DISCLAIMER: I only own Runner Conlon.

Author's Note: Hey, thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this story over a year ago! I actually already had this second chapter written, but I never got around to uploading it for some reason. Anyway, I want to get back into the habit of writing, and figured I'd continue with this particular story. For those of you who are returning, I'd encourage you to re-read the first chapter, since it isn't too long. Once again, constructive criticism is more than welcome! I'd love to know what works and doesn't work! Thanks for reading!


Ever the Sinner


The Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Vol. 61. No. 17. Three Cents

Friday, January 25, 1901

Local Tunnel Route Is Finally Adopted

Gasoline Steamer Wrecked

Miss Tillie Jacobs Wanted By The Coroner

Boys' Suits-New Price Records


The latter fraction of the week found Spot Conlon lounging on the lower mattress of his private room's bunk bed, block of wood in one hand while the other deftly held a switchblade which, with careful precision, carved the hickory effortlessly with a simple flick of the boy's wrist. The physical manifestation of a state-wide notorious legacy seemed, this particular day, careless – virtually free spirited. A lock of sandy blonde hair fallen over his eyes, he could've perchance passed for fourteen, though he was five years past such an adolescence. With back reclined against the headboard of his resting area and one leg comfortably resting across the other, he brought the wood to his lips, narrowing his enigmatic sapphire irises to examine the structure's smooth cut, and apparently satisfied he nodded curtly in approval of his craftsmanship and blew the wood shavings off the block before proceeding with the task.

Such was the silence in his lodging house he could actually track his thoughts for once as he timed them with the rhythmic pare of the blade. It was the third slingshot within a mere month he was carving for his younger cousin, who evidently had a proclivity to misplace his very weapons – though Spot was quite sure the boy considered such a prized possession more of a child's play thing. Shaking his head, the Brooklyn leader straightened himself against the headboard and paused once more from his assembly to survey its sound construction before continuing onward; there were matters far more pressing at hand and these tedious debacles he daily entertained with his cousin did much to add heaviness to his already over accumulated stress.

One of his newsies, Snack Dowery, had been slain on his very territory just days ago! It had driven Spot absolutely livid, such that upon learning of the crime he had maintained so enraged a temperament any passerby would've thought him capable of avenging the bereavement through a mass genocide. His temper was irascible enough without anyone provoking it, and this was more than one might bargain to drive the young man over the edge of control.

The current thoughts caused his pressure on the switchblade to increase drastically and by mishap, a larger chunk of the wood was cut in a single slice than what he had intended. "Damn it!" He flung the would be slingshot across the room, aiming for and missing a crate set aside for trash, and plunged the small knife into the mattress upon which he lay, wishing it were the carcass of the confounded murderer who'd dared bothered with a Brooky. "Damn it all to hell!" And with that, he crossed his arms and did what he did best: glared and hated on life.

From across the room, Runner Conlon turned around at the sound of his elder cousin's rant and allowed a roguish smirk to play across his lips. He'd spent the past thirty minutes sifting through his silken golden locks with ink-smeared fingers, beholding his reflection in Spot's tall looking glass with the zealous infatuation of a brat prince; of course those who knew the cousins well would unmistakably reserve that role for Spot, and the ever-failing short-comer was Runner's for the taking, for his achievements were always dimmed in the shadows of the Brooklyn leader's lofty bequest.

"Givin' up so early, Aiden?" Runner sauntered to the discarded block of wood, collected it in his hands –careful not to win himself a splinter, and closed the distance between himself and his relative, taking a seat on the foot of Spot's bed. He tossed the hickory object from one palm to the next as if it were the most amusing of games, his face like that of child's when enjoying the acquisitions of a holiday gift-giving fest.

Spot watched him for a moment stoically. The two were so alike and yet so different all the same. The elder Conlon had aged eons within a brief span of adolescence; the younger still portrayed a juvenile foolish miscreant more often than not. Spot had more responsibility than a handful of middle-aged men could brag about; the weight of a dynasty unloaded onto his shoulders and he'd be damned if he didn't account for every last boy selling papers in his borough. Runner didn't know what it meant to be conscientious of others; he'd barely the capability to watch after his own back, let alone those of over fifty other newsboys. He was much too playful when leaders were supposed to be staid, much too prodigal when he should've been attentive, and much too defiant when Spot would've rather he show respect.

One of their only similarities was simply a matter of appearance; the two bore a stunning resemblance. They were often confused as fraternal twin siblings, the elder with arresting blue eyes and his protégé the bearer of emerald green orbs, always sparkling like bubbling apple cider ready to wreak mischief. Though nearly the same height, nearly the same built, and with nearly the same dialect, Spot beat out his cousin in every category. In the end, there could only be one king of Brooklyn, and remembering this, he smirked back.

"I'm tired of always cleanin' up after your messes, Lucas. Make your own slingshot for God's sake. This aint no assembly line, and I aint your daddy." His words cut deep, and he knew it. The knowledge of such allowed an even lengthier and serpentine grin to cross his face. So was the way with them; should an altercation arise there was no use moseying coyly at the surface: they plunged deep into the core and awoke the memories that pained each other.

Runner chose to ignore the remark about his father. "Aw come on. You never taught me how to carve wood! How'm I suppose to make my own slingshot, huh? 'Sides, I like your handiwork better. Any weapon made by 'the great Spot Conlon' is sure to never…"

"Would you stop with the bull crap already? You're horrible at kissin' up to people, you know that?"

"Well, I didn't necessarily learn from the best, now did I?" Runner winked at the elder and then braced himself for the hit he knew might come, but when he reopened his eyes, he was thankful upon glimpsing Spot simply shake his head and laugh. He sighed softly and relaxed. "Enough of this chit chat, we should get goin' lest you intend on headin' back late later tonight." Before the last few words of the statement were uttered, he was already on his feet, strutting to the door with apparent eagerness.

Spot quirked an eyebrow at this and sat up straighter, leaning forward a bit as if he expected to garner a long held secret from the boy. "Get goin' where exactly?"

"To Coney Island, of course! Remember you said you'd take me there tonight? You said that." He nodded, as if doing so would affirm the authenticity of the claim, and when his hopes seemed to dwindle, he took a few steps forward –eyes a bit wide with restrained sadness. "Remember? It was because…"

"I remember, Lucas. Christ, I remember, alright?" He combed his fingers halfway through his tresses and rested his forehead into his palm, thinking. The deliberation didn't take too long; sadly enough, it never did. "Look, Runner, I got some plans with a doll from Manhattan tonight. Real sweet face, you know? Met 'er through Jack…a dame like none other…" he looked up, smirking "…and a lay I'm sure'll be even better. We can always schedule the Coney Island crap for another day, alright?" He, too, arose and headed to his personal washroom to ready himself for the date of which he spoke.

Runner watched him, annoyed and bristled, forlorn and offended. Yet he said nothing in debate. With a slight nod, he only voiced his understanding and leaned against the frame of the door as Spot went on about how lucky he'd get that night, oblivious to the broken heart his younger cousin harbored.


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