Disclaimer: Disney owns Newsies and the characters in it.

Chapter 3:

An abandoned factory building lay in the Bronx, decaying. Years ago, workers had populated it, when it was a textile factory. However, when the top two floors collapsed, officials deemed it unsuitable. No one cared enough to repair it.

The remaining floors were bare of machinery. Some left with the owners. Some left with thieves, people willing to sell anything for money. Anything of value was gone. The bones of men, women, and children that had been working on the two collapsed floors, as well as the third that they crushed underneath them, remain.

However, it is not certain that all of the remains are from that accident. Vacant buildings are tempting homes for the homeless. They are the ideal location for a murder. Death can occur, but no one will be around to witness it. At least they have some use.

It is a brick building. The bricks are faded and covered in a black substance that would be impossible to identify. Streaks of it run up and down the outer walls. Planks of dirty wood cover the windows. Some are hanging off at strange angles, the nails fallen or torn out. The plank that covered the doorway is missing entirely. Any passerby could see straight inside the ground room, or would have been able to, were there enough light to discern more than shadowing shapes.

This building, unable to support its own weight, not capable of providing a decent home for rats, unsuitable for the daily occupation of factory workers, was the home of the Bronx newsies.

A fire had left them homeless. This fire had burned down the lodging house where many of the boys had spent their entire lives. This building had seemed ideal. It was deserted, therefore could fit them. It was out of public view, therefore safe from the police. They could do as they pleased there.

The Bronx newsies created the center of their group from the basement of this building, a crude, dark, cement room. All discussions took place there. Traitors feared it, for their punishments would occur there. Some newsies never saw it, for those residing there did not need them. If one was not a leader or advisor, one was thankful not to see it.

Down in the basement, the thick cement walls smothered the screams. It was a feature that they never took the time to appreciate, but would have sorely missed.

Javier sat in a chair in the basement. It was a simple, old, wooden chair, but he made it seem like a throne. In a way, it was. He leaned back, leisurely, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He took notice of neither the torn condition of his pants, nor the inch or so of brown ankle they exposed. On the street, it was all too common.

He rested his thin arms on either side of the chair, squeezing lightly in anticipation. His mouth was curved into a cruel smirk, exposing only a small portion of his teeth. Javier's eyes glittered maliciously. The brown depths, far darker than the brows above them, appeared endless. The bottomless eyes were filled with anger and expectation.

In front of him, three newsies stood, a fourth on his knees between them. The standing three were large, muscular, and angry. There were clenched fists as well as stretching muscles. They appeared prepared to attack at a moment's notice. Their eyes were glued upon Javier.

The boy, for he was not nearly old enough to be a man, remained upon his knees. His head was bowed down, his stare fixed upon the cold, hard floor. He clasped two filthy hands behind his back. He could barely breathe, for he focused nearly all of his energy upon resisting the urge to shake violently with fear.

Javier did not glance at the three standing newsies once. His eyes were fixed upon the lowered, brown head in front of them. He toyed with the idea of letting the boy make the first move, forcing him to begin that which he dreaded. As pleasant was that would be, patience was not among Javier's virtues.

"Thomas, what do you have to say for yourself?" Javier questioned, his voice hard and deep, his eyes burning into the brown head of the newsie before him.

Thomas lifted his head, his eyes full of confusion. He looked helplessly up at his leader. There was no change in his expression, but his mind was racing. The unfortunate boy had no idea what he had done. He had committed crimes before, but none that should arouse displeasure among other newsies. Thomas searched through his memories. What had he done?

"I… I don't know-… What've I done?" he stuttered and stumbled upon the words. He winced inwardly. Javier would not like that. Nervous and frightened newsies were weak. Weakness was intolerable.

"What have you done?" Javier repeated, narrowing his eyes. The frown was so deep that his eyebrows nearly touched. "What have you done? Can you not remember? Well, I will help you. What you have done," he sneered, leaning forward in his seat, "is weak, dishonorable, and against my wishes."

Javier paused there. He watched as Thomas frantically attempted to make sense of the situation. Sweat appeared on his forehead and his eyes dropped to the floor once more. They both knew that Javier would not wait much longer.

