DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie Newsies belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe.
A.N: Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing! It makes me quite happy to read your comments and such. ^_^
SHOUT-OUTS:
Dreamer: Thanks for your review! ^_^ I'm glad you like how Spot and Runner are portrayed, hehe. They're my favorite characters to portray. In any case, your beloved Sunny makes a cameo this chapter. Hope you like it.
Melika: Heya, thanks for the compliments on characterization. I try to work extremely hard on that because I love characterizing when writing a story…it's like my second favorite thing to do after working out the storyline. ^_^ The Manhattan newsies will be making an appearance soon enough, and in the latter part of the story as well. Thanks so much for your review!
The Good Girl: Glad you're liking the story so far! Here's another chapter coming right at you! Hope you like it!
Strawberri Shake: Yes, Runner is adorable, but don't fuel his pride, hehe. *huggles Runner* So you want a crazy feline, huh? You're more than welcome to take one of the countless Aunt Bethany has, lol. I use to have a black kitten named Salem…man oh man, that cat was insane! In any case, thanks for reviewing!
Fantasy: She found the letter! Dun dun dun! Muahaha. This letter business originally wasn't going to be in the story but a new plotline befell me quite suddenly the other day and I was like…Eureka! Well…not really. Anyhow, thanks on the compliments for my characterization! ^_^ I always work hard in bringing out the characters to their true nature. Enjoy this chapter!
Sita: Sita, darling! *ish glomped* Yes, Spot's letter is something I'd probably write during my angsty boy-lacking emotional fits, lol. Just to let you know, I noticed you updated "Angelsight" and I've every intention on reading it when I can. I usually don't read slash, but I'll make an exception because I love you so. ^_^ *huggles* Have a good read!
Emotions: Heya, sorry I wasn't able to add you to the cast. Actually, I received your profile after I had closed the casting call. But I'm glad you'll still be reading. I'll be sure to keep your character in mind for the sequel, hehe. Thanks much!
Cyanne: Love and duct-taped men? *purrs* What an interesting sign-off…*looks toward Spot* "Hey, don't get any ideas!" Muahaha. Glad you're enjoying the story. And yup, in this chapter we get to read about Spot's deep dark secrets, as you so affectionately dubbed them, lol. Thanks for the reviews!
Apollonia: Aww, you called my story a little gem! *sniffle* I'm touched. Truly. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the storyline with you and Spot. ^_^ Glad you found the time to read my story, though. W00t w00t! Enjoy this chapter!
Miracle: Thanks for reviewing! W00t w00t! You and Ash will be making more appearances, lol, don't worry. Onward to the next chapter!
Ershey: Heya! Glad you liked the last chapter so much. I'll probably be updating this story more often than I usually update stories, lol. Most because it's a romance I think. I'm in a romantic mood nowadays. *grins* The note that Dewey found was written by Spot. Remember when Spot and Runner were on the bridge and the younger showed Spot the letter as if to ask "why the heck were you writing a suicide note?" lol. But anyway, yea. Spot is hot…especially when he's being such a jackass, lol.
Striker: Haha, glad you like the bad-boy aspect of Spot Conlon, lol. I agree with you, it does make him a hundredfold more hotter. *licks lips* ^_^ Here's another chapter for you! Thanks for the review!
geometrygal: Aww, thanks for the compliments! I'm glad I was able to brighten your day with an update, lol. Here's another one to make you happy too!
CiCi: Hey hey hey! You were my first reviewer for this chapter! *dances* You win…a chocolate covered Runner Conlon! Muahaha! You already have him in your story, though, lol. Oh well, you can never have too many Runner's. Thanks so much for the reviews! Hope you enjoy this new update!
~*Where the River Flows Bright*~
The factory workers at Cole's Oil Refining never received a break for lunch or repose during the ten or more hours in which they were required to toil unceasingly with heavy equipment and the stink of grease, but the day a high-standing official within the New York hierarchy arrived in horse-drawn coach to check up on the business in which he'd years ago invested, the burly and excessively hairy man who oversaw employment let the boys off for a lovely pardon in some radical strain of humanity…and to avoid accusations of sadistic labels should his indifference toward child labor be discovered.
Patron watched on from across the street as the upper class gentleman in the coach, his luxurious suit accented with top hat and cane, stepped down from his mode of transportation and neared the factory with scrutinizing eyes. Apparently, the facade of the edifice had very much decayed since last he saw it, and this decadence did nothing to lighten his already straitlaced demeanor. Behind the man strode in the most gallant of steps a youth dressed in the same manner, chestnut locks of hair falling past his cheekbones as he, too, examined the building and found it to be most displeasing. The two entered the factory within seconds, and Patron found himself staring after the entrance through which they had gone, wondering what their business might be.
