As Spot watched the crowd of Manhattan newsies charging down the street, he wasn't sure how to react. They were led by Dutchy, who was swinging chains around his head and screaming, "Get them!" Spot had an absurd urge to laugh at the sheer incongruousness of the whole thing. Instead, though, he scowled. I told them to stay away. I told him to stay away. How can I do what I have to do if I have to worry about whether they're getting hurt?
There was no choice, though, and he knew it. The Manhattan boys had clearly made their own choice, and Spot wasn't about to let down his guard in front of Blue. Despite his misgivings about letting them get involved in this, deep down he was slightly appreciative that for once, someone was defending him without being asked. He'd long ago learned that no one was going to stand up for him, so he'd begun standing up for himself. And now the Manhattan newsies were putting themselves in danger for him, despite his direct orders. He couldn't help but feel grateful.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Blue's mouth fall open as the Manhattan mob slammed into the wall of Brooklyn newsies without ever slowing down. Within seconds, the Brooklyn boys were surging forward to meet this new threat, and the sounds of fighting filled the air. Knowing that he had a few seconds before Blue regained his composure, Spot craned his neck, searching for Racetrack in the crowd. He knew as surely as he knew the color of his eyes that not only was Race somewhere in there, but that this charge had probably been Race's idea. No one else could be that stupidly generous. Just before he wheeled back around to face Blue, he caught a glimpse of Race's snarling face as his fist plowed into another boy's gut. It was enough.
"So, Blue," Spot said flatly, looking straight at the taller boy, "why don't we get this over with? None of your goons, just you and me." Despite the yelling all around and Spot's quiet tone of voice, his words carried clearly to Blue, who was glaring.
"So you did get those Manhattan wimps involved." Blue snorted. "I shoulda known that you wouldn't have the nerve to face me alone."
"I didn't get them involved. They got themselves involved."
"Why? That boyfriend of yours scared for your pretty little skin?" There was a sneer on Blue's face.
Spot stiffened, ice shooting up and down his spine. "What did you say?"
"Ya heard me. You ain't the only one with spies, Spotty-boy."
A growl started low in Spot's throat as his fists clenched.
"I wonder," Blue said conversationally, "how all of his friends would take it if they found out he was queer." He made a show of looking around in the crowd. "I could tell 'em all right now. 'Course, it wouldn't go over so good for him, would it?" He smirked. "He'd have to leave, prob'ly... after he gets outta the hospital, that is."
The growl in Spot's throat swelled to a roar. He'd heard of the phrase "seeing red," before, but now, as he rushed at Blue, he finally understood exactly what it meant. He couldn't remember ever feeling this enraged before, but the second that his fist connected with Blue's face, the last vestiges of rational thought disappeared. Now there was only Blue, and he had become only so much meat to be ground down and bones to be broken.
Spot fought as he had never fought before, his fists whirling, his only joy when his fists punched into skin, cartilage, and bone, his only satisfaction when he saw blood dripping from Blue's crooked nose and twisted mouth.
He barely felt it when Blue's heavy punches landed. Though he knew that he was bleeding too, he wasn't sure from where and didn't care to find out. It hurt, more and more each time, but he just let the pain course through him until it became his world and didn't slow him down.
The bloodlust only intensified when Spot bounded to his feet after a particularly savage blow had knocked him to the ground to find that Blue had taken the cane from his belt and was swinging it towards Spot's face.
As the gold tip hurtled towards his eyes, something even deeper than instinct took hold. Time seemed to slow down and the sounds of the sudden war around him receded. He looked up at Blue's face, nearly frozen in a grimace. Spot reached up with a hand that felt like it was pushing through molasses, and neatly caught the cane. Ignoring the pain that shot through his hand at the impact, he fought for control of the cane in a dreamlike haze. As Blue began to pull it away, Spot brought up his other hand and pulled harder.
Time still moving at a crawl, Spot grunted as with a sudden surge of strength, he wrenched the cane from Blue's hands. Blue lost his grip, and Spot went stumbling backwards, landing hard on the ground. That pain didn't matter either. After all, the cane was back where it belonged, clutched in his bloody hands.
