Spot and Gabby had a sleepover that night. In fact, they had four sleepovers that week. Unlike other ones Spot had had in the past, though, they actually slept. Seriously. They had dinner, talked late into the night, and went to sleep. Clothes on. Little bit of cuddling. Good-night. Spot didn't feel the absolute need for the one-night fling with Gabby. And as he awoke at dawn on Thursday morning with Gabby sleeping soundly next to him, her mouth slightly open and hair a mess over her pillow, Spot liked it.

The sun crept into the bedroom through the thin white curtains and cast warmth on parts of the bed. Spot yawned as he stared up at the ceiling tiredly. He had to wake up soon to get to the distribution place, and lying there, blinking slowly and drifting back to sleep was not helping. Were there any other jobs that did not require getting up as early as humanly possible? Maybe a career change was in order for him. Then again, it would be bad if he just quit in the middle of this conflict with Queens. Very bad.

As Spot sat up and stretched his arms out, Gabby began to stir on the other side of the bed. She started mumbling nonsense that Spot could not understand and flailing her hands around, which he found quite humorous. Spot bit his lip hard to hold in chuckles as he watched her talk gibberish. It wasn't until Gabby began turning her head around quickly that Spot placed a hand on her shoulder to nudge her back to reality.

"W-What?" asked a very dazed Gabby. She blinked open and focused in on Spot who was snickering silently. "What?"

"Ya okay?" Spot inquired. "You was dreamin' or sleep-talkin' a second ago."

Gabby sat up and looked around her. "Oh, all right," she said and fell back to the pillow.

Spot turned to the side of the bed and slipped his feet into his boots, tying them securely. His navy blue shirt lay folded neatly (thanks to Gabby) on top of the dresser and he slipped his arms through the sleeves, watching Gabby and wanting more than ever to stay in bed with her all day long.

"Where are you going?" she asked without opening her eyes.

"I gotta go rejoin the human race again," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Gabby's blanketed hip.

"No," she protested simply, opening her eyes groggily. Her fingers felt around his collarbone, found the chain to his necklace, and pulled down so that he ended up lying next to her. "You're staying right here."

"Am I, now?" Spot asked through a pleasant grin. "Ya just gonna keep me here foreva?"

Sleepiness took over Gabby once more as her eyelids fluttered to a close and back again. "That's exactly my evil plot," she said with low energy and verve.

"Sorry, babe…I really gotta go work," Spot replied reluctantly and fighting his own urge to not go.

"No," she groaned, stretching it out more than it needed to be. She grabbed his arm tightly with an intensely firm grip. "Please stay."

"Ow. Okay, let go." Spot laughed under his breath as he pried Gabby's fingers from his forearm, watching his whitened skin turn back to its normal color. He took her hand and pecked it tenderly. "I'll come back afta mornin' edition."

Gabby stuck out her tongue at him and blew, creating a childish noise that made him chuckle. "Fine."

Spot finished buttoning his shirt and got to his feet. After pulling up his suspender straps, he bent down and gave Gabby a couple of innocent kisses. Running a hand through his sandy blonde hair in an attempt to untangle it, he made his way out of the tiny apartment.

The long and narrow hallway was almost vacant except for the few tenants making their miserable way to their own jobs. Spot strolled down the brown wooden corridor, politely smiling as he passed Gabby's neighbors. It was nearly unusual and quite awkward; for one to see the fearless leader of the Brooklyn newsies smile at strangers was not at all typical. For most of his life he was viewed as strong, honorable, and mysterious. But as he hopped (yes, hopped) down the creaky old staircase, peple saw a foreign side of this sixteen-year-old who had battled every day of his life as a newsie; there was not hint of a traumatic history or rough lifestyle. There was subtle "bounce" in his step and smile to his lips. A look of contentment took over his usually stone-cold face. He was happy, and in such a way that surprised even Spot himself; so happy that it scared him.

Although in the heart of the industrial city that had plenty of air pollution, Spot breathed in and let the oxygen fill his lungs. To him, it was all clear. For moments he stood at the entrance of the apartment building and digested the scenery. This place belonged to Spot Conlon.

