The sky was dark with clouds and the rain thunked heavily off of Spot's hat as he casually stepped outside of the warehouse, his icy eyes scanning everything he saw around him.
First and foremost, there was Blue, standing about twenty feet away, staring coldly at him through the pouring rain, completely soaked, but not seeming to care. There was a strange bulge in his shirt, and Spot noted it, his lips thinning.
Behind Blue was a huge crowd of Spot's newsies, pushing each other and whispering indistinctly. More and more were arriving every moment, likely having been alerted that the big showdown was to take place very soon. Spot refused to allow that to rattle him. After all, it only meant that more of his boys would witness Blue's crushing defeat. Nor did he allow the fact that a few of the boys were looking very chummy with Blue to disturb him.
After all, what did any of that matter? He would win, like he always had won, and he would again be undisputed ruler of Brooklyn.
Spot let his eyes look appraisingly over Blue's body, knowing that everyone saw his every move. Blue hadn't changed much. To a ten year old boy, he had appeared huge, but to the fifteen year old, he wasn't so big anymore. He was still taller than Spot was, of course, but that didn't scare him anymore. Blue's muscles were nothing special, either. Oh, he had them, definitely, but they weren't big enough to be a real threat to Spot, and they were just big enough that they might slow him down. Spot prided himself on his speed, and he knew with certainty that he could just dance circles around Blue.
Finally, Spot let his eyes settle on Blue's face and linger insolently on the scar. A deep gouge that had run from his eye all the way to his chin, it stood out crimson in Blue's pale face. His eyes were every bit as icy as Spot's, though a trace of angry color rose up his neck at Spot's gaze.
"So, Blue," Spot drawled, his voice calm, though it carried to every newsie on the street, "That scar turned out real good. Makes you look as though you was really a man. I hope it don't still hurt too much."
Blue's already thin lips pinched together even more, and his fists clenched. He replied, his voice low and gravelly, "How 'bout the scar that I gave you, Spot? It don't scare the girls away too much, I hope."
Spot felt a muscle twitch, despite his considerable self-control. "It don't even show, Blue," he said, his voice deceptively friendly. "I guess you wasn't strong enough to leave a real mark."
Blue chose not to respond to that. "So, little Spotty's gone and gotten tall. Has he also learned how to fight?"
"You ain't heard?" Spot arched an eyebrow. "I'se the best fighter in Manhattan, and more. Where you been? Down in the sewers?" He laughed scornfully. "Anyway, I'se sure willin' to give you another demonstration, if you really want it so much."
"'Another' demonstration? If you was to do the same thing you did last time, I'se gonna be back to controllin' Brooklyn again by the end of the day."
Spot was vaguely aware of Racetrack stepping out of the warehouse behind him and tactfully sliding away to the side somewhere. Somehow, knowing that Race was listening to Blue's crap made him furious. "Ya thought that last time, didn't ya, ya bum?! By the end of the day last time, you couldn't see through the blood," he said, his voice finally beginning to lose its smoothness and calmness.
"You was a weak little shrimp then, like you'se a weak little shrimp now," Blue sneered. "Ya only won 'cause you cheated."
Spot swallowed, taking a deep breath and readying himself. It was time to end this taunting. "If we'se gonna talk about cheatin', Blue, maybe you should take the gun outta your pocket."
Newsies muttered, straining for a look at Blue, edging back slightly as his mouth curved upwards and he took the weapon out of his shirt. Spot was proud of his boys. A gun was an intimidating thing, but all they did was move back a couple of inches, staring daggers at Blue. If Blue felt their chilly glares, he didn't show it.
"Okay, Spotty-boy," Blue said, his voice agreeable. He tossed the gun to the ground a few feet away. Spot nodded and Crumbs, who was standing mere feet from the gun, quickly picked it up and melted back into the crowd. "After all," Blue continued, "I don't need it to beat ya, do I? I only have it in case the bulls come after me. I'se a wanted man, boy."
"Wanted? For what?" a random voice called out from the crowd. Spot's gaze snapped to the area the shout had come from, and he glared at all the boys there. This is between me and Blue, dammit! Don't butt in and don't encourage him.
"Murder, boys!" Blue called back exuberantly. "Some Joe got in my way." Though he shouted to the crowd, his eyes were glued to Spot, to see his reaction. It took an effort, but Spot kept his face blank.
"Enough of this!" Spot yelled before the newsies had time to react. "Blue, ya came here to make fool outta yourself, and I'se tired of waiting."
A grin twisted Blue's lips. "I'se tired of waitin' too, Spot." He shrugged in mock regret. "I coulda been here sooner if you'd not posted boys at every turn."
Spot didn't deign to reply. He merely smiled and pulled his cane out of his belt loop, ready to club Blue, should he rush him. Despite the rain, his grip on the cane was sure and steady. A small flush of excitement hummed through his veins, making every muscle feel alive, and ready.
The same excitement was in Blue's eyes as the two started to circle each other, slowly, watching and waiting for a weakness, the rain pounding down all around them. Around them, the newsies were making noise, lots of noise: cheering Spot on, jeering Blue, and betting each other on the outcome of the fight, though there were very, very few boys willing to bet on Blue. In fact, the only few who did were boys who hadn't been in Brooklyn five years before.
They're my boys, Blue! Mine, you hear that? Listen... It's me they're betting on, cheering for. Not you. They never wanted you, not once they had me. Spot's grin grew into a wide smile, one he knew would make Blue uncomfortable. And who am I to disappoint my newsies?
