of them really cared to do what they normally did. The entire balance of their lives revolved around the outcome of this surgery. No matter how independent any of them pretended to be, it was inevitable that they were now bonded together.
The careful balance that they had formed was built off of the repetitive patterns that they had forged. In a world of so many inconstancies, they would cling to anything that was the same, anything that was consistent. One thing that had been a corner stone in their lives for years had been the mighty Spot Conlon of Brooklyn. The way everything turned out would alter their lives whether they wanted to admit it or not.
It was because of this when Dr. Ervin stepped out of the room wiping yellow and red hands on a bloody cloth that everyone sprung to life. A million questions were waiting to be asked, but no one said a word, they all just waited. The middle-aged man seemed to be searching for the right words to tell them. It was clear that they weren't going to want all of the technical jargon he could offer, so he decided to make it simple.
"He made it through," Dr. Ervin said wearily, he looked about ten years older than he had when he went into the room. "But that doesn't mean anything," he said and the spirits that had risen like hot-air balloons crashed to the ground like rocks. "He will need to be monitored, and my friend Dr. Cunningham," Dr. Ervin referred to his co-worker. "Has taken a special interest in the case," he explained and the group looked at him questioningly.
"Whot ya sayin' doc, is Spot goin' ta be a'ight?" Jack asked, being the voice for the group.
"We don't know, Jack," Dr. Ervin sighed. "But as I was saying, Dr. Cunningham would like to take Spot with him to his office and keep him there," he said. "So that he can keep a closer eye on him. If this surgery was a success, it would be a large medical breakthrough," Dr. Ervin informed and the room was quiet for a moment.
"Yous mean, like takes him away?" Spitfire asked from the back of the room, practically forgotten by the others.
"Yes," Dr. Ervin answered heavily. "His chances of survival would be better, and Dr. Cunningham is a real doctor, unlike myself," he discredited himself. "I would be the best for him," he said seriously, almost trying to comfort the group.
"Ah we'se goin' ta know if he's a'ight?" Jack questioned.
"I'm sure that we can keep you updated," Dr. Ervin comforted.
"Can we'se see him now?" Kid Blink asked from the front.
"No, not now," Dr. Ervin shook his head.
"Damn," he heard the boy mutter.
"If there aren't any other questions," Dr. Ervin said. "Would you let us move your friend?" he asked and the whole room was silent, their eyes turning to Jack who looked conflicted.
"Yous shuah dis is da best foah him?" Jack asked one final time, meeting Dr. Ervin's eyes with deep concentration.
"Yes," Dr. Ervin answered confidently. "I am very sure," he comforted and Jack looked at him for a long time.
A crossroads had come to Jack, he didn't know what to do. Both could jeopardize the mortality of his friend, and he knew it. Mentally deliberating, his eyes didn't waver from the doctors. After a long silence Jack opened his mouth to speak.
"Yes," Jack answered with a heavy finality. "Take him."
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A/N: First things first, I would like to wish a very happy birthday to a very faithful reader: Ireland O'Reily. Happy 16th and my wishes of many happy returns of the day. ^_^ Second: I have an option for all of you readers. Would you prefer shorter, more frequent updates? Or longer chapters like I normally post, but having to wait for a week or so for them? I figure since you are the reader I will give you what you want, and if you want shorter, more frequent chapters, I guess I can do that…. I don't know if it is too big of a pain to try and read my longer posts off of the computer screen, I know that I print really long chapters because it hurts my eyes to read off of the computer that long. Anyway, if you bother to review, give me your opinion! Now a few words to my dear reviewers….
Ireland O'Reily: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Ireland, Happy birthday to you. ^_^ With that out of the way we can now get down to the other comments. Yes, Spot is bald, but I for your birthday, I gift wrapped a personal Spot Conlon with a full head of hair! . : * Hands present to you * : . Ha, ha, don't worry, hair grows. Now while I said I would let you know if he made it through the surgery, I never told you if he would make it afterwards. Hmm… and so the plot thickens. Well, you are just going to have to wait to find out what happens with Emily's dad, because the muses haven't told me yet, but I promise to pass along the information ASAP. Woo hoo! A's and B's on midterms is nothing at which to thumb your nose! As for French… they never were any good for anything anyway. If you study history, the French people used to be called the Galls and they never won ANY battles ever. So whatever, they are worthless. -_^ I am not a big fan of French, I am much more partial to German and Russian myself, but anyway. You didn't fail French did you? Oh well, stupid teachers, you get an A + for always reviewing my stories! I love you!
Priscilla: Thank you, thank you, I am not worthy of your praise. But I can't say I don't like it… -_^ Yep, poor Emily. I just love making it so you just want to hate me. [ Insert evil laugh here ] Trust me, I am not trying to kill you with my suspense, I am just trying to get you to come back and read more. Ha, ha. Anyway, take care and don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters. ^_^
Rae Kelly: Well now I shall go and do a happy dance because the legend of newsie fan fiction has given me her approval. . : * Dances, but stops before she hurts herself * : . I aim to be different, so thank you for your compliment. ^_^ One of these days I will get around to reading one of your fictions, just you wait! Anyway, if you bother to review, don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters.
Red Cinnamon: I'm a silly butt? Well humph! . : * Walks off in a pout * : . Nah, I know that you are just messing with me. I think I am over the 'I hate this story' phase, I just got frustrated with it. That happens so very often with me, oh well. I am sure that other authors go through the same thing. I can't wait to see what happens either, the muses have been silent as to clueing me into the happenings of the future. Darn it! Yeah, everyone deserves a good little pity-party besides Lice and Emily's dad. They deserve a good spanking! I personally feel the sorriest for having to cut off all of Spot's beautiful hair. AGH! But hey, any Spot is a good Spot to me. ^_^ I can't tell you if I will kill Spot yet, all we know is that he made it through the surgery…. Don't forget to tell me if you want long, less updated chapters, or more frequently updated short chapters.
Well we are down to . : * 4 * : . readers, but I guess I will just have to learn to deal with it. Oh well, take care everyone!