Thomas wanted to find the answer. His stupidity would only increase his punishment. His eyes seemed to be searching as he pawed through his memories for the answer. Petty thefts, fights, deaths, and lies swirled as he dismissed each one. Thomas knew that these were acceptable. He had learned them among these newsies, after all.

Suddenly, one night forced itself to the surface. The streets were slick from the rain that day, the air cool. Thomas had been out with a few fellow newsies at a bar. They stumbled down the street, singing jumbled lyrics to different songs, but it did not matter. The alcohol brought happiness. They took no notice of the late time, having no care for those trying to sleep. The singing only paused when a girl, prostitute or not, walked by. Whistling and mumbled, rude comments took its place. This was dangerous enough. However, it was only in a drunken state that any newsie from the Bronx would do what Thomas had proceeded to do.

Thomas, caught up in song, tripped over his own legs, hitting the street with his face. He grinned and broke out into laughter as he sat up, wiping mud from his cheek. Before he could call out for the group to wait, he caught sight of a girl. She was scurrying home with a loaf of bread clutched to her chest. Her dark hair was pulled back, though sweaty wisps had escaped, identifying her as a factory girl. Her worn dress and shoes supported the assumption. Thomas, through his hazy vision, saw the most beautiful creature that could walk the planet.

In a flash, Thomas was on his feet and heading towards the girl. She saw him coming, but could not escape before his hand closed around her arm. She found herself with her back against the wall and Thomas' horrible breath being blown into her face. She winced, closing her eyes. The loaf of bread lay in a puddle at her feet, a causality of the struggle. Thomas kicked it aside and pressed his lips to hers. She screamed helplessly as he continued.

Thomas' own eyes were squeezed shut as he recalled that night. How had he forgotten that night? More importantly, how had he forgotten Javier's rules? He should have known better. He did know better. Unfortunately, what he had done was done. Javier would accept no excuses. However, he could try to explain and repair the situation.

"I'm sorry... I was drunk-"

"You were drunk?" Javier repeated, his eyes flashing dangerously. Thomas shrunk away, his eyes wide. Javier barely restrained himself. Why did this boy think it his place to insult his leader that way? His audacity was amazing. What was this boy, ruder and weaker than a child, doing among his newsies? How had he missed such faults? There was the lack of backbone, the fear, the stupidity, and the impudence. At least he had one comfort. He would not be around much longer.

Thomas, despite his best effort, could not hold back a tremor. It was slight, but did not escape Javier's notice. Thomas was terrified. Were Javier not so furious, this fact would have pleased him. As it was, it only served to increase the hate he felt for his newsie.

"You were drunk," Javier stated, leaving Thomas to wonder for a moment where this would lead. Maintaining a calm tone, Javier continued. "Let me ask you a question. How does that excuse you?" He straightened in his seat. "She was raped. This does not change because you were drunk. Though it may appear as a dream to you, your actions when drunk are just as real as when you are not. If you had murdered someone, would your having been drunk bring them back to life?"

"No," Thomas whispered, his head bowed again. Guilt took a firm hold upon his heart, gripping it tightly. He could scarcely breathe as he realized what he had done. Javier was right. No excuses would be accepted because nothing could excuse him.

"That's right. And I assume you know my views on rape. So, we have agreed that you have committed a crime against my wishes, which were known by you, and are fully responsible for. Now," he addressed the three standing newsies for the first time. They had not missed a moment of the scene and were fully prepared to follow Javier's orders. Slight smiles formed on their faces as their fists clenched and muscles flexed.

Javier viewed their actions with pleasure. These were good newsies. They did not disobey him; in fact, they obeyed his slightest wish. With a cruel smirk, Javier decided the fate of Thomas.

"Kill him."

Thomas' eyes flew up to Javier's face, staring with horror into the eyes of the boy with so much power over him. His disbelief and fright met with coldness and hate. All hope of being saved was frozen in those eyes.

He was about to die. A pang in his heart accompanied this realization. He had suspected this end since he recalled his crime, but the fact had hit him as hard as though it had been a surprise. There is no way to prepare for being sentenced to death.

