Spot had rolled himself a nice little cigarette and was floating just above his body in a place between sleep and awake. The world was transparent, he could see the bottom. Life was good.

It took his mind a little long to register the footsteps pounding towards him up the dock. He sat up and shook his head, calling his spirit back to his body so that he could make sense of what was happening. He stood himself up, disoriented, when a fist connected with his jaw. The impact reunited his body and spirit and knocked them both to the ground.

He was immediately back on his feet, his mind painfully sharp, his body ready. Roan Xavier was now casually lighting a cigar, with no evidence that he had just blind-sided Spot in the face. Spot's muscles were tense, his eyes were flashing like marbles in the sun.

Roan lit his cigar and tossed the stub in the river. Spot was alive with fury.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" The confusion in his voice struck him as sounding fearful.

Roan puffed on the cigar and spouted smoke like a mythical creature. When he spoke it was with a calm and reasonable certainty, as cut and clear as a sharpened blade. "I'm going to show you who runs Brooklyn. I'm going to make sure you don't forget." Spot felt the familiar rebellious passion alight his heart. Brooklyn was a place where you were constantly fighting against those who wanted to keep you down. You had to earn the right to be respected. You had to fight for it. That was what Spot loved about Brooklyn.

"Put your fucking cigar down," Spots voice crackled with anticipation. His blood was flowing, his nerves were alive. He was ready for this moment. This moment was his life.

Roan looked at Spot critically. Roan knew people like he had created them himself. He could read them better then most, and more importantly, he understood the value of reading them. Spot was strong, Spot was brave. He could throw himself in at a moment's notice and fight like a pitbull. But he was overeager. He had this repulsive need to prove himself. This ravenous hunger hung on his lips and pooled behind his eyes.

"Must be hard to get no respect," Roan observed, smoke blooming from his mouth like prophesy.

"What?" Spot demanded. He wasn't a talker, he was a fighter.

"How long you lived in Brooklyn?" Roan asked conversationally.

"You didn't come here to chat," Spot growled. He felt himself being pushed to unfamiliar territory, shaky ground, he tried to coax Roan back.

Roan just shrugged in response, then continued with his monologue. "I figure you been here your whole life, you got that Brooklyn scowl, that superior air," Roan smiled to himself at this. God, he loved this borough. "And yet you still don't get no respect," Roan was talking as if to himself. "Must be hard to have everyone laughing at you."

"Why don't you come laugh over here," Spot threatened. If Roan thought he was getting to him, he was wrong. If people wanted to laugh at him, they should do it to his face. He'd shut them up for good.

"Conlon, Conlon, Conlon, don't you get it?" Roan asked. "You're a joke. You're an angel-faced little newsboy who talks tough. And you know why you talk tough? 'Cause you're scared. You're scared of being invisible. You're scared of not mattering. You're scared of being left behind."

Spot wanted more than anything to ignore these words. But the more he wanted to ignore them, the more powerful they became. They called to mind echoes of a past he'd locked up so tight inside him. And while he thought he'd buried them away, he suddenly realized that they had just been waiting, waiting and feeding. And as they let loose inside him, he realized that they had grown into something fearful and uncontrollable. This beast sprouted inside of him and expanded throughout his entire body, so forcefully, it even began to leak from his eyes.

And that was when Roan hit him. When he had separated his body from his mind. Spot's mind was whirring, processing a thousand fears, registering pains both fresh and ancient. Spot's body cracked against the floor and he remembered his years at the refuge, too small to protect himself from the other boys. A boot connected with his head and he remembered his father, who once pushed him out a window. A blow to his stomach reminded him of his mother, who used to hug him so hard his ribs nearly snapped.

It wasn't that Spot wasn't trying to fight back. But every time he tried to get up, he failed. It was like running again and again into a brick wall. Which is what life was. Spot almost enjoyed it. There was some sort of wicked pleasure in the pain of the struggle. But his hope was fading fast. As his body struggled its own private battle, Spot's mind searched for something to cling to, some hope to fasten his mind on, to anchor it from the beating on his body.

He saw her hair first. Possiblly called to mind because of its color, which was like an angel's, yellow. Then he saw her cunning little eyes, guarded and green, her pink mouth. The red marks on her chin you could tell she had picked at.Her face gave his mind clarity, and somehow got him shakily to his feet, just as Roan threw the punch that knocked him out.