August 12, 1899, 6:05 A.M.
Flick's eyes reluctantly peeled open, squinting against the harsh flood of sunlight, blinking rapidly as they struggled to adjust. She was still lying on the ground by the river. Her back, arms, legs, and every other part of her was thoroughly stiff and aching. Eyes darting around in search of what had wakened her...for sunlight was never enough to wake Flick O'Grady...they found a boy standing over her, looking extremely nervous.
"Manhattan's got trouble," the boy announced in a rush. "Jist t'ought ya should know." And with that, yet again, the incomprehensible pickpocket was gone.
In a snug alley near Duane Street, the pretty, dark-haired girl known as Secret slept fitfully. She had spent most of the night searching for Flick, but in vain. Now her dreams were of Flick, and of Song, and of knives and betrayals and unanswered questions. Tears trailed her cheeks as she dreamed.
Her nightmares were interrupted by a small tan hand shaking her arm. Her eyes flew open to behold a face that she would much prefer not to see, now or ever again.
"Dere's a fight at da lodgin' house," the owner of the face whispered, then turned and took flight before his words could even register.
Crow Johnson, eighteen-year-old leader of the Queens newsies, was not worried. His boys had been preparing for this for months. Manhattan just had too many prime selling opportunities to miss, and business in Queens really had been lousy lately. Crow had decided that it was high time they taught the now-legendary Jack Kelly and his boys a lesson. They were a tough crowd, Queens; and whatever people said about Cowboy the famous strike leader, Crow was certain that he was no Spot Conlon, and that Manhattan was a far cry from Brooklyn. This so-called war, Crow mused lazily as he leaned against the door of the Manhattan lodging house, was already won.
What he didn't know was that he and his newsies had happened to catch Manhattan at a very, very bad time.
Crow was knocked sprawling to the ground when the lodging-house door flew open. Without warning, twenty-three boys came pouring out to face the improvised seige of Queens newsies. One look at the expressions on the defendants' faces told Crow that surrender was the last thing they had in mind.
Fighting was nothing new to Racetrack. You couldn't be a "street rat" in New York City for long without encountering it. Some enjoyed it, others didn't care for it so much; Race happened to be a member of the second category. But it was something you had to do if you wanted to survive, and to help your friends survive. Racetrack was decent at it, and moreover, Jack had actually been right for once; today he was in a mood for fighting.
There was none of the boasting or taunting that usually serve as preamble to a fight. Each side knew what they were fighting for; they saw no reason to play games. Within seconds, the area in front of the lodging house was a tangle of flying fists and feet, slaps and punches and kicks, sticks and stones and even mud clots. Whatever any of them could get their hands on became a weapon. Queens and Manhattan newsies alike were slammed to the ground. Arms were twisted, eyes were blackened, noses were bloodied, cuts and bruises were distributed so fast and furiously that it would have made a spectator's head spin. Half the time, Race wasn't even aware of who he was fighting; though he did notice, with a small measure of satisfaction, when he and Blink ganged up on and thoroughly soaked the Queens boy called Muscles who had challenged them that day in Central Park.
The chaos was such that the arrival of a newcomer on the scene went unnoticed. In fact, this newcomer probably would have remained unnoticed if she hadn't stepped into the middle of the fray and dealt a formidable Queens boy a dizzying blow.
"Secret!?"
That incredulous cry was voiced by Bumlets, and it caused the head of every newsie present to turn in the appropriate direction. They were all so stunned...the Manhattan boys because Secret was back, and the Queens boys because a girl had suddenly joined the fight...that for a split second, the whole thing ground to a dead halt.
Then Crow managed to recover his wits and took a swing at Snoddy, and at the same time, Secret rolled her eyes and yelled with her usual good sense, "Dis ain't e'zactly a time fer gogglin' or askin' questions!" At this double signal, the fight resumed in full brutality, with one warrior added to the Manhattan side, who the opposing forces quickly and painfully learned was not there to be snickered at.
No one could say how long it went on. The sun rose higher and higher, inching its slow and steady way across the sky. None of the newsies took any notice. They were exhausted. They were in pain. Sweat poured down their faces, the salt getting into cuts and burning. One by one they dropped, overcome by their wounds, by their emotions, by the heat, by the hunger, by the uselessness of it all. It took a while for anyone to notice that more Manhattan newsies were on the ground than Queens newsies. And more...and more.