"That was the owner a' the factory," a voice said behind him. "Mr. Princeton owns more oil companies in New York than anyone, which a' course explains 'is wealth. The son there, Becker Princeton, is next in line to inherit the money."
Patron turned around and found himself to be looking at Noah Baker, more commonly known among his peers as Linx. He was terribly quiet most the time, which indeed was a rare trait among the young men of the factory, but obviously he'd deemed it imperative to inform the newcomer to his trade of the chain of command running rampant in the state. He was nearly half a foot taller than Patron, and quite lanky despite the heavy labor he daily performed. Stroking his stubble-covered chin, which was a result of his neglecting morning shaves now and then, his grey-blue eyes became distant and thought upon something of which he wouldn't speak as the boy retreated back into his customary silence.
"I bet Becker doesn't have to lift a single finger to garner his money," Patron said, his voice half-bitter even though he knew he wasn't one to be judging. Taking a small towel from the pocket of his trousers, he dabbed at the perspiration dampening his cheeks while standing in the aim of the glaring sun, eyes squinted against the brightness and curls plastered against his forehead. He didn't mind too much the amount of work he received, for he was quite use to performing numerous tasks back on his father's farm, but the duration of such bothersome chores is what truly exhausted him. And it didn't alleviate his pains knowing he and Dewey wouldn't inherit their parents' savings until their eighteenth birthday, which was nearly half a year away!
"Ah, it reminds us of our roles in life." The voice that spoke now was rich and melodic, the r's rolled with the smoothness of an ice structure's surface and the vowels over-pronounced with an appreciation for the English language. Maverick O'Malley. He very much reminded Patron of an older rendition of 'the artful dodger' from Dickens' Oliver Twist. Thin shoulder-length hair of a fiery persuasion and pale green eyes that never seemed to smile despite what Irish legends dictated, Maverick was in his early twenties and seemed to take almost everything too seriously. In the system of seniority within the factory, he acquired a top-ten ranking, and perhaps it was this source of pride from which he drew himself up to be a respected individual among his peers.
Currently, he was surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke, the cigarette dangling from his lips idly while he studied Patron carefully. The boy had come to Cole's over two weeks ago in search of employment, and though the factory habitually didn't accept those under the age of eighteen, Maverick had successfully convinced the boss to look over the matter just this one time. He wasn't sure why he'd cared so much about the kid's welfare no more than he was sure if in fact he did care. All he knew was his gamble was proving to be rather beneficial, for Patron had definitely turned out to be a dedicated worker.
"Ye shouldn't worry too much 'bout it, lad," Maverick said after a few moments, his rough brogue like a ballad in the wind. "Life's a game we all play, and if ye handle your cards right, I'm sure ya'll be just as successful as any man."
"If ya handle ya cards right…and have fun with the ladies 'long the way, of course."
Maverick rolled his eyes at Ditch's addition to what was supposed to have been uncompromising advice and smacked the tall Spaniard upside the head. "Ye never stop thinking 'bout the ladies, do ya?" Ditch Zavala shook his head with a smirk, as was his usual response to such questions when he wasn't in the mood to make a twisted sly remark. He was shorter than Linx, but still maintained a towering height-when compared to the average eighteen year old at least-and across his left cheek he bore a scar, his reminder of a fight that had gotten much too out of hand one day. Fortunately, the everlasting cut worked to his benefit, for the ladies pitied him so upon seeing it, and most the time believed it added all the more to a rugged sex appeal for which they always craved.
Patron only shook his head at this while he leaned himself up against the brick exterior of an apartment building. Linx, Maverick, and Ditch harbored such contrasting personalities and yet they still found the ability to commune with one another in an unlikely friendship. It almost seemed as if they…as if they needed each other more than anything else. He tossed this idea back and forth in his mind until an outburst from Ditch terminated his silent contemplations.
"Look, look!" exclaimed Ditch, with an extended finger that served more so to accuse than to point out. "What the hell is a damned diseased lil' newsies doin' in our territory, huh?" He slammed a fist into his open hand fiercely, his features completely changing into an expression that conveyed sheer abhorrence. "I swear I'll beat the filth to a damned pulp…"
Maverick held him back, however, knowing full well what temper could be awakened should Ditch be allowed to pursue his violent aspirations. "Not today, lad, and 'specially not when it's an unfair fight."
"I don't care if it's unfair…" He went on to curse both in and out of Spanish, implementing the dirtiest words he knew to voice the anger he felt merely by looking upon the newsie. Patron looked thoroughly confused, and rightfully so, for he knew nothing of the bitter hostility between factory workers and their paper-peddling counterparts. He parted his lips to pose the expected query of Maverick, but Linx, seeing his knowledge was once again required to enlighten the naïve mindset of the newcomer, stepped in and thus began explaining the reasoning behind Ditch's resentment.
