SparksYes, we have to inject him with tons and tons of Spottyness!! Keep reviewing!! Your comments put me in the best mood!! Look!! I GOT ANOTHER ONE! Now there are TWO of you!!

AngelfishThanks a bunch for giving the story a shot!! How lucky you are to have stumbled upon it, right?! I will try my best not to let you down. Hehe! Keep reading and reviewing!!

Anyone else reading...send a review! You know you want to.

Spot roamed the streets of Brooklyn, miserable and ashamed. Thick, gray sheets of rain pounded the avenues and devoured any body heat left in Spot's frail body. How many hours had passed since they were at the bridge? Two? Four? He had no clue. All he knew was that he was a useless, pitiful excuse for the ruler of Brooklyn. Bolt was right; he didn't deserve it.

Hunger rolled about his stomach as it rumbled and ached. The temperature continued to drop as night settled over the city. Spot's shirt was drenched with rain and it stuck to his body like a suction cup. His wool pants were sodden and gradually became heavier. With every step he took, a squishing noise sounded from his shoes. Futile was his newsboy cap as it lay soaking atop his dripping hair. Frequent shivers shot up and down his body and he was chilled to the bone. He wandered around the sidewalks aimlessly in search of nothing. It was as if he were in a state of shock. He had had a minor breakdown at the Brooklyn Bridge.

Spot's identifiable gold-tipped cane slapped at his leg as he walked, placed through his suspenders. Smack. Smack. The noise was irritating and infuriating. It had lasted all night and it was becoming more obvious. Smack. Smack. Like the sound of a fist coming in contact with someone's face. It was getting louder. Smack. Smack. Fury ran through his veins, heating them up and consuming the cold. Smack. Step. Shudder.

Shivers raced up and down faster. Smack. Leader of Brooklyn. Step. Useless and pitiful. Shudder. Out to kill him.

Releasing an angry shout, Spot seized the cane with a strong hold and chucked it into the vacant street, causing it to land in a puddle with a loud splash. Passersby paused for a brief moment and looked at the seventeen-year old boy with curiosity but soon went about their own ways. Spot stood at the edge of the sidewalk unblinkingly, breathing heavily and staring at the fallen object in the road. Is this what it had come to? Spot losing his touch like this and going out of his mind over a threat? He was the king of Brooklyn, feared and hated; he received threats on a regular basis.

But no threats carried the guilt as this one had.

Spot retrieved his cane from the puddle and replaced it in its rightful set. Still a little dazed and confused, he continued to wander until he came to Autumn's apartment complex. He stood in front of the brown-brick building, just staring up at the many floors. A few lights were on the in the windows as he stared upward and the raindrops splashed his cheeks. Autumn came in to his peripheral vision on his right, hurrying with an umbrella over her head.

"Spot?" she asked, befuddled.

He continued to look up and didn't say anything.

"Spot," she repeated. "What are you doing?"

She's lucky she doesn't have to deal with newsie shit like this day in and day out, he thought.

"All right, you don't have to answer." Autumn stepped toward him. "Let's get inside at least."

"He came back, Autumn," he finally answered and looked at her.

Autumn stood in front of him, still confused.

"He came back because I should have gone down with him that night."

She looked at his torn shirt and at the rigid scar on his skin. The thought of how he must have obtained that made her wince. She gently took hold of his hand lovingly. Without word exchange, she led him inside and they slowly made their way upstairs.

The apartment was unoccupied, as usual, with a few dim lights. Autumn walked Spot into their kitchen and set him down at the table. He rested in a hunched position on the chair and stared at the ground. Autumn took a blanket from the living room and thoughtfully wrapped it around his shoulders. She hustled around the kitchen, placing tea on the stove to be heated. After a few minutes of playing hospitable, she sat down close to him at the table.

"Thank you," he said appreciatively, and tenderly held her smooth fingers in his.

Autumn smiled warmly and looked into his eyes sympathetically. "You wanna tell me what happened?" she offered.

Spot breathed in deeply and exhaled quickly. He shook his head.

"Okay. That's okay. Whatever it is, you know I'll help you."

He gazed at her and a thankful smile slowly made its way across his lips. You'll have a scar on your cheek and that bruise on your stomach because of me. Why would you want to help me? He fathomed. He knew she couldn't hear his thoughts but he almost wished that she could. It was so hard to say, though.

The room was hushed as the two could only hear the screaming thoughts chasing about in their own minds. The teapot began to scream and Autumn jumped up to pour two cups. Steam rose up wildly from the drinks as she set them down on the brown wooden table.