In fact, Manhattan didn't even realize how badly they were losing until only a handful of them remained on their feet...Jack, the Three Musketeers, and Secret among them.
Racetrack's fist swung out reflexively to block a blow from a pug-nosed Queens boy. His energy and bottled-up anger had been slowly draining all morning, leaving behind an empty shell. Sparing a glance for his few friends who were still fighting, it was clear to see that they were in the same situation. Manhattan hadn't done badly at all. They'd put up a much better fight than Crow had seemed to expect. But it would all be over soon enough. There were at least a dozen Queens newsies still in decent shape, and they had their opponents surrounded. With every Manhattan fighter struggling to defend himself...or herself...against two or three boys at once, it was obvious that it couldn't go on much longer. Dimly, Race wondered how much of the borough the Queens boys would take over, and whether he would ever use his left arm again, and whether Blink had just lost sight in his one good eye, and whether Specs was okay because he hadn't moved since Crow had knocked him down, and then things got really bad because Racetrack began to hallucinate. He thought he saw a fiery demon come flying out of nowhere, a slim, pale demon with blazing red hair and eyes as black as night.
The fight stopped so suddenly and so completely that it seemed as if time itself had stopped. Jack's fist actually froze halfway to Crow's stomach. This time there was no recovery of senses. There were no words, no sudden blows, to remind everyone that this was, after all, a territory war. Every pair of eyes that still possessed the faculty of sight was riveted on what appeared to be the most vicious fire-breathing dragon ever to hatch from a legend, except that it had decided to shape-shift into human form.
Flick always felt everything to the extreme. But never before had the extreme been quite this high. Her skin was the color of fresh snow. Her cheeks were flushed with blood. And her eyes seemed to glow with an unearthly light the hue of a raven's wing. There was no derisive laughter from Queens this time. Flick's glare was quite clearly focused on Crow.
Crow was only human. He, like every other person present, was scared out of his wits. But he knew it would be deadly to show it, so he made a feeble attempt at bravado.
"I din't know Manhattan was in da habit o' lettin' goils do deyre fightin'," he commented, forcing a smirk.
Flick regarded him silently for a few moments. Then she looked around at the Manhattan newsies; those still standing, and the many lying injured on the ground. Her eyes slowed down considerably as she regarded Mush and Blink. They eyed Secret for long seconds; Secret's eyes met hers, containing a desperate question. Then Flick looked away, and finally, her eyes fell on Race. When they did, Race spoke, but not to Flick; he responded calmly to Crow's taunt.
"Manhattan newsies," Racetrack explained, "do deyre own fightin'."
"Yeah?" Crow's smirk widened. "So dis goil's jist heah fer show?"
"Dis goil," Race replied, "is Flick O'Grady. An' she's a Manhattan newsie. An' I do believe youse made 'er mad."
The last emotion Flick managed to register was astonishment at Racetrack's words. He knew what she had done. He knew what she was. He couldn't have said what she thought he'd said...?
Then Crow Johnson made the biggest mistake of his life.
He felt cornered, he felt like prey, and this is a feeling no domineering so-called leader ever wants to feel. His instinct was to return himself to the position of predator, and so, looking around frantically for what appeared to be the most vulnerable target, he brushed past Flick and slammed his fist into the side of Secret's head.
Secret crumpled to the ground, and Flick's world turned red.
She was moving. Turning, ducking, weaving, dodging, charging. Her fists were flying so fast, even she couldn't keep track of them. Left, right, forward, back. Connecting again and again and again. She could barely make out the forms they were connecting with. Everything was blanketed in a crimson haze. Vaguely, she noticed the Manhattan boys stepping back, helping or lifting their injured friends out of the way. Their expectations hadn't been off the mark. They were out of the fight. It was Flick's fight now.
She fought for Manhattan, for the borough that had been her home for five days...and because Racetrack said it was still her home. She fought for all the newsies of that borough, who hadn't been able to fight hard enough. She fought for Mush and Blink and for Race, because they had been her friends, and they had taught her to have fun, and she loved them. She fought for Jack, because he was arrogant and he hated her, but he knew she could fight and he used to respect her for that. She fought for Harlem, her home of ten years that she would probably never see again. She fought for Secret, her best friend, who had always stood by her no matter what, who was on the ground and wasn't moving.
On da ground...not movin'...
