The sun, which was hidden by a mass of miserably gray clouds, began to rise over the city. As morning crept into the newsies' lodging house house, boys ranging from five years to seventeen trudged out of bed to get ready for the day. Spot Conlon hesitantly opened his blue-grey eyes to find that indeed he was awake and there was no going back to sleep now. He placed a hand over his eyes and tried to imagine he was elsewhere.

A hand smacked at his face and he separated his fingers to see Bolt, his trusty second-in-command, making his usual attempt to get him out of bed. "C'mon, Conlon."

Spot let out a groan and hoisted himself to an upright position. He struggled to keep his eyes opened as he rolled from the top bunk onto the wooden floor with a thud. He traipsed toward the sinks and passed his boys, yawning and moving slowly. Since most of the boys had been doing this their entire lives, it had only been a matter of minutes until they were out the bunkroom, down the narrow staircase, and on their way to the distribution place to sell the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Dew kissed the streets as the day began in the city. Spot ambled his way down the street with Thompson and Bolt alongside him.

"Conlon, ya up for poker tonight?" Thompson asked as he kicked a pebble in front of him with his brown boot. "I got some Manhattan boys to join us."

Of course Spot would be up for poker. He hadn't seen any uptown newsies in a long time; the walk across the frigid river was quite hindering. They would get together to play a few rounds while gambling their pennies away and talking about the latest news and such. Then Bolt or that Racetrack Higgins would win entirely and they'd call it a night. It was the same thing every time, though. Spot would get a lucky feeling about a hand and he ended up with money squandered as opposed to won. These little poker nights now didn't seem as much fun as they used to be, before the war and even before the strike. Afterward, the boys would call it a night and Spot went out onto the fire escape to drink is way into a peaceful slumber. Actually, that part was something he was accustomed to every night.

"Yeah, sure," Spot answered reluctantly.

"Well, definitely be countin' me in!" Bolt said enthusiastically. "Got a good feelin' about tonight!" He sarcastically began to walk with a strut and adjusted the gray hat upon his light brown hair.

"Ain't you the cocky little shit?" Thompson asked and put a foot out, successfully tripping Bolt.

The headlines were actually pretty decent today, thankfully. On the first page was the beginning of a report on mysteriously linked murders throughout the city. A little further down was an article involving a twenty-year-old girl and a well-known political figure. Bolt and Spot sat upon a bench just outside the office as Bolt skimmed across the thin pieces of paper.

"They'se just makin' my job too easy," Bolt commented. "Pretty soon we won't need to be doin' this anymore!" he said with dollar signs in his eyes.

Bolt saw one of the corners of Spot's lips turn up into somewhat of a slight grin, but saw it shrink away again. He hadn't seen Spot smile in ages. Bolt sighed and got up, retrieving his hundred papers to go to his selling spot.

"Hey." Bolt snatched Spot's hat and threw it at his chest jokingly. "Stop lookin' like your out to murda half 'a Brooklyn. See ya tonight."

Spot gave some sort of lazy wave and rubbed his forehead. He sat on the bench, relaxing in his solitude and not caring that he was wasting valuable selling time.

A modest light bulb swung from the ceiling and cast a yellowy dim lit across the room. Smoke settled and hovered over the splintered wooden table at the center of the nearly vacant bunkroom, swooping down to the coins, around the cards, and back into the air again to circulate. Racetrack's dark eyes shifted around the four other boys at the circular table as he evaluated their faces. Jack was for sure holding a weak hand (he was the easiest to call), Thompson seemed to possibly have a decent one but not decent enough, Spot was just impossible to read at all anymore, and then there was Bolt who sat to his left. He knew all the tricks in the book about playing poker and he was exceptionally difficult to read. He was Racetrack's equal and it drove him up the wall.

"All right, boys," Jack Kelly said with his usual charming smile as he combined his cards into one. "Call." He lightheartedly tapped the corner of the group of cards against the table.

Race watched intently as Jack made a weak pair of eights face the ceiling. Thompson blinked and paused, showing a three of a kind in fours. Spot turned over his cards and flung them toward the center, indicating a fold. Race smirked to himself as he gazed at his straight of diamonds, until Bolt cleared his throat. The Brooklyn boy of sixteen years tossed over his cards and showed four queens, stomping all over Race's straight.