He pushed himself back to his feet, the cane sliding in his hands until he held it ready to swing at Blue. "That's one thing that's mine," he snarled. "I'll take the rest back one-by-one if I have to, but you won't win."
Blue crouched, also ready to lunge. "I'se not so sure about that," he replied, breathing as harshly as Spot. "Tell me, Spot, did your boys fight for ya? Did they rise up an' throw me outta Brooklyn?"
"Enough fought for me!" Spot yelled, swinging the cane with all of his strength. Blue dove out of the way.
As he rolled back to his feet, he called back, "Enough? I don' think so! If they really wanted to get rid of me, they woulda! But either they was all too scared, or they jus' didn't care enough!"
The red haze around Spot was starting to recede. Against his will, Blue's words were penetrating his head. "You're wrong!" was all he could think to yell as he took another swing and missed.
Blue spat bloody spittle onto the sidewalk and smirked. "Face it, Spot! No one really cares about ya! If you got family, they didn't care enough to try to take you back! The Brooklyn boys don't care enough to fight for you. The Manhattan boys is only here 'cause they cared 'nough about the queer to not let him fight alone. He's the only one who cares 'bout ya, Spot. The only one. An' he only cares in a perverted, sick way!"
Spot swung again, wildly, missing Blue by a wide margin. "He's my friend," he growled. "And if he cares, that's enough for me, you goddamn bastard!" He ducked as Blue threw a punch that whistled right over his head. "Because that's more than you have!"
"How much longer could you have fooled the Brooklyn boys?" Blue asked, moving around Spot in a circle, stalking, waiting for the moment to strike. He spoke with such force that little drops of blood flew at Spot. "You convinced 'em that you was tough an' that you deserved to be their leader, but it ain't so! You'se just a little boy, ain't you?" He laughed mockingly. "Look at you! Skinny an' weak! You'se practically shakin' in your shoes." He paused long enough for Spot to swing and miss again. "I know what you is," Blue continued, sounding as though he'd just made a great discovery. "You'se nothing, Spot. Nothing."
Letting out a wild yell of rage, Spot flew at Blue, but his sureness and quickness seemed to have deserted him. Blue sidestepped easily and flung Spot to the ground.
Spot's head banged against the hard ground with enough force that colors danced in front of his eyes and pain coursed through his head, worse than any that had come before. The cane flew from nerveless fingers and landed in a nearby gutter. He let out a broken groan, trying dizzily to stand back up, and failing. The best he could manage was pulling himself onto hands and knees.
When the whirling colors finally subsided enough for him to see again, he looked up at Blue and froze. During Spot's desperate struggle to regain his feet, Blue had calmly pulled out his gun from wherever he'd been keeping it and was pointing it directly at Spot's face.
"I'se done playin' around," Blue said coldly. "You wanted to end this, so let's end it, Spot. You lose."
As Spot stared up at the barrel of the gun, all emotion drained from him. He felt strangely calm. Walking up to the warehouse, he'd known full well that he might die. He hadn't really expected it, but he'd accepted it.
And now he accepted it as a certainty.
Slowly standing on rubbery legs that threatened to collapse from under him, he glanced around. The Manhattan boys were still fighting hard, and he wasn't sure, but it looked like some of the Brooklyn newsies had joined them. He wished that he could tell them that they were fighting for a lost cause, but his voice wouldn't work. He wished that he could make a final speech and tell them all that he regretted nothing. He wished that he could thank Racetrack for everything. He even wished that he had felt for Race what Race had felt for him, so that he would have at least known those feelings for himself. In the space of a second, he wished for so many things, and knew that he would get none of it.
Looking back at Blue, he could see that Blue was surprised by the utter calm and even peace on Spot's face. "You think I ain't gonna kill ya, Spot?" he asked, his aim centered in the middle of Spot's head.
"I know you are," Spot answered, keenly aware that some of the closest fighters had noticed what was happening and had stopped fighting in favor of standing and gaping. Slowly, he raised his gaze from Blue and looked up at the sky. He didn't want his last vision to be Blue's ugly face. Why hadn't he ever noticed before how beautiful the sky was?
A small smile touched his face as he closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to shatter his thoughts and end his existence. He heard a panicked yell nearby that sounded like his name, but paid it no mind.