And she fought for Song. For the girl who was once her best friend. Who was funny and playful, brave and protective, kind and gentle and smart and friendly, for Song who played the flute like a goddess and hated fights. And, thinking of Song, Flick fought for herself. She fought for the truth she had been so desperate to find, the truth that had been buried under a thousand layers of lies, the truth that was not found yet!
She fought until there was only one person left to fight.
Crow looked around at the battered shapes of his newsies sprawled on the ground, rubbing bruises, clutching injured limbs, moaning, a few even crying...all of them defeated. He raised his eyes, and they were full of shock and terror.
"Wha...what...who are ya!? Wheah'd ya come from!? Why da he** are ya..."
"He told ya my name," Flick replied through the haze, gesturing toward Racetrack. "I'se from Harlem. An' I seem ta also rememba him tellin' ya why I'se fightin'. I'se a Manhattan newsie."
"But..." Crow was slowly backing away. "How..."
"Ya hoit Secret." Those words burned the ears they were meant for like the rays of the sun at very close quarters, as Flick took a large step forward for every small step Crow took backward. "Ya hoit all my friends, actu'lly," she continued. She was standing right in front of him now, so close she could touch him without reaching. Wildly, he turned to run, and found a crowd of Manhattan newsboys, ragged and battered but determined, barring his way. Mush stood slightly behind the others, gently holding the unconscious Secret. Flick was still talking, although it became more difficult as the red haze grew thicker. "Ya hoit ev'ryone I care 'bout. Comin' ta Manhattan in da foist place was a mistake. Yer second mistake was dis whole so-called 'war'. But yer thoid was da woist o' all. Ya should neveh, eveh have hoit Secret."
And as she finished speaking, the scene she was referring to replayed in her mind: this boy's fist shooting out, hitting Secret, Secret falling to the ground.
Except the image changed.
Suddenly the attacker was someone else. Not this Queens newsie named Crow. Someone taller, older, someone she didn't know. The fist was shooting out, except it wasn't a fist. It was a knife. The moonlight glinted off the silver blade, and a figure fell, and the figure was her best friend. Not Secret...her best friend of old. Long blonde hair, navy dress, and, falling from the now-limp hands, a wooden flute...
"A knife."
"An' who was holdin' it?"
"I was."
And so she was. But it was another night! Another time, another place, another event altogether. She was holding the knife, and the knife was going into someone...but the someone wasn't Song!
"Truth. An' lies. An' what happens when ya lie ta yaself so hard dat da lies get mixed up wit da truth, an' ya don't even know what's real anymoah."
These were the words that Flick flashed back on before the flashbacks stopped. The red haze cleared. Flick was there, outside the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, surrounded by many injured people who were watching and waiting to see what she would do next, and Crow was standing in front of her, and he had hurt Secret.
She would not fight blindly anymore. She would not hit without looking, she would not hurt without thinking. Not now. Now she knew exactly what she was doing.
"I know what I'se doin'!" Flick screamed aloud, hoping the entire world heard her, and finally losing any semblance of sanity, Crow made a last hopeless break for it. Before he could even escape her hitting range and force her to chase him, Flick had knocked the leader of Queens senseless.
The moment Crow hit the ground, Flick turned and ran. She ran away from the lodging house, from her friends, from the scene of the fight, and from the truth she had worked so hard to uncover. As she ran, she felt those walls rapidly building up again around her mind, that haze quickly returning to frantically block out everything within her memory that she had reached for, had tried to uncover, to reclaim, to reveal. For a minute or two she had almost grasped that elusive truth, but now it was slipping away again, and she knew that if she lost it this time, she would never be able to find it again.
Did she want to? She didn't know. All she knew was the pounding of her feet, and the sweat on her face, and the aching of her fist, and of course, her destination.
It had happened so fast. The dragon's return. Her...rampage...on the Queens boys. Her words to Crow, and then her fist knocking him out as if he was no more than a rag doll.
The fight was won. The Manhattan newsies were the victors. But it had happened so fast, and so strangely, that it was rather difficult to understand, much less accept. Mush hurried into the lodging house with Secret in his arms, but most of the others, those still on their feet and those on the ground, remained riveted in place, wide-eyed or open-mouthed or both, struggling to interpret everything that had just occurred.
Not Racetrack.
Ya can run away again if ya want, Flick, but DIS time, I ain't jist watchin' ya go.
Without another moment of thought, Race took off after her.