And then there were the occasional smudges in the picture-perfect idea: as Spot strolled along the streets leisurely, Ace appeared at this side from out of nowhere.

"Well, don't you look happy," Ace greeted in mockery.

Spot closed his eyes and gathered his patience. Perhaps he could just take his slingshot and lodge a marble between Ace's eyes? Then again, the day was only young. He bit his tongue and nodded in response.

"What's goin' on? What's with the happy shit?" Ace questioned while swinging his lanky arms at his side as he ambled down the walk with Spot. His face suddenly grew into that crooked smile of his as he got in front of Spot and walked backward to keep up with his pace. "You screwed Tyce Nichols' goil, didn't ya?" he said in sick amusement.

Spot looked at him strangely and shook his head in a way that begged for his reasoning behind Ace's question. "No." He stepped to the left for a clearer pathway.

"Aw, come on, Conlon!" Ace playfully jerked at Spot's arms, though Spot pushed him off at every attempt. "Ya got some didn't ya? Ya got that look that says ya just landed a virgin one."

Once more, Spot struggled to maintain his patience. His jaw clenched while he strained his eyes to focus ahead of him. He even subconsciously grabbed a hold of his slingshot that sat securely in the band of his pants. Too early, too early. He moved his hand away.

"No, Ace," Spot finally answered.

"Ah," he gave up, "just as well. You'se were with that one chick, ain't ya? What's her name, Gabby? The one Bolt and Thompson don't wantcha seein'."

Spot held his breath in as the irritation for Ace began to rise. Ace was like a pest; he got under your skin and picked incessantly until you finally cracked. With stiffened arms and jaws, he forced a smirk and turned to Ace. "Ain't none 'a your business."

Ace furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if psychologically challenging Spot with skepticism. "A'right," he said, "just don't want ya to give away Brooklyn for her."

Spot continued to walk and made contored faces to himself along the way. The irritation was reaching the top as the conversation switched to his relationship with Gabby. Resist the slingshot, Conlon…

"From what I'se seen, she ain't worth it eitha," muttered Ace under his breath that even seemed crooked as well.

That was it. Though he avoided going for the slingshot, he resorted to good, old-fashioned offense and simply grabbed Ace by the collar in front of his ace. He held him up with tired arms and white knuckles.

"You shut the hell up," Spot growled, his previous contentment vanishing from his face for the time being.

Ace kicked his feet that dangled just above the ground. He held a look of helplessness as he grabbed Spot's arms in pleading to let him go. Stuttered words that were incomplete squeaked from his mouth.

"Now, I could very well do this all day," continued Spot, "but I'm gonna let ya down if ya swear ya won't eva mention gabby again in ya life, y'hear?"

"Y-Ye…" Ace coughed.

"Yes, sir?" Spot implied as his tone of voice elevated.

"Y…Yes, sir!" Ace wheezed.

"I ain't yellin' at ya," Spot said with his normal voice returning, "I'm just puttin' ya in ya place." He let go of Ace and watched him stumble to the ground, coughing and rubbing his neck and collarbone. Spot bent down and slapped Ace on the cheek gently with a harsher motive.

"Why don't ya take the day off, Ace," Spot suggested derisively with a smirk.

"But I—"

"Take the day off," he interrupted in finalization.

Ace clenched his jaw and gave a hard stare to Spot who stood above him. But as soon as they locked gazes, Spot with a stronger glare, Ace huffed briefly and got up to walk in the other direction. Spot sighed with relief and began to make his way home.

Within viewing distance of the lodging house, Spot noticed a group of boys gathered around the doorway, talking anxiously and running around to each other. A seemingly dramatic issue looked as if it had risen, and made Spot quicken his pace. The insides of his stomach began to churn as they ran through possible scenarios in his mind, all of which were not pleasant. The mumbled voices that ran together as one began to get louder as he approached it. Bolt suddenly pushed open the door and the boys quieted. All looked to him with hopeful expressions that poured into Bolt, who wore a look of part- shock and part- determination. Bolt's brown eyes scanned over the congregation until they targeted Spot who was trotting over from the left.

"Conlon!" called Bolt as he pushed his way down the steps and onto the street.