"Your turn," Bolt said to the Italian boy from Manhattan.

Without flipping them over, Race smacked his hand on the table's surface, causing chuckles to arise from the other boys. Bolt grinned arrogantly as he gathered his winnings. Thompson applauded and Jack shook his head in amused defeat.

"Queens," Spot started in an emotionless voice, "how nice." He got to his feet, grabbing the half-empty bottle of whiskey that sat at the leg of the chair. While no one interrupted and the air was thick, he weakly opened the window and crawled onto the rickety fire escape.

Jack held up a hand to halt the game and got up, repeating the same thing Brooklyn had just done. Spot stood facing the streets and one hand gripping the rail loosely. He stared out in front of him with a blank expression. Jack joined him at this side and placed his hands in his pockets. "Hey."

"Hey," Spot responded coolly. He uncapped the bottle and took a swig of the strong-smelling alcohol.

"I see that Brooklyn luck ain't workin' for ya tonight, eh?" Jack joked and smacked his shoulder.

"It ain't luck, Jack," he said solemnly.

Jack was at a loss for words. This wasn't exactly his area of expertise; that was David Jacobs, the walking mouth. He turned around and leaned his back against the thing railing and folded his arms across his chest in the process. "Everythins' gonna be fine, Spot," was all he got out.

"Tell me, Jack, when was the last time you lost to Tyce Nichols?" Spot inquired coldly and drank another sip. "These things don't just happen and then ya forget about 'em a day later. I lost fourteen boys that day and nineteen in total. That's nineteen boys I'll never see again. They had to die all 'cause I needed the satisfaction of bein' Brooklyn." Spot turned around and mimicked Jack only putting his head down. "Wasn't even worth it. Brooklyn's a mess and Queens is stronger, all 'cause 'a me. I shoulda just put the gun to myself and done everyone a favor."

Jack knew this was just Spot's mood and anger talking. The real Conlon would never talk of suicide or have all this regret bottled up. "Shut the hell up, Spot. At least ya didn't leave the boys, that's sayin' something right there. D'ya know how bad things woulda gotten had ya left? Or died? Brooklyn would be even more of a mess." Jack ran a hand through his own chocolate brown hair. "Ya just gotta get outta this slump. It ain't good for ya or anyone else for that matter. All that shit's in the past so don't worry about it. I ain't seen ya this depressed since…" Jack thought on it, "well, I ain't never seen ya this depressed."

Spot crossed his arms firmly over his chest and looked at his surroundings. The bottle of whiskey was already half empty.

"So get some sleep tonight. Everythin'll work itself out." Jack started his way back into the lodging house. Just after he made his way completely inside, he turned and poked his head through the window. "And about Tyce…"

Spot looked up at him.

"Ya know, he's still alive if ever ya wanna get some vengeance," he joked and shut the window.

Actually, vengeance seemed pretty sweet right about now. But he couldn't think about surprise attacks in Queens right now. All he could see was that end of that day as Spot watched his boys suffer at the hands of Queens. He himself had fought to the edge of life and if only he had been a bit stronger, they would have won. He visualized Tyce standing over him, bloodied and smiling his viscous smile heinously. Spot fought him off with all of his might as Tyce's hands wrapped themselves around his neck. With every fiber of his being he tried to muster up the strength, but he simply couldn't. Shamefully, he held up his hands in defeat and lay on the ground on his back, a disgraceful position to be in being Spot Conlon. Tyce laughed maliciously, yanked Spot's key from his neck, and rose up to stand. With a triumphant raise of hisstrong arms, Tyce declared his victory over Brooklyn.

Spot quickly downed the alcohol and stumbled over to lean against the wall and sit on the fire escape. The empty bottle held limply in his grasp and as he fluttered his eyes closed, the bottle dropped below him and crashed to the alley. Within seconds, sleep had consumed him.

So there's the first chapter! PLEASE review! They are greatly appreciated and strongly encouraged, hehe!