When the sound of the shot rose above even the din of warring boys, Spot knew it was over. But though he hadn't flinched away, he felt no new pain. He could still hear the noise around him, could still feel the sweat dripping down his face, could still think. What had happened? How could Blue have missed?
He cracked his eyes open. At the sight that met his eyes, a strangled gasp rose from his lungs.
Racetrack was standing between Spot and Blue, his arms outstretched wide as though to block Spot entirely from Blue. There was an eerie stillness to Race's body, and though he was still standing, Spot realized what had happened and started to tremble. Dimly, Spot realized that the shout he had heard must have been Race.
The world taking on a surreal cast, Spot stumbled forward, trying to grab Race before he crumpled to the ground. Though he stretched his arms as far as they could go, he couldn't move fast enough, and Race fell, his body seeming to fold in on itself.
Spot fell to his knees besides Race, desperately turning him over, hoping against hope that Race would grin and laugh at Spot for falling for his trick. But the instant that he saw Racetrack's face, he knew that his hope was all in vain.
Though Race's merry brown eyes were open, they stared vacantly at the sky, the spark that had made Race who he was gone. His face held an expression of shock and panic. And most damning of all, blood was beginning to pool on the ground below them, flowing from the bullet hole above Race's left eye.
"Oh, god," Spot whispered numbly. "Oh, god. Oh, god, no..." He could barely tear his eyes away from Race, lying so still, but he managed. Casting his eyes around frantically, as though he would see the cure for death if only he could find it fast enough, he dazedly noted that the sound of the bullet firing seemed to have stopped the fighting altogether. All around him, bloody and bruised boys stood still, staring at him, at Racetrack. Spot's heart was pounding so hard that he thought it was about to burst of its own accord. He vaguely wondered whether any of the Manhattan boys had seen yet.
And then he saw Jack, somewhere to his right. Jack's face had gone as white as a sheet as he gazed down at his friend's body, and he looked as though a simple breeze might knock him over.
Glancing to the other side, Spot recognized Dutchy and Boots, standing side by side. Boots was clutching Dutchy's arm, and Dutchy was staring at the ground, but Spot could see the tears running down his bruised face.
Several boys back from Dutchy, Kid Blink was hysterically fighting his way forward, but Mush grabbed him and held him still before he could reach Spot and Racetrack.
Spot couldn't see any more of the Manhattan boys at a glance, but he knew they were there somewhere, standing shocked and betrayed, and he knew that any of them would trade his life for Racetrack's in a second.
And so would I.
His hand trembling, he reached out for Race's face, but his fingers curled into a fist before they reached their goal.
And now, he looked at the one person he hadn't looked at yet. He looked at Blue, who was standing still, the gun still smoking in his hand.
Spot stood up, not sure whether the pounding in his head was pain or rage. "You should have shot me just then," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. He took a step forward. Blue took a step back. "You should have shot me before I stood up." Another step forward. "You should have shot me before I saw Racetrack." Blue was backing up even more. "You should have shot me before Racetrack tried to save me." Emotion was beginning to return. Grief and rage tried to throttle Spot. "You should have shot me before we started fighting," he continued, his voice starting to rise. "Because even if you shoot me right now, right this second," he said, every word louder than the one before, "you can't stop me. Even if you blow my head off, I will still kill you for what you did to my friend!" he screamed and dove at Blue.
After that, there wasn't another word spoken. Spot and Blue grappled frenziedly with only the occasional grunt. They rolled around on the dusty ground, fighting for control of the gun. Around them, boys crowded, some looking at Racetrack, some looking anywhere but at Racetrack, but no one made a sound or moved to help either Spot or Blue. Even the youngest among them knew that this was a fight to the death, and that it was no longer their fight if, indeed, it ever had been.
Suddenly, Spot bit down on Blue's wrist as hard as he could. As Blue yelled in pain, his fingers loosened on the gun, and Spot pulled it away. Blue clutched his torn arms to his chest for an instant, gazing up at Spot with a face that, for the first time, showed horror.
Spot gazed down at him, his eyes black with rage, Blue's blood on his lips and chin, his face broken and dusty. Before Blue could think to move, Spot leveled the gun on Blue's face, and the bigger boy froze with Spot sitting on his chest.
