Flight and Spot didn't meet again until Manhattan's battle with the crypts, a gang of ugly men who made money by beating up kids like the newsies. To put it lightly, Brooklyn saved Manhattan's newsboy ass.
At one point in the fight, Flight had been cornered by two ill-shaven men, one with brass knuckles and the other with a club. Flight had never been the fighting sort, so when the club man swung at him Flight ducked, only to be punched in the stomach by the brass-knuckler.
Spot saved Flight for the first time just then, as he beat the club man over the head with his cane, before the club man could take another swing at Flight's own head. Flight took this time to make contact with the brass-knuckle boy's face, via his feet. Brass-knuckle boy stumbled backwards, a trail of blood issuing from his mouth. He came at Flight with a vengeance this time.
Flight felt sick as the man's fist came in contact with his face. The dominant smell of blood, his own blood, surrounded him. Flight fought hard not to empty his measly breakfast onto the brass-knuckle boy, but he didn't quite manage.
Knuckles stepped back in disgust, and Flight took the opportunity to lodge his right fist as far into the middle of the thug's face as it would go. Knuckle boy's nose collapsed under Flight's fingers with a sickening crack.
When Flight pulled his hand back it was covered in bright blood, and so was the thug's face. Brass-knuckle boy slid to the ground, dazed and confused.
"Nice work," Spot commented once Flight had turned around. Flight grinned sheepishly. The man with the club lay unconscious at Spot's feet. He didn't look quite human anymore due to the damage Spot's cane had inflicted.
Luckily for the newsboys, the fight was ended rather quickly after that.
At the celebration party at Tibby's that afternoon Flight tried to avoid Spot as best as he could, for the uneasy Spot feeling had come up again.
They met once in the restaurant, in which Spot spilled his glass of coke over Flight's shirt.
"Sorry," he mumbled, turning away from Flight. Flight sighed. It had been the only decent shirt he had left.
"No problem," he replied anyway. Flight prayed that coke didn't stain. Flight soon forgot about this, however, when Racetrack pulled out a pack of cards for poker. Poker was Flight's specialty.
Spot stole a glance at Flight over the top of his own cards. So he had been correct, not that he had ever doubted it. He was just surprised no one had figured it out as quickly as he had, or figured it out at all.
"Blink!" Blink allowed himself a grin as he set his cards, face down, on the little table that he, Mush, and Racetrack were seated at playing more poker two days later.
"Uh oh, boys, I think I'm in trouble," he laughed. Then the call came again.
"Buh-li-ink!" The cry rose in pitch as the name stretched from one syllable to three. Blink's grin faltered as he turned towards the door into the empty (except for the three card players) bunkroom. Racetrack took advantage of this, peeking at Kid Blink's cards.
"Flight, I'm up here! In here, with Mush and Race!" Blink called to his twin. Sounds of Flight tripping up the stairs floated in the players' direction.
Flight finally entered the bunk room, cradling his right hand in his left. Blink jumped up.
"What did you do, Caden?" Race asked, his brows furrowed.
"I don't know!" Flight wailed, hesitantly showing the three boys his blood covered hand. Of course, Flight knew perfectly well what had happened, but Flight couldn't just say so.
"Bring me some towels, Race," Blink commanded the Italian boy, who just stood there. "Mush, get Kloppman. Damn it, Race! Get me towels!" Racetrack scampered off to the washroom. He returned moments later, his arms laden with someone's towels.
Blink snatched a towel from Race and wrapped it around Flight's hand.
"You're welcome," Racetrack mumbled sarcastically under his breath.
A minute later Kloppman (who ran the lodging house), followed closely by Mush, Bumlets, Jack, Dutchy and several others, entered the bunkroom. Kloppman was out of breath and wheezing from the steep climb up those rickety stairs.
"Put pressure on it, Blink," Kloppman muttered, bending down to look at Flight. Flight was doing a miraculous job of keeping his tears at bay.
"Pressure," he mumbled again. Blink pressed his twin's hand between both of his own. "Elevate it!"
"Huh?" Elevate was apparently not in Blink's vocabulary.
"Hold it up, dumb ass," Race supplied.
Jack decided not to mention that two of the blood soaked towels were his. He had been going to comment on it when Flight choked back a sob. The kid had enough problems at the moment, Jack decided.
About half an hour later the bleeding finally stopped. Skittery sidled into the room unnoticed as Kloppman gingerly wrapped Flight's hand in off-white bandages.
"We'll need to change that in the morning. You'll have the scar forever," Kloppman informed Flight matter-of-factly. Flight nodded, and then climbed into his bunk above Snipeshooter's and fell asleep within moments.
Flight didn't say what had happened, of why a perfect "S" was now etched forever into his palm.
Kid Blink shook his head. Knowing Flight, he had probably been a smart alec and gotten himself into more trouble than was necessary. Yes, that would be it.
In fact, that was almost exactly what had happened.
Review, review! Review and you shall recieve chocolate covered Spots, 'cause Spot is yummy:)
