Disclaimer: If I owned Newsies, would this be posted on ? No. Ergo, I do not own Newsies.

A/N: This was previously posted under the name of Forgetfulness and Remembrance, but I hated how it was turning out. So, I rewrote it.It is now much better. Leastways, I think it's better.

Prologue

Hidden by the brick of an alley wall stood a silent figure, cloaked by insubstantial shadows. Every night he had stood in the same place, watching, waiting, planning. Every night he drew closer to his goal. He was a hunter, and he knew his prey.

In only a few minutes, the quarry would come down the street. He would pass the alley in which the hunter lay in wait and continue for a distance of just over ten feet. There, he would be met by the other, the reason this quarry had to be brought down. They would stay there, together, until it was past midnight. Then they would part and the quarry would briefly pause, alone while the other retreated farther into Manhattan. After a few moments, the quarry would leave also, in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. So it happened every night. The hunter knew. He had let the quarry pass by each night so that he could discover every detail of his movements.

But not this night. Tonight, it was time. Tonight, he would strike.

When the other was gone and the quarry was leaving, the hunter would attack. It would be fast, and strong, and final.

Now, the hunter's ears picked up the sound of footsteps, and he saw the quarry. He was so close; it would be so easy to strike now…. But he had to wait. It had to be done so that none would see the body until morning. So that no one would suspect the hunter. Yes, when the other was gone, he would attack, according to plan, and it would be over.

The quarry's footsteps carried him past the alley. The hunter slid into the shadows and behind a broken, twisted heap of garbage that would conceal him quite well. It was excellent; the debris was just the right size to hide him. Just as he'd planned. He would go unnoticed until it was time, and then… He would strike.

Oh, how perfectly he would strike! The heavy wooden club in his hand was a crude weapon, but it would serve its purpose well indeed. He could practically hear the wonderful crack of wood against bone that would ring out when his weapon connected with the quarry's head. His victory would be flawless.

Down the street, the moonlight gave the quarry an ethereal, superhuman quality. Leaning as he was against a dilapidated building, his fair features contrasted sharply against the grimy stone of his surroundings. His eyes gleamed intensely out of the darkness, wary and impatient. He looked invincible.

But the hunter knew better than that. This quarry was no more unassailable than any other, though so few people seemed to realize it. His followers' fear and awe of him were what made Spot Conlon dangerous. He thought that no one would ever go against him, that no one would dare. So he did not guard himself as well as he might have. Someone else, someone worse might find the very weaknesses the hunter was planning to exploit and destroy Spot, throwing his domain into chaos. The hunter could not allow that to happen, not when Spot's greatest weakness was what it was.

It was indeed the most terrible kind of weakness: the kind that made you feel powerful when in fact you were all the weaker for it. Spot Conlon's weakness was not a past he kept secret, or a physical impairment, or even a substance to which he was addicted. No. It was a person: the other, who was walking toward the quarry this very moment.

The other was very different from the quarry, and not just physically. He was chaos, while Spot was control. He was the epitome of outgoing; he would do almost anything to make people laugh. He lied and cheated and disregarded the law. Granted, most people of the other's social standing did those things, but not nearly to the same degree. He was named Racetrack, and he was dangerous, especially around the quarry.

Spot and Racetrack stood together now, surrounded by gloom and shadows. This part of town was close to deserted, so the only sounds that cut through the stillness of the night were their voices and the sounds of their movements.

This was the only part the hunter did not watch. He knew what would happen now: the two would lean toward each other, they would embrace, they would kiss. The hunter turned his head away in disgust. He did not need to see this.

For what seemed like an eternity, the hunter lurked in the dark, waiting for Racetrack to leave. It took so long, and he was so close. So close…

His plan was faultless, he knew. He had every infinitesimal detail planned. Violence held not nearly so much joy as did the completion of a plan. Success was glory, and he would succeed. He had to. For the good of Brooklyn.

Finally, the other was gone. Spot would wait a few seconds, as he always did. Then he would walk back to where he came from, and to do so, he would pass the hunter's haunt. It was then that the hunter would eradicate him.

Just as Spot drew even with the alleyway, the hunter stood silently and stealthily. He moved forward in a swift, deadly flash, club raised. But sure as he was that he had planned perfectly, something happened that had not occurred to him.

The quarry turned around.

It was not much of a deviation from plan, but it was enough to throw the hunter off. When Spot saw him and his eyes widened in recognition and surprise, the hunter's aim wavered slightly. His blow fell, certainly, but it was more glancing than he had wanted. Luckily, the quarry fell to the ground even so, and the plan was completed anyway.

The hunter berated himself mentally for his lapse. He should have known that Spot would turn; he was coming at him from the side and there was such thing as peripheral vision! He was fortunate; he had not paid for his stupidity. Next time he would be more careful.

Smiling, the hunter cast his club into the heap of garbage that had hidden him. He had achieved success, even if he'd erred slightly. Kneeling next to his quarry, the hunter slid the gold-tipped cane out of his grip. Then, he stood and turned away, exhilaration filling his being.

He was a hunter, and he had taken down his prey.


Acknowledgements:

Buttons14, studentnumber24601, The Second Batgirl, and parkranger—for reviewing this when it was Forgetfulness and Remembrance. I'm sorry I can't respond to your reviews.

The girl who read my notebook without asking—through your rudeness, you made me get off my lazy butt and write. That said, go die.

But especially to B—for betaing. Thank you so much.