Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.

To BrooklynGrl: Yeah, getting rid of Sarah wouldn't be such a bad thing...thanks for the review!

* In 1908, nine years after the strike. *

Spot surveyed the workers, his chest swelling with pride as they marched in organized lines around the factory. "10 HOUR DAYS" and "MORE PAY" their signs proclaimed, and they chanted in unison, "Strike! Strike! Strike!" While their mantra echoed around the building and across the Brooklyn streets, Spot mused for a moment, thinking of the great newsie strike of 1899. He remembered the articles in the paper, the rally, the grand finale when Les proclaimed their victory from atop Jack's shoulders, and Snyder was escorted to the Manhattan Penitentiary, off to "make friends with the rats" as Crutchy advised. And, with sorrow, Spot remembered the day after the strike, when he and three other newsies had made a promise to meet. That meeting would take place in less than a year, but two would not attend. David and Racetrack had both died, and now only the two leaders were left. Former leaders, actually. Jack had renounced his sovereignty when he left for Santa Fe, and Spot had stopped being a newsie the day Racetrack died.

Although, at the factory, Spot was once more a leader. Sure, the factory strike was much smaller than the newsies' had been, and they didn't have big rallies or throw rotten fruit at the managers, but it was still a strike, and Spot was in charge. He was one of the younger workers at the factory, and didn't have much seniority, as he had only been employed for about a year. Yet, when all the factories in New York but theirs had received ten-hour days, the workers had turned to him.

At first, Spot's suggestion of a strike had seemed impossible, unthinkable. The workers would lose their jobs, and, for most of them, their only means of supporting their families. But as Spot told stories of the 1899 newsie rebellion, the workers had become excited, enthralled by the possibility that---just once---they could be in charge, not their managers. That, if only for a week, they would no longer be the lowest men on the totem pole of power.

With Spot's help, that was exactly what had happened. The workers had become organized. It was the third day of the strike, and they now worked in shifts, picketing around the building or spreading strike news across New York, gaining support for their cause. Donations to the strike fund were meager, but combined they were enough to feed the workers and their families and buy paint and boards for signs.

"Spot, we got a problem!" once of the workers yelled, interrupting Spot's reminiscence. At more than two yards tall, the worker towered about Spot's five feet and six inches, but he worshipped Spot as a leader: smarter, stronger, and more skilled. "We got strike-breakers!" the worker continued, pointing to the end of the block where a group of burly men had begun to gather.

Spot turned to watch the strikebreakers' progress as they marched toward the first row of picketers. Silently, he walked up to them, extracting his sling-short from his back pocket with one hand. As the first strikebreaker approached the line, Spot drew a marble from another pocket, held it on his slingshot, and let go, hitting the man's jaw. He knew from experience that it was better to start the fight now than to wait and let the enemy make the first move.

The man retaliated quickly, running toward Spot and swinging a clumsy fist at his jaw. Spot ducked, but another strikebreaker managed to knock down the worker next to Spot, and fights erupted along the picket line. Punches were thrown, shins were kicked, brass knuckles appeared, effectively bloodying noses and knocking unsuspecting victims unconscious. Spot darted through the crowd, helping when a worker needed it, cheering on his boys, occasionally shoving the head of his cane into a strikebreaker's stomach. From what he could see, the strikebreakers were better fighters but were outnumbered in people and desire by the factory workers. He could sense it now---the workers would win.

"Hey, shortie!" a voice shouted, and Spot whipped around, ready to face his new opponent. As he did so, the man slung a brass-knuckled fist at Spot and narrowly missed as Spot leapt sideways, his reflexes kicking in at the last second. Spot replied with a kick that also missed as the man slid to his right. Another kick followed, striking the man's shin, but neither faltered. Slowly, the two young men became a whirlwind, a vicious fight surrounded by chaos.

Gradually, Spot began to pull ahead. He landed more punches, struck harder, and, eventually, pushed his opponent to the ground. His hands latched around the man's neck as a small circle gathered around them. The other fights continued, but Spot's victory was the center of attention. Spot squeezed his hands together, feeling no pleasure, only purpose, in the murder he was prepared to commit.

"Spot, move!" a voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd, a mere second too late. As Spot's conquest took his final arduous breath, another strikebreaker plunged a knife into Spot's back. Spot collapsed in a rush of scarlet blood, his enemy becoming his deathbed.



Open the September 7, 1908, evening edition of The World to the obituaries, and you will read, in miniscule type at the bottom of the page, "Spot Conlon, 1883---1908. The King of Brooklyn."

A/N: * apologizes to all the Spot fans for killing their favorite character * Sorry! But I'm happy because the only thing left is the epilogue! Yay! I'm actually going to finish this before Halloween! (I hope.) Reviews appreciated, as always.