Against his will, his eyes were drawn to Racetrack, now standing directly opposite him. Race didn't look happy, but that was no surprise. His back was slouched, his hands tightly crammed into his pockets. And his eyes held a clear message: Do you really need to do this, Spot? Is this for your boys or for your pride?
Spot forced his gaze away to focus on Blue again, who luckily hadn't noticed his lapse. Race had used to be his friend, but he couldn't let regret distract him from the task at hand. He just kept circling and circling, around and around.
Finally, he sensed a moment, barely anything, but a moment when Blue's eyes slid elsewhere, and it was enough.
Letting out a bloodthirsty yell, Spot dove at Blue. Caught off-guard, Blue only managed to move just enough to keep the gold end of the cane from crashing into his face. Instead, it merely glanced off of his shoulder, but with such force behind it, Blue still staggered for a moment.
Spot didn't give him time to recover. As Blue wobbled, he followed up his first strike with a blow to the stomach. The older boy grabbed his abdomen and bent over.
A few of the boys started hooting, thinking it was already over, but Spot had no such delusions. As Blue came up from his huddled position with a swing of his fist, Spot easily danced out of the way. Blue's next swing was a bit luckier, knocking Spot's hat off of his head.
Both boys paused momentarily, Spot blinking through the rain that suddenly poured into his eyes. He stared balefully at Blue, who had a malicious smile on his face.
"What say, Spot?" he said, only slightly out of breath. "You wanna pick up your hat?"
For a few seconds, all attention was on the hat lying crumpled in the mud between Spot and Blue. Spot stared down at his hat. Do I want to pick up my hat? Yeah, and let Blue have a clear shot at me while I'm bent over? Spot blinked fiercely, trying to clear his vision.
"Nah," he said casually. Then without giving Blue a moment to respond, Spot rushed at him again, swinging his cane as hard as he could. Blue caught the end of the cane and tried to trip Spot.
The next few minutes were confusing as the two combatants grappled in the mud, swiping at each other, pulling at each other, hitting as best they could. The newsies around them yelled in excitement, the energy in the air growing ever more and more explosive, but Racetrack watched in silence. It was still possible to hear the grunts of pain, even above the cries of the crowd. Race had been in quite a few fights in his time, and he never forgot how much each fist across the face stung. He glanced around. The Brooklyn boys knew what it was to fight too, but this was Spot, their leader, not Patrick, his friend and little brother.
He didn't like being too sentimental, but it was hard to equate this vicious person in front of him with the small boy who needed to cry so badly that the sobs had nearly torn through him.
"This ain't why I gave you that cane," he muttered. Then suddenly furious, Race yelled, "This ain't why I gave you that cane!"
Somehow, his voice cut above all of the other noise and one of the mud-splattered fighters tore himself from the other, clouting him on the head, staggering to his feet. The other figure lay groaning on the ground. Knowing that something had happened, but not being sure what, not sure whether it was over or not, the other newsies slowly quieted in confusion.
Despite the mud caked on his face and the cheek that was already visibly swelling, Spot's blue eyes stared straight at Race, ignoring the rain dripping from his eyelashes and running into his eyes, and the look in them could have frozen flames. "Then why did you give it to me?" he snarled, suddenly beyond caring who heard him, beyond caring who knew anything or everything. "To stay beneath my father's feet, to starve to death on the streets? You gave a cane to a pathetic child, and he turned around and made himself into a king with it!" He punctuated the sentence with a kick to Blue's stomach, who collapsed back into the mud.
"I gave it to you so you could be a man," Race retorted, his voice as angry as Spot had ever heard it.
Beneath them, Blue began to struggle to his feet, as much the worse for the wear as Spot was. Giving Race one final look of contempt, he raised his cane, knowing that the next blow would be the last: Blue would go down for good. Seeing the same, the whispering newsies fell silent, waiting for the end, for Spot to force Blue out of Brooklyn once and for all.
There was a moment where time was almost frozen, where the tableau could have lasted forever and Spot could have remained silently holding his cane above Blue's head like a club.
In the instant before the cane was to bash Blue's skull, an eerie scream ripped across the street. It was like nothing they'd heard before, like a banshee, a high, thin voice screaming in utter agony a single name. "Paaaaaaatrick!"
The response was immediate. His concentration broken, Spot's head snapped around in horror, desperately searching for the search of a voice he had thought – no, had hoped that he would never hear again. Mother...?
The newsies looked around to, all of them finding a single figure: a woman, standing on the street, thin form under a soaked dress and sopping hair, a woman who was staring at Spot as though a ghost and her fondest dream had suddenly come to her.
Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the ghostly wail still echoing through the streets, Blue found a hidden reserve of strength, hauled off, and punched Spot right across the face.
Pain blossomed as Spot's head snapped to the side. He wobbled, but managed to launch a blind fist in Blue's direction. It didn't land, and Spot stumbled forward, thrown off balance, his cane falling from his limp hand.
He felt a fist smack across his face, again and again. Finally, he fell to his knees, lost in a red haze of pain, feeling the rain trickling painfully across his broken skin. Grabbing Spot's collar, Blue threw him hard to the ground, straddling him. Fists pounded across his face, over and over.
He was vaguely aware of his boys yelling in the background, of a woman's scream, but more than anything else, he heard Racetrack shouting his name. The strange thing was that he could no longer tell if it was his real name or his newsie name that was echoing in Race's panicked voice.
Then he saw through blurry eyes the gleaming knife in Blue's hand, and a gunshot echoed in his ears as he fell down into darkness and it enveloped him...