Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own Newsies… damn.

Chapter 2:

The water was dark. It appeared cold, even lifeless. The surface remained unmoving, even under the breeze. The wind continuously blew, determined to sway the water. It held strong. Finally, when the wind began to fade, the water rolled into a gentle wave. Only the surface moved, however.

Spot stood on the dock watching the battle. He knew there was more to the water than its surface. It was not cold and dark. After going deeper, one would find it warm, alive, and bright. The depth was worth exploring, but the surface discouraged it. Maybe Spot would visit today.

No, Jack was coming. Spot smirked. He was coming to beg for forgiveness. He did not deserve it, though he would receive it. Jack had crossed the line again. Each time, he apologized, but he never learned. Maybe Spot had been too easy on him. That would not happen today.

"Spot," a voice broke the serenity of the scene. The boy did not turn. He knew who it was.

"What is it, Sling?" his back was still facing the approaching newsie. Sling paused momentarily, marveling at the commanding presence. He had known Spot for years, but he never grew less impressive.

"Jack's coming today, ain't he?" Sling stepped forward, stopping directly behind his leader. Spot turned to face him, smirking.

"That he is," Spot responded softly, a smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. He was eagerly anticipating the visit. "That he is."

"Is it about the other night?" Sling questioned, grinning at the obvious excitement of his friend.

"Yeah, you wanna stick around? It should be a good show," the blonde offered, eyes glinting. Sling swiftly nodded in affirmation. Spot slung an arm around the other boy's shoulders. "Good."

"How do you think he'll do it?" Sling wondered, as the pair headed towards a pile of crates. Spot hoisted himself upon one before answering.

"Eh, he'll probably try to avoid it for awhile. I don't mind that. Only makes it better when it finally happens. You know, thrill of the chase, or something like that," he waved his hand in dismissal. Sling laughed, seated upon the neighboring crate. Spot leaned back, awaiting Sling's response.

"Yeah, it'd lose all of its charm if he just spit it out," he agreed. Suddenly, he turned his head to look at Spot. "Why'd he decide to do it now? He usually does it right away or waits 'til it's been a few months."

"He must need something," Spot shrugged. Jack always needed something; it was no surprise to Spot. It was never anything important. Jack would treat the matter as if it were vital, but Spot could always grant the request with no trouble. However, the fact that he could easily help did not mean that he would. "You know, one of these days, I shouldn't help him. What'd you think he'd do?"

"Same thing he does when you tell him you ain't gonna help and then do," Sling answered. "He won't know the difference."

"No; he's too damn confident. Jack always thinks I'm gonna help. I don't like it," Spot narrowed his eyes in contemplation as he voiced his thoughts. If Jack doubted Spot's ability to refuse aid, the control switched hands. It was no longer in Spot's hands. Being out of control was not something Spot enjoyed. No, Jack had to be taught a lesson.

Sling remained silent. As he watched his leader puzzle over the difficulty, the wind blew, ruffling his hair. He absently brushed away the brown strands, keeping them out of his eyes. Spot also swept his hair away, though it may have been in thought rather than annoyance.

Spot would regain control over Jack Kelly. The question was: how? The most practical plan was to refuse him. However, that lacked skill and planning. It was not elaborate or sly. It was boring. He had to play on Jack's confidence. After all, that was the most bothersome characteristic of the Manhattan newsie.

He would pretend to be wary about his decision. Spot would push Jack the point at which his confidence faltered. At that point, when Jack began to sweat, he would refuse. Spot smirked in delight at the metal picture of Jack's expression. There was nothing rarer than a humble Jack.

The frantic pleadings, though Jack would try to take as much fun out of them as possible, may be even more rewarding than his expression. Spot would listen to these arguments with an air of disdain. Finally, when Jack was on the verge of leaving, he would agree.

The lesson in this would be unmistakable. Jack would never gain have premature confidence in his approval. No, Spot had the power; Jack had nothing. That was as it should be. Spot smirked and leaned back against the crate behind him, satisfied with this.

"Just wait, Jack'll get what's coming to him," Spot remarked, staring out across the water. He then turned his gaze upon Sling. "Just wait. It should be fun."