"Do you want me to fix that?" she offered about his shirt.

Spot looked down and his shoulders fell. It was amazing how something so insignificant could make you want to scream. "Shit..."

"Don't worry about it! I'll just sew it back up." She stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, as if he couldn't do it himself. Spot stared at the wall without feeling in his face. It ached Autumn's heart to see him so melancholy. He worked his arms out of the sleeves and stooped his back again to a hunched position on the chair. Tiny goose bumps lined themselves on his skin that was sun tanned yet looked so pale. Autumn scurried out of sight into the other room to get the needed supplies.

Spot placed his elbow on the table and his forehead in his hand, something he had grown familiar to in the last few days. His hair was still dripping a little bit, forming miniature puddles on the table. He drummed his fingers against his hairline and took heavy breaths.

A sudden forceful pounding came to the outside of the front door. Spot whipped his head in the direction of the blood-curdling sound as his heart jumped up to his throat. The beating came in rounds, with five thumps each time. Spot bounded to his feet and heaved his chest in and out. Autumn appeared in the room with his shirt in her hand and looking whiter than a ghost. Her eyes were huge and her breathing was short and broken.

"We don't usually get those kinds of knocks!" she whispered in a terrified tone to Spot. "Usually only if we didn't pay rent, but I know he paid the rent!" Her voice was squeaking on the verge of sobs. "And they aren't that mean!" She trembled in her shoes and dropped the shirt to the floor.

Spot rushed over to her and placed his quaking hands on her shoulders. The thrashing intensified. He turned around and turned back to Autumn, tears now streaming down her pale cheeks.

"Go in here!" he directed and pushed her into the nearest room with a door.

"Spot, what's happening?!" she asked, frightened.

Words searched to spring from his mouth. He stood in front of her, looking at the quaking door. They heard a neighbor's voice in the hallway:

"What the hell is-"

The man's voice fell short as the sound of pistol surpassed it. Autumn let out a shriek and Spot took a surprised step backward, something unnatural to someone who grew up on the streets of Brooklyn. The beating stopped and the only sounds being heard were that of the short breaths of Autumn and Spot for several seconds. Then, a quick pointy hum planted itself at the door.

"Spot..."

Knowing he had to protect the woman he loved, he ran swiftly to the door. He pulled it open rapidly, observing the deceased middle-aged man lying in his entrance with a bloody red bullet hole in his stomach across the hall. Spot's eyes were shifted to Autumn's door, though. A long dagger acted as a tack by stabbing a piece of paper to the wood:

Don't send your bitch boys to the Bronx, Conlon.

The chilling, spine-tingling note formed knots in his stomach. Ferocity surged throughout his entire being. He pulled the knife out of the door and darted down the hallway, all the while alarmed tenants poking their heads out of their apartments and seeing the dead man and the speeding boy.

Spot rushed down the stairs, through the doors, and to the wet streets. To his left he found a bulky boy about his age tearing down the sidewalk, splashing up water in his tracks and shoving bystanders out of his way. Instinct got the better of Spot and he took off after him in the same fashion. He gripped the knife at his side, careful not to stab the innocent in the process.

Spot soon caught up with the assaulter and propelled him into a nearby alley, leaving the dagger on the ground. The aggressor stumbled to the ground and soon got back up, but not before Spot had the chance to seize him by the collar and hurl him into the brick wall, throwing painful clouts at him repeatedly. He punched any place he thought he deserved; the cheek, the arms, the stomach. Anywhere. The thug did not put up a fight, since he did not have the chance against the fiery rage of Spot Conlon.

Taking a split-second break from the heavy blows, Spot held him up to find Smash, one of Pierce's minions, under a bloody heap of bruises and cuts from his fist. Smash's eyes were swollen and half-open, his nose gory, his lips blood-spattered. Spot pursed his lips, furrowed his eyebrows, and launched him into the opposite wall. Smash fell to the trash-filled ground and Spot could not decipher if he was unconscious or dead. If Smash was dead, he hoped it wasn't just wishful thinking. He pushed his soaking wet hair out of his face and trudged out of the alley without looking back. He knew Smash would not be troubling him anymore.

Autumn jogged down the sidewalk toward him and Spot staggered against the brick wall, watching her dash to him.

"Spot!" she cried out, running to his side.

He clutched her arms and felt his knees give out from under him. She fell to the ground with him, sobbing. Spot's head hung low and he pinched the bridge of his nose stressfully.

"What happened to my boys?" he inquired in a quiet voice.

The rain did not stop falling that night in Brooklyn.