Spot sped up to meet Bolt faster. At first, before seeing the group of newsies at the entrance, he had thought Bolt would be giving him hell about his absence. He sorted out words to excuse his not being there, but now they seemed to be gone from his mind; all he could concentrate on was what may have happened. As they rushed closer, Spot could note the infinite amount of worry that took over his face.

"First, I'se sorry fer not bein' here," Spot apologized flatly as they were standing front of each other now. "I was with Gabby and and—"

"No need for explainin'," Bolt interrupted as he held up his hand to stop him. "Ya gotta see this," he continued with urgency in his voice.

Bolt turned and Spot followed closely as they raced toward the lodging house. Spot's heart pounded rapidly as the steady, quick beats of his feet against the ground resounded in his ears. Something was clearly not right. But what? Bolt shoved boys out of the way and yanked them back until they were bounding up the narrow winding staircase to the bunkroom.

Immediately the pits of Spot's stomach began to plummet once they entered the tense atmosphere. With only three boys occupying the room, tension filled the air with concern and anxiety. Over by his and Bolt's bunk he noticed a boy of his age sitting at the edge of the mattress, head slumped below his neck and fingers entwined with one another. Thompson leaned against the edge of another bed with his hand draped over his eyes, not revealing whether or not he was actually teary-eyed or not. Standing at the wall and staring blankly out the window with heavy Italian eyes was Racetrack Higgins, voice of his usual vitality and liveliness. With Racetrack's presence and the indication of a red bandana tied around the boy's neck on the bed, Spot could only assume that the depressive teenager was none other than Jack Kelly.

"What happened?" Spot inquired in a low tone while making his way slowly toward the other boys, the creaking floorboards sounding louder than ever under his step.

Thompson removed his hand from his face and looked back down to the ground quickly without haste. But Spot could tell that he was not crying; he should know that in the first place. Racetrack continued to look out the window but readjusted his stance and put his hands in his pockets. His expression of shocked misery and woe did not promise that the answer to Spot's question was a positive one. Finally, Jack lifted his head. The looked in which he possessed scared Spot; his face was pale as if he had seen a ghost, and his eyes were red and sore. Dark circles formed underneath his eyes.

"Hey Spot," Jack replied weakly and let his hands apart from each other to allow them to dangle limply from his arms.

Spot turned to Bolt beside him with a ruffled brow and look of bewilderment. All he needed was a simple response as to what had happened, and he knew that it was not easy in the least to tell.

"Somethin' happened in Manhattan last night," Jack stated miserably. "Blink was shot."

The suspicions to the type of news Spot was going to receive was correct. He let his bottom lip detach from the upper as the news settled in. Silence screamed through the room and bounced off the walls mercilessly. Spot searched for words until the shock had absorbed itself in his system. Kid Blink. Had been shot. Now he wanted answers. He took a seat across from the saddened newsboy from uptown and asked fro more detail.

Spot rubbed his throbbing forehead painfully as he looked around to each of the boys. If it hadn't been for the respectable pride in which Jack carried, the Manhattan leader would have broken down, Spot was certain. The look in his eyes was painful to see and even worse as Spot darted his vision around at the sad faces. Amongst the gloomy thoughts that clouded his mind, Spot forgot to ask the important question as to who was behind the murder.

"There's more," Racetrack added and took his hand out of his pocket. Spot watched as h noted Race held a folded piece of paper within his tight grasp. He handed it to Spot and returned his hands to the safety of his pockets.

Spot paused while the paper sat between his index finger and thumb. A part of him, a large part of him, did not want to read its contents. But his duty to his allies made the paper unfold within his grasp. The messy yet legible writing sprang from the paper and shook Spot's nerves with vengeance:

"It ain't just Brooklyn and Queens now.

Make sure Brooklyn knows: it ain't ovah."

-Tyce"

"Oh god…" Spot responded in silent shock. He got to his feet as his hold upon the note strengthened and the old, familiar hatred that had recently been replaced with such depression started to flood back to him with greater force, tenfold. His arms burned with clenched muscles as he threw the letter to the ground.

With rage and malice consuming his entire being, Spot dropped to his knees and let out a painfully loud yell that was powerful enough to shake the whole of New York.