Disclaimer: I'm not sure how many original characters will crop up in this fic, but let me just cover my bases by saying all who you don't recognize are mine. And of course, those who are familiar belong to Disney (if they live through the fic – mwhahaha!).

Skittery scratched his ass and released a long, slow yawn.

"Iss 'uch-a 'orrring 'aaaaaaay," he moaned.

Snitch squinted up at the headline board, then over at his friend. "What didja say?"

"I said," Skittery repeated (with more than a hint of frustration), "it is such a borin' day."

Snitch only shrugged as the line moved forward to buy their papers, prompting Skittery to explain himself further.

"Look at the sky. Look at it." He pointed upwards to assist Snitch in locating it. "What do ya see?"

"Uh… nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"N…" Snitch looked at it for another moment. "Nothin'?"

"Exactly! It's blue with a few clouds puffin' along. A bit o' sunshine and nothin' more. Boring. And read that headline – go on, read it."

Snitch took another step forward and squinted again. "'All's Well in the City of New York – People Feel Fine.'" He looked back and Skittery was slumped over against his walking stick, barely able to hold himself up (presumably out of boredom).

"That's gotta be the most borin' headline I ever heard in me whole life," he groaned miserably. "There's absolutely no way to spruce that up. What're we supposed to say? Anything we make up they'll see in a split second is a lie."

"Well, Skitts, I—"

"We can't get away fast enough from a headline that don't have even one single catchy word. I mean, if the headline was borin' like, 'Train Stuck in Jersey Due to Fallen Tree,' that's workable. Ya could always attach a few new words and flip some of it around, like, 'Trees Fall on Train – Hundreds o' Lives at Stake – Jersey Does Nothin'.' See, 'cause New Yorkers love to hate Jersey, right? And when the customer looks at it quickly he recognizes one or two words and don't realize the truth until, y'know, we've run away."

"Yeah, but—"

"But with somethin' like, 'All's Well in the City of New York – People Feel Fine,' what're we supposed to add to that? We can't do nothin'! 'People Happy Wit' New Well in New York – Water is Great'? Gee, that'll sure push a few papes!" He knocked his forehead against his stick and muttered, "Damn, there ain't nothin' like a borin' headline to ruin my day."

"Well, I dunno about all that."

Skittery straightened, a look of incredulity on his face. "Whaddya mean 'you don't know about that'? What don't you know?"

"Ya could just change a letter or two and make it tons better." Snitch held up his hands and waved his fingers around to demonstrate the process. "'All's Hell in the City of New York – People Feel Fire!'"

Skittery's mouth hung open slightly as Snitch stepped up and bought forty papers.

"I… I guess that ain't bad," Skittery grumbled finally, slapping down some change. "I'll take forty papes too."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Specs slinking his way through the line, inching ever closer to him.

"Uh… say, Snitch, ya wanna be my sellin' partner today? Huh?" He gave his best attempt at an amiable smile, but Snitch reached out a hand and grabbed hold of Itey passing by.

"Sorry, Skitts, but Itey and me always sell together." Itey, knitting his eyebrows in confusion, looked from face to face and nodded.

"Me an' Snitch, always, 'at's right," he rasped. It was rare that he was given the chance to voice his thoughts, after all.

"And anyway, Skitts," Snitch continued while walking away hurriedly, "if 'People Happy Wit' New Well in New York – Water is Great' is the best ya can come up with… well, I – I got kids to feed." The two fled the scene as fast as their legs would carry them.

Skittery sighed and looked around for an alternative, accidentally catching Specs's eye in the process. The boy was buying his papes and looking at him with what one might describe as a longing expression. Skittery swallowed, his throat suddenly quite dry, and turned on his heel – walking sharply into someone.

"Oop—sorry, Dutchy," he mumbled, clutching his head in pain. Dutchy looked unfazed.

"Sorry for what?"

"For… for bumpin' into ya just now."

Dutchy threw back his head and scoffed, his blonde hair gleaming in the sun. Each strand seemed to fall perfectly back in place. "Don't be sorry."

"Okay."

"Be sorry for somethin' else."

"What're you talkin' about?"

Dutchy threw a glance over Skittery's shoulder, in Specs's direction. "You know what I'm talkin' about."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Skittery's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Did I not share my bread with ya this mornin'?"

"Well, no, but 'at's not it."

"I didn't save ya any hot water."

"Not it either."

"I chipped your glasses and lied about it."

"'At was you?"

"Race bet me to spit in your baked beans and I did."