Sling grinned, though he could not guess what Spot had up his sleeve. There was no cause in asking, either. Spot would tell, but it would be more interesting to watch it unfold. Presentation was important with Spot.

From the end of the dock, nearest to the land, a newsie stood, hesitating. His toes, clad only in dirty, worn shoes, rocked back and forth on the crack before the dock. Forward, backward, forward, backward…

Where was his courage? He had lived through tougher times. The task was simple. Walk up to Spot Conlon and his friend. Wait to be acknowledged. State that Jack Kelly had arrived. Wait to be dismissed. Turn and leave. It was simple, straightforward, and easy. What, then, was the trouble?

The trouble lay in his role. He would be assisting this. It was wrong, and he was helping it develop. Why? He wanted no part in this. The blame that could be laid upon his shoulders was too great. He was not even important. He was a messenger. That was all. This was too serious.

Only the leaders should deal with this matter. The common newsie should have no part in its planning. They were to obey their leader, not assist the transactions between two territories.

With further thought, he realized that he was not even fit for that. He was much too young. The strength that age would bring him was years away from his scrawny limbs. There was no hidden well within him. He would surely die in a fight.

What could he do, then? The only way to prove his loyalty to his leader was to bring the message. It would be easy to have someone else do it; let someone else carry the weight of responsibility upon their soul. However, easy was not right. The hard path was the right path. He must risk something to gain anything.

Backward, forward, backward, forward… He stepped onto the dock. One slow footstep followed another. Where were his feet leading him? No, his feet were leading him nowhere. He was walking. It was his decision. It must be.

Before he knew it, he stood before Spot Conlon. His heart pounded, nearly ramming through his chest. The moisture deserted his mouth. It seemed to have migrated to his forehead, where sweat poured out. He swallowed, his dry throat barely remembering its duty. Had Spot seen him? Should he speak? Why was his chest heaving like that? Should he leave?

The pounding in his chest nearly drown out the next words. "You got something to say?" The blue eyes watched him. The mouth turned upwards at the corners, as though hiding a grin. Spot leaned forward, toward the boy.

He could not speak. His mouth was still dry, though he was uncertain that he could speak even if it were flooded with water. His heart beat faster yet. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he forced words from his parched throat.

"Jack's here," he stated. His leader's face leaned back, an eager glint visible within the blue eyes. Suddenly, the sweat on his forehead felt cold. It was over. His heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat ceased. He sighed in relief as he caught his breath.

"You's a good kid," Spot reached over and ruffled the boy's hair playfully. He barely acknowledged it, though he would ponder of it that night, when the shock was over.

He took this as a dismissal and turned. With one step after another, he walked off the dock. It was over. There was nothing to worry about, for the moment.

"Cute kid, that Mouse. He's got some potential," Spot observed, nodding in approval at the boy's retreating back.

"Yeah," a bittersweet smile passed over Sling's face. His dark, seemingly bottomless, brown eyes looked at Mouse proudly, as well as reminiscently. There was something about the touch of innocence still left in the young newsie that called back the childhood of all who saw it. He was a walking reminder of better times, for now.

Jack passed Mouse on his way onto the dock. He did not look twice at the boy. His eyes were on Spot.

Jack closed his eyes and readjusted his hat in preparation. His argument was planned out to the last word. Spot would have to help. Everything that mattered depended upon it.

"Jackie-boy," Spot nodded, remaining in his seat. The gesture did not sit well with Jack, but he was in no position to anger Spot. Their eyes met. Spot's eyes were calm, with one eyebrow above them cocked. Jack stared back, but was too nervous to keep up the gaze for more than a few moments.

Sling looked on, feeling the tension rise with each moment. The effect Spot had on people was amazing. Jack appeared more nervous than Mouse had been; he was certainly sweating more. He leaned back, ready to watch.

"Hey, Spot, how you been?" Jack asked, grinning easily. However, the easiness did not last long. Even he saw how unsatisfactory his remark had been. Spot crossed his arms and continued to stare. For a moment, he contemplated his next move. Jack already seemed ill at ease. It would not take long to wear him down.