"First of all," said he to the younger, "the newsies has a reputation a' constantly lyin'; it's how they sell their papes, by deceivin' their customers. They's full a' tricks, they are! Nextly, they run 'round the streets always causin' riots here and there…like circus animals I tell ya. We don't too much 'ppreciate their immaturity. Lastly, they think they's so high above us. They assume we don't know how to read just cause we don't sell papes. Arrogant lil' guttersnipes, that's what the newsies is."
When at last finished with his explanation, Linx nodded in approval of what he'd just spoken and waited for the other's response. Patron was a skeptic, though, and upon confessing this to his co-workers, they were more than happy to suggest he conduct a brief tête-à-tête with the newsie to acquire his own judgment on the subject. He indeed undertook the task and strolled casually toward the boy selling afternoon editions, hands tucked into his pockets while he moistened his lips and thought upon what exactly he would say.
"Uh, hello," was all he could muster once he reached the one in question, and when the newsie turned around to face him, his doubts of the lurking evils within such peddlers was heightened, for the boy appeared to be the epitome of affability and kindness. Patron learned his name to be Sunny (he and Dewey long ago unanimously decided upon the absurdity of the nicknames those youth in the working class self-appointed themselves, and so Sunny as an alias wasn't as surprising to him as it would've otherwise been) and entertained a rather kindly dialogue with the newsie in which they discussed insignificant topics such as local news and such.
"Are ya with those kindly fellows glarin' at me over there?" He nodded to Maverick and company with a sad smile, but Patron was for a moment too entranced by the newsie's half-Swedish accent to fully understand his meaning. When he didn't receive an answer, Sunny laughed and would've raised the question yet a second time, but suddenly he found himself grabbed by the collar of his crimson shirt and slammed against the concrete face of a wall. The trio he'd been referring to now stood before him with merciless glowers, Patron having been shoved aside by an impatient Ditch.
"Gimme one good reason," snapped the Spanish one, "why I shouldn't bust ya head open right now with my fist."
This one good reason would never be received, for before any violence could be enacted, Mr. Princeton and son returned back to the streets, followed closely by the sycophant of a man the boys knew as their boss. Ditch quickly released Sunny, shoving the newsie away from him as if his very existence insulted his worth, and stalked back toward the factory, absolutely livid. He was soon followed by Maverick and Linx, Patron trailing behind as if torn between the extremes of benevolence and rudeness. Finally, he took after his friends without an apology, and spent the rest of the day wondering why he hadn't uttered one.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The night is as I've never known it.
I sit here in the solitude of my room, far from the bustling lunacy and expectations, and I think to myself over the sheer idiocy of those who have yet to grasp the realities daily facing them in life. We aren't gods, that we should enslave Fate as if it were our puppet. He who told me I'd the power to control my future was a liar. Nothing more. It is rather we who are the marionettes, and Fate the chiding puppet master who thrusts us into the most dire of circumstances.
For far too long, however, have I made love with the madness surrounding me. My life is as inconsequential as the pebble sitting aside the mighty mountain's base. I contribute nothing to the overall scheme of life, and this realization has riddled me for months as of late. I try to shroud myself with the authoritative lust of an arrogant prince; I try to whip those who would obey me into a pathetic submission upon which I inhale the fumes of my ecstasy and then fall back into yet another abyss of stupidity.
Yet, dearest love whom I'll never enchant, I mean not to hurt you by this foolish game of the lower class. Every midnight rendezvous appeases my short-lived urges for a companion to sustain my desires, but I still lack something in my life, and it was tonight that I finally realized what that something was. But how could I possibly entertain a relationship? It's all become second-nature to me, and I fear I've no longer the capacity to love anyone.
Do you think it's best that I simply separate myself from you? I would only shatter your emotions, you see, and I rather it be my life than your heart. So I suppose this is the end. I always daydreamed as a child who that special someone would be, but my own foolhardiness and pride has soiled love into a long-dead entity, and now I sadly say my goodbye's to you. Keep me always.
~Brooklyn
Dewey hung on to every last word like a Romantic grasping for the melodies of a violinist's classical composition, seduced by the letter's diction and so fallen in a sphere of love's spells that even when she had awoken, she was yet drugged by the beauty of the correspondence. Such a work of art! And mingled with a tragedy that was simultaneously grievous and yearning. After tending to Aunt Bethany, she'd read the letter five times over, mystified by its harsh truths, compelled to inscribe a response.
But who was this 'Brooklyn'? His use of literary techniques was to his advantage, for he sounded quite the part of the scholar, and this made Dewey's heart swell all the more. She'd found the letter after her clash with Runner Conlon and his companions…could they have had anything to do with it? Had the letter in fact been in Runner's possession? Had he lost it upon crashing to the ground? She considered the notion, but soon decided against it, for she couldn't quite place the jovial boy as the architect of such dark prose, not to underestimate his probable hidden talents of course. She was merely being truthful to herself. And what of the others? Cyanne, Mouse, Cody, and Mayfly…perhaps the letter had been their own? No, for some reason she simply couldn't see them as having written it!