He didn't protest, even when Spot jammed the barrel of the gun into his mouth.
"I warned you," Spot hissed, "that I was going to kill you." His eyes bore into Blue's. "Do you regret it?"
Blue's words were somewhat garbled because of the gun in his mouth, but he spoke anyway. "No. He was just a queer."
Spot pulled the trigger.
It felt infinitely more satisfying than he could have imagined to feel the jerk of the gun, to hear the muffled shot, to see the malicious light in Blue's eyes silenced forever. His finger still holding the trigger tightly, Spot watched the puddle of red slowly grow beneath them, soaking Blue's hair.
Spot's strength left him then, and he rolled away, stumbling to his feet, wondering how much of the blood that covered him was his. He looked around again, dropping the gun to the ground as though it were the most disgusting thing he'd ever touched.
He was too tired to read the emotions on anyone's face. And for the first time, he didn't want to. He didn't want to know what they were thinking. He didn't want to see grief and pain that echoed his own. He didn't want to see disgust at what he'd done.
And he didn't want to be here anymore.
The thought coalesced in his mind with a clarity that stunned him. I want to leave. He had spent the last five years fighting for Brooklyn with his whole heart, and now Brooklyn had taken from him the only person who had meant anything to him. Blue had been right about one thing: the boys of Brooklyn hadn't fought for him. Some of them may have wished for him to come back, but they hadn't banded together and tossed out Blue, who had been, after all, only one person. Some of them had even fought for Blue. Brooklyn didn't need Spot and Spot suddenly realized that he didn't need Brooklyn, not really.
Slowly, he turned and crouched down beside Racetrack's still form. "I...I think I understand what you were trying to tell me all this time," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "Thank you, Race... Thank you, but I wasn't worth it. I wasn't worth—" He broke off, his shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry," he resumed raggedly after a moment. "I'm so—" Savagely punching the ground, Spot had to look away. There was only one thing left to say. "I'll make you proud somehow, Race. You have the word of a Conlon and of an O'Connell." He reached out and slowly closed Race's eyes, sliding the lids down over the glassy surfaces that no longer reflected anything except Spot.
Despite his best efforts, a single tear escaped from Spot's eye and blurred his vision for a moment before falling to land next to Racetrack's head. He looked one last time at his friend and brother before standing up and gazing out over the crowd.
Spot's voice was quiet, but carried to the furthest reaches of the street. "Where is Crumbs?" The boys around him shifted away from his gaze, but didn't answer. "Where is Crumbs?" Spot asked again, his voice whip-like.
It took a moment, but the tall blond newsie shouldered his way out of the crowd to face Spot. His eyes darted briefly to the two dead boys lying on the ground.
"Crumbs," Spot said, "Brooklyn is yours. Take good care of her."
That was all he had for 'his' boys. No effusive words, no flowery farewells. Spot lingered only long enough to see the growing shock on Crumbs' face. Once he was sure that Crumbs knew what Spot was doing, he nodded briefly.
Spot bent down to pick up the cane and tucked it into his belt before striding away. As he walked through the silent crowd of boys, it parted for him into a wide path. His eyes met Jack's briefly. David had found Jack, and had a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jack still looked vaguely as though he might faint. Spot paused and stuck out his hand. Jack clasped it, and still in silence, the two shook hands.
There were many things that Spot wanted to say. He wanted to apologize, most of all, but in the end, all he said was, "Take good care of him." Jack nodded slowly, and that was all Spot needed. He walked away with his head held high.
There were thousands of Newsies in New York City. In years to come, many of them claimed to have been there on the day that Spot Conlon left Brooklyn forever. However, those who were actually there, who actually saw what happened... They never spoke of it to outsiders, and only rarely to each other.
But they never forgot.
Author's Note: Only one more chapter to go, and thank you all so much for reading and sticking with me, despite my inconstant updates. And before anyone yells at me, the idea to kill poor Racetrack came from The Second Batgirl, so please direct all complaints and death threats in her general direction (except not really, because she is awesome). And this chapter was pretty difficult to write (and this is coming from someone who enjoys torturing her characters), so I'd imagine it might be at least a little tough to read, but please stick around for the epilogue! Hopefully it'll make some, if not all of the sadness worth it...