"Aw, Jack, and heah I was thinking you didn't care," Spot smirked, sarcasm dripping off each syllable. Sling closed his eyes briefly as he chuckled derisively. He shook his head and wondered at Spot's daring. However, he reminded himself, Spot could be as daring as he liked; it was the other boy who had to watch himself.

Spot noticed Sling's reaction and elbowed him gently, his smirk growing. His friend just let out another small chuckle. Jack had not acted, so Spot continued.

"Though, what with you ordering me outta Manhattan, I don't see what else I coulda thought," Spot shrugged as he spoke, lifting his eyebrows in feigned innocence. He could nearly feel the heat coming from Jack. His face began to redden; his body radiated the hate and anger he felt. Spot smirked inwardly.

Jack bit his tongue to hold back the sarcastic comment, trying to control his temper simultaneously. He should have guessed that Spot would attempt to provoke him. He had guessed, but he had not seen the level of shrewdness the words would possess. Not only was Spot provoking Jack, he was doing so in such a way that it would seem uncalled-for. An onlooker would not sense the provocation in Spot's words, therefore rendering any reaction of Jack's to seem an attack. Jack glared, his teeth clenched, at the Brooklyn leader. He had outsmarted him.

"I didn't mean that, you know that. Those poker games get way outta hand," Jack used his only excuse. He accompanied it with an uneasy smile, hoping with all of his might that Spot would drop the subject. One look at the boy's face slaughtered that hope, even as it took root in Jack's heart. The young face across from Jack glowered at him.

"I also know that that's bullshit, Jackie-boy. And you know it, too," he tipped his head backwards, watching Jack through narrowed eyes. It was not easy to appease an insulted Spot. He made certain of that.

Jack took a large breath. This would take every ounce of his determination. He let the air out, feeling the slight breeze as his hair stirred on his forehead. He bit his lip, searching for the perfect words. His tongue ran over his front teeth a few times, as he racked his brain.

"I'm sorry. There was no reason to call you names. You didn't cheat, I just kinda wanted to win, you know?" Jack frowned; this was killing him. Sling was surprised at how much Jack was revealing. He had expected a small apology, Spot must have been right. Jack needed something.

Spot had not moved. The picture in front of him was extremely enjoyable. Jack was nearly groveling at his feet, begging for forgiveness. This may be a slight exaggeration, but it was not hard to picture Jack in that position.

"Anyway, there wasn't no reason for me to act like that. I'm real sorry," Jack finished, wincing as the words came out. The humiliation was nearly too much, but it was necessary. Spot had to be in a good mood to hear his proposition.

Jack looked up; Spot had not moved. Should he go on? Spot appeared to be waiting, but for what?

Spot knew that Jack wanted something from him. Had he felt generous, he would have brought up the topic. However, he was trying to make Jack uncomfortable. Watching the sweat drip down Jack's face, the way his feet were shuffling, and his darting eyes, Spot knew he was succeeding. He would not help now.

Jack decided to be bold and bring up the issue with the Bronx. "I got something to ask you."

"Yeah?" Spot cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the request. Jack nervously ran a hand through his hair, pushing the hat off his head. He had forgotten it was there.

"Javier sent this note over to Manhattan, see? We found it on the door of the Lodging House," Jack explained. His desperation and fear of the war caused him to abandon all hope of being collected.

"Yeah?" Spot's tone did not change. He still appeared bored and disinterested in Jack's trouble, but he had leaned forward slightly. Javier? This could prove to be a more complicated and serious matter than he thought.

Sling's eyes had widened at the mention of the Bronx leader. He had heard stories about him. There was not a newsie in New York who had not. The tales of Javier were tales of violence, death, and torture. They were used by the other territories to frighten younger newsies into remaining with them. However, there were plenty of newsies in the Bronx. They were cold-hearted and strong boys, also. The power Javier wielded was amazing.

"He declared war on us, Spot," Jack's voice sounded weak and faint, though there was a note of despair to it. It was the first time he had voiced the news. It scared him to death. Hearing it spoken validated it. The war was real.

Spot, despite his effort to restrain himself, could not stop his eyebrows from flying upwards. He had underestimated the request by miles. All plans of refusing Jack flew out the window. Spot would need to consider the situation seriously and carefully. One could not rush into an issue such as this.