How would it end? He had lived this life for so long, but had never considered how it would end. It had been something he always expected to have. Life was not something one lost like a watch or was stolen like money. It was attached to him, as closely as his hand. It was integral to every aspect of his actions, but he had never considered what would happen without it. Thomas was not one to ponder the mysteries of the world as some did. He did not read poetry and had no interest in paintings. He was more practical than that. However much he had loved the way he had lived, he suddenly wished he had read something. He did not have to agree with it or even think about it much. It would be nice, he decided, to have some idea of what was to come.

There was not much time to think, however. The three newsies whom Javier trusted for this task lost no time in beginning. Evidently, this was not their first time.

The death for this type of traitor was not quick and simple. They had been a friend who had betrayed Javier and all of the newsies, not merely an enemy. He was not being killed for a victory; he was being punished.

Javier watched as his loyal newsies began to beat the offender. They would go slowly, causing as much pain as he saw fit. When he believed that the offender had been punished enough or he grew bored, he would signal for them to kill.

He would often let them go on for a long time, reveling in the antics of the offender. In this case, Javier was already sick of the boy. He was weak and had given in to the pain long ago. It was disgusting. He waved his hand, frowning in displeasure.

One newsie took hold of the traitor with one hand on his head and the other around his chest. Another stood back, clearing the way for the third, who had just flipped out a knife. The shining blade approached the already bloodied neck slowly, or so it seemed to Javier. No matter how cowardly the offender was, bloodshed could always interest him. He noted that his eyes were closed, squeezed tightly as sweat made paths in the blood on his face. Time continued to move slowly as the newsie dragged the knife along the neck, opening it as he went. The newsie holding him let go in disgust as blood poured onto his arm. The body fell to the floor and lay in a bloody heap.

Javier nodded to them. "You may go. Take that with you," he waved a hand at the body. Two grabbed it, one at the head and the other at the foot, and carried it away, the third following closely. The only evidence of Thomas left was a puddle of blood on the floor, which ran into a small stream that ran to the door. Javier was on the verge of calling for someone to clean it up when his messenger entered.

"I got the news from Manhattan. Do you wanna hear it now?" Harold questioned, remaining near the doorway, should Javier send him away. His thin limbs shook slightly, but not with fear, Javier noted. The basement was rather cold.

"Yes, what did Jack say?" a shade of mockery entered his tone upon pronouncing 'Jack'. He was no real threat. Javier leaned forward in this seat slightly in order to hear the news.

Harold swiftly made his way to Javier's side, sidestepping the blood without a second look. He cleared his throat before beginning.

"Well, Jack was scared. I heard he barely sold the whole day. Anyway, he ran over to Brooklyn soon as Spot would let him. I don't know exactly what happened in there; I couldn't get in. You know how tight Spot's security is. Anyway, I heard the results. Spot's helping him."

Javier leaned backwards, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. This could be good news. Manhattan alone had been no challenge, but a necessary acquisition to make. He needed more territory, after all. His newsies were expanding in number and becoming more aggressive daily. There were also a fair number of good sellers among them. They could not continue to sell in their limited area. However, it would have been boring to fight only Jack's boys. As much as they needed the land, a good war would not hurt. That is exactly what Javier would get with Brooklyn involved. They were far more worthy to fight the Bronx than Manhattan.

Harold looked on nervously. He was not frightened for himself, but Javier always made him nervous when he was thinking. It was impossible to tell what was happening within his mind, causing the outcomes of his thinking to be quite surprising. Remaining silent, he shifted his weight to his left leg.

"Good," Javier stated, startling Harold so much so that he nearly lost his balance. His mouth curved into a smile, "Thank you, Harold."

"Of course. I'll keep you updated," he bowed slightly and slipped out of the room. After a few moments, his head popped back in. "You want someone to clean that up?" He gestured towards the blood.

Javier nodded, already lost in thought about the upcoming war. Another positive aspect of Brooklyn's participation had occurred to him. He stood up, strolling over to the dirty window. Javier looked up towards the passing boots, though he was seeing something else.

"So, I will finally meet the illustrious Spot Conlon."