Then who? A businessman recently laid off from his job? An aspiring novelist rejected by a publishing company? A fiancée who refused to further his relations with the woman he loved for fear that he would only hurt her? All three ideas had merit, but a piece always seemed to be missing from the confounded puzzle and she wasn't quite sure how to reorganize her thoughts to better suit the mystery. An hour later, she decided the sign off had not been a personification of the borough, but rather the writer's very name! After all, as she'd seen during her stay so far in New York, the newsies and factory workers with whom she and her brother were acquainted picked rather peculiar names for their respective aliases.
That night, however, when she was eating dinner with Patron, he claimed to know no one at Cole's with the name of 'Brooklyn'. Dewey was discouraged, naturally, but understood the oil refining factory was only one of several within the state. And so instead of fretting, she lay awake in her bed later on until she knew her brother was fast asleep, and then crept into the parlour to write a reply as entrenched in love as was this passionate man's letter. Three drafts later, when she was satisfied with the final work, she sealed it into a fancily-decorated envelope from her stationery collection and hid the sachet under her pillow before taking to a much needed sleep.
The next day, with letter in hand, she waited an hour after Patron's leave to work before hurrying into the streets of Brooklyn in search of Cody, who she assumed would be hawking his headlines in the same area as he had been yesterday, but then remembering the incident with the apples, she was left to conclude he'd found another area more suitable to his needs. As she dallied about to other street corners, a wave of fluttering butterflies spun around in her stomach. Would Brooklyn write back to her? Would he even care that she'd taken the time out to digest his letter? Would her response brighten him, or worsen his moods?
Was he even still among the living? She couldn't deny the suicidal aspects in his letter, and had prayed several times throughout the night that he'd refrain from any attempts to take his own life. She hoped her note would be of some comfort to him, for more than anything, it was an encouragement to keep pressing on even through his most trying times. Momentarily, she began to consider the foolishness of her actions, and the folly it might turn out to be to bridge the gap between herself and a complete stranger. What would Patron say? She undoubtedly knew he wouldn't approve in the least. Then again, he wouldn't approve of her walking on her lonesome without an escort as she now was doing and yet she defied that.
"Cody!" She found the boy four blocks from the apple vendor's territory and smiled as she neared him.
Cody looked up from yelling out an embellished story about hordes of pigeons attacking any who entered Central Park (which had been his rendition of a story concerning a kindly elderly man who daily visited the park to feed bread crumbs to dozens of birds) and waved at the girl as she drew closer. He couldn't help but take delight in her visiting him. He'd decided yesterday afternoon that he rather liked Dewey. She had the prettiness of the country about her, nothing glamorous but not quite plain either. Her features were softened and almost doll-like, so that one instantly felt at ease when talking to the girl. Her curly hair fell in velvety ringlets just past her shoulders, and her deep brown eyes with the slightest hint of gold moved one to endow complete trust to her.
From afar, the brightness of her face showed how lively her spirits were at any given time, and at a closer look, the freckles across her cheeks and her soft pouty lips were automatic assurance that she'd do no harm even if tempted. "Cody, I was hoping you could tell me whether or not you knew a newsie in these parts named Brooklyn."
The boy smirked at this. He knew it would come sooner or later; it was never long before any new girl to the city crossed paths with the infamous Spot Conlon. He casually swiped off his hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shirt sleeve, and then fixed the cap back atop his hair. "Sure I know 'im. Why d'ya ask?" Who didn't know Spot Conlon?
She was elated by the information! Not a factory worker, but a newsie! This was good news indeed, for if she was already acquainted with Runner and the others, she was quite sure they'd have no problem introducing her to this fellow of theirs. "I was hoping, also, that you would be so kind as to give this to him for me." She held out the letter for him to receive.
"Sure thing," he replied, taking the letter while his smirk became lazier. So Spot seduced yet another one, did he? And alas, of all people it had to be Dewey. A sweet girl who didn't know any better. The Brooklyn leader had probably shown her a night in the city she'd never forget, had confessed an early-born love for her, and then had said all the right words that would get her to sleep with him. And now she truly believed their little bedroom escapade would evolve into more. He inwardly frowned, knowing full well Spot would only scoff at the supposed love letter.
"Thank you, and please don't tell him who it's from."
He arched an eyebrow at this. "Okay…" Maybe she thought he would be able to guess for himself, but Cody knew Spot never remembered the name of a girl…even if he'd slept with her just the night before! "Well, I'll see ya around then, huh?"
"I suppose so. Thanks again, Cody." She bid him farewell and continued back to her apartment, her heart racing at palpitating speeds.
~*~*~*~*~*~
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