Jack was in trouble. His newsies could not handle this. The Bronx was powerful. Each newsie was trained from childhood to be tough, resilient, strong, and a brilliant fighter. A much stronger territory would have trouble winning this. Manhattan was not one of those territories.

Jack did not have the same control over his newsies as Javier had over his. A Bronx newsie was trained to live by this code: Obey and live, disobey and die. Jack was too kind-hearted for such a rule. The Manhattan newsies were loyal because they were his friends. Friendship was important, but would it hold up?

Looking back at the strike, Spot thought it would. The Manhattan newsies were more like a family than those in any other territory. They were willing to stick together against all odds. He had no reason to doubt their loyalty to Jack and one another. Their strength, however, was doubtful. This very friendship, which bound them together, made them less experienced in violence. In other territories, fighting was a daily occurrence, something than any newsie would have to deal with. There were enemies, such as the Delancey's, but in greater numbers. The Manhattan newsies would need to be trained and taught.

There was no question about Jack's actions. He needed help. Could Spot give it? Would Spot give it? It was not as simple as helping a friend. There were risks that called for attention. He had to consider his newsies' well-being, his territory's safety, and the opinion of the other areas if he were to lose.

His newsies were strong. That was certain. The majority could win any fight they battled. He was not worried for their sakes. It was the other group, the younger newsies, which held his concern. They could not fight well enough. They could survive on the streets, but not against boys twice their size with twice their strength. To involve them was murder.

However, they did not need to fight. Spot could only use a selected group of newsies. He certainly had enough. Still, it was not so simple. The younger newsies would not accept their being excluded from participating. They were young, but they were loyal. Their territory could not go to war without them. It would disappoint them horribly to bar them from going. Also, there was no guarantee that all the fighting would take place away from Brooklyn. The younger boys would be in danger then, also.

Aside from his newsies, there was his territory. What if they lost to Javier? He would lose land as well as newsies. Territory was important. He could not risk it.

His name, the name of Brooklyn, would be on the line. If he lost, his reputation would suffer. Other boroughs would decide he was weak and attack Brooklyn. The fear would be gone. The respect would be gone. His pride would be gone.

Still worse, what if his newsies turned on him? If he lost, both land and lives would have been sacrificed for nothing. His newsies would not stand for that, he was certain of this. It would be beyond painful to have his own newsies turn their backs and choose another leader. It hurt him to imagine it.

However, to focus solely on the negative was not to fairly assess the situation. The direness of the issue required a just evaluation.

He would be helping Jack and the other Manhattan newsies. It was not fair to desert them when they were in need. This, too, would be murder.

The benefits of winning needed consideration, also. Undoubtedly, if he won, there would be territory to gain. Defeating Javier would have other profits. All the other boroughs would fear and respect Brooklyn. The increase in their power would be amazing, unbelievable.

It was a difficult decision. He could help Jack and reap the benefits of a win, or lose everything. He could not help and leave Jack in a lurch, thereby saving his newsies, or lose the opportunity to increase his fame and the friendship of Jack.

He studied Jack, who had not moved or spoken since dropping his news upon Spot. He had recovered himself, using Spot's distraction to his advantage. Now, he appeared composed, though Spot could see the anxiety and desperation in his eyes.

How could he refuse him? It would be cruel. Spot could not turn down the plea for help and retain respect for himself. Leaving Jack to fend for himself against such an opponent was horrible.

He could maneuver around the danger, ensuring the safety of his newsies. Spot would not lose. He would use proper planning and tactics to make certain of that. Losing was out of the question.

Brooklyn would ally with Manhattan. Spot would bring his newsies into this war. He could only hope that they would win.

Spot drew himself out of his thoughts. He focused his eyes, observing the other two. Sling was watching Spot, unmoving. The decision he made would affect him, also. His mind whirled, just trying to decide. He could not handle the responsibility.

Jack was staring at the wooden boards under his feet. His mind was nearly blank, only focusing on Spot. However, watching the leader shed no light on where his thoughts were going. Suddenly, his head stirred. Jack's heart jumped.