"I thought it tasted funny—"

"I stole five papes off 'a you last week."

"Hey, wait a minute—"

"That stain on your pillow? I can explain it."

"Alright, shuddup already! 'At's enough for fuck's sake." Now Dutchy was the one clutching his head in pain. "None 'o that is what I'm talkin' about anyway."

"Oh. So what's yer problem?"

Dutchy's eyes darted toward Specs again, then back to Skittery. "You know what my problem is."

"Is this a riddle or somethin'? 'Cause I'm not very good at 'em, but I think Davey—"

"You've been takin' somethin' from me – somethin' that means a lot to me."

"I told you, I been takin' lots of stuff from you."

"Not somethin', per se, but someone, whose interests are—"

Specs came up to them suddenly, causing Dutchy to break off at "are" and stammer it repeatedly.

"…are…are…are…are…"

"You're gonna have to stop speakin' in such vague terms."

Dutchy threw up his hands in frustration. "Just forget it! God!" He stomped off, running a hand through the back of his hair. Skittey and Specs tilted their heads and watched in subdued awe. It really did shine in this light.

Somewhere across town, the Delanceys sat in miserable silence, watching a spider carefully entrap a fly in its silk lacework.

"Good for him," Morris muttered, chuckling inanely.

Oscar felt a nauseating pang in the pit of his stomach and winced. He'd been getting that feeling a lot lately – ever since the end of the summer of 1899, to be exact. He, his brother and his uncle had been driven from the World offices in disgrace, and they'd been forced to seek employment elsewhere.

They were loafing now, in the spring of 1900, in the basement of their new work residency (where they were likewise forced to live), avoiding the tasks of the day. Normally they were to tie up bundle after bundle of papers, heave them two by two onto the carts to be mass delivered, then report back to the supervisor who would give them new and ever-worsening assignments to be accomplished before the evening addition was to be bundled and shipped out. At the moment, they didn't have anyone screaming over their shoulder at what a lousy job they were doing, and so they took the opportunity to be lazy.

At one time they bossed around boys and men twice their size and handed out thankless, demoralizing chores with glee. Nowadays a kid half their age oversaw their jobs and made sure to wipe the floors with them as frequently as possible.

The name of the paper they worked for didn't matter. It wasn't very well known anyway; if it were, they wouldn't have been hired. What mattered was they were here now and they were supposed to be scrubbing the floors and sorting through decades-old newspapers. Why they weren't thrown out and why they needed to be organized by date and headline, Oscar couldn't quite understand. That's probably why they were neglecting their duties and watching spiders ensnare their breakfast.

"When's lunch?" Morris asked.

"Dunno. We had to pawn our watches, remember?"

Oscar looked down at his pants and noticed with irritation another hole in the knee. He used to have five pairs of pants, crisp and clean – now he was down to two, and both were barely clinging to his legs anymore. The dirt and stains were undoubtedly holding them together.

The headline of the paper beneath his shoe (worn and filthy) suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up, brushing the dust and soot off to reveal an aged photo of armed, vicious men. They looked not unlike the Delanceys' old gang.

"There's some funny soundin' words on here," he said in mild interest, glancing over at his brother. Morris had moved closer to the cobweb and focused all attention on the carnage about to take place. Oscar shrugged and attempted to speak them aloud anyway.

"'Ollo vidi shananana, blecten nidi wananana, skidive shankin fentdonade, blinkin hi-life nata wadne. Vicci nicci picci dicci.' Hmm, must be from another country – sounds like wop talk to me."

Without warning, the bowels of the building began to shake. A sound like thunder came from beneath the floor and rattled Oscar's bones from within. He glanced out the small window and saw to his astonishment that the sun was still out, no clouds had gathered – this was no storm.

Dirt fell through the cracks of the ceiling and their lanterns blew out, leaving them almost entirely in darkness. The large stack of papers they'd painstakingly organized toppled over and littered the ground once more. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the rumbling subsided.

They sat in baffled silence for a solid minute before Morris spoke.

"You farted," he laughed insipidly.

Another sickening twinge in his stomach. Oscar sighed.

Author's Note: So I was recently watching Shaun of the Dead, a film I've seen an unhealthy number of times, while simultaneously reading chapter fourteen of Rustie73's Seems Like Only Yesterday. Her amazing, rough-and-tough version of SkitteryPLUS zombies on screen EQUALS this fic as a belated birthday present to my friend. All I hope is that it makes her laugh. Happy Birthday, Rustie!