He had been waiting for this moment for nearly two days. He was eager to hear the answer. He could hardly wait. Now that it was here, he was not sure that he wanted to know.

"What're you gonna do?" Spot questioned, slowly and carefully. His eyes searched Jack's expression. Though Spot had concluded this decision, Jack had not yet posed the request.

"What can I do? It ain't like he gave me a choice. I-… I can't do it on my own, though," Jack faltered, but finished. He asked. Now he only had to wait for an answer.

Spot smirked. "So, Jack, you just gonna come running to Brooklyn every time you get into trouble? It won't last forever, you know. Sometime, you gotta stand on your own," he crossed his arms and sat back to watch Jack's reaction.

Sling raised his eyebrows in Spot's direction, but his gaze was purely on Jack. In one blow, Spot had managed to hit multiple weak points in Jack's ego. Sling turned his attention onto Jack, for he was just as interested in his reaction as Spot.

"Hey, we don't need Brooklyn. There are other boroughs, you know," Jack retorted.

"Yeah, but who wants to help a borough that can't pull its own weight? Admit it, Brooklyn's all you got," Spot continued, glaring at Jack's daring. Jack needed Brooklyn, and Spot was not going to let him pretend that he did not. If he were to take such a large risk and help in this war, he would be duly appreciated.

"What're you saying? You think Manhattan can't do anything on its own?" Jack questioned, fuming. He knew that Manhattan was not the strongest borough, but Spot had no right to imply that they were too weak to survive alone.

"Sounds that way, don't it?" a smirk accompanied this answer. There was no pressure upon Spot; he knew what the outcome would be. Therefore, he could enjoy the show without worries.

Sling did not have this benefit. He did not know the inner workings of Spot's mind. He would only know what Spot implied through his words. The conclusion Jack and Sling could draw was a negative response. However, Sling knew better than to assume anything about Spot. Jack was certain he would refuse to help.

"You know what, if you ain't gonna help me out, I'll just leave," Jack shook his head, attempting to resist the urge to attack Spot. It would be foolish, even if they were alone. Spot was a better fighter than Jack was. He was better than most people were. In addition, they were in Brooklyn. Sling was sitting directly next to Spot. Jack knew that Sling was not weak. He may not appear strong, but he was. Spot had the same trick. Neither had visible muscles, but they were there.

"Jack, calm down," Spot waved his hand while looking away, disgusted with Jack's rash actions. He took the fun out of everything. "I'll help you out."

Jack stared, in complete shock, as Spot proved him wrong. For a few moments, he could not move. He had been so certain that Spot was refusing that he had begun plans of asking other territories for help. After shattering his hope, Spot turned around and agreed.

Spot laughed easily. "What, Jack? Did you really think I would leave you high an' dry like that? C'mon, I ain't that cruel, am I?"

Jack grinned like a small child. "Nah, but you's a damn bastard for making me think it."

"Now, now, no need for names," Spot joked, shaking his head in amusement.

Sling remained quiet, taking notice of the change of atmosphere. With Spot's alliance, the tension had disappeared. The mood was jovial, happy. The difference was incredible.

The three remained on the dock for a bit longer, but Jack expressed a need to return to Manhattan and inform them of the news. He returned to Manhattan, his mood far better than it had been upon his departure.

Spot and Sling remained on the dock, neither having something else to do. A cool breeze picked up, arriving with the dark.

"So, you're joining a war against the Bronx," Sling stated. He felt the need to discuss this decision. Spot may have been confident in his choice, but Sling wanted reasoning.

"Yeah, I couldn't decently do anything else. It woulda been murder to leave 'em alone," he replied, looking at the dock, but lifting his eyes to meet Sling's at the last sentence. He sat up. "Don't worry about it. I got it under control. We'll be fine."

With these words, Spot stood and walked off the dock. Sling stayed behind, pondering those words. Spot would not have involved them in something Brooklyn could not handle. He seemed confident. Sling should share that. However, one question remained. Would they be fine?

A/N: I'm sorry for the long time between updates. It was awfully long this time. But I did update! Oh, that reminds me. All stories will be finished, though there may be long pauses. I don't see it happening again for a while, but in case it does happen again, I want everyone to know that I will not abandon a story.