Chapta Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' cept faw Natalie O'Rourke and Ali Wells.
A/N: It's starting to come together, from here on out, but that doesn't mean it's about to end! Yay seventh chapter! This one is really long.
Darkness had fallen on Brooklyn.

Spot tried something new tonight - sleeping facing the room instead of the wall. Squinting, he could see the white sheets turning as someone rolled over, or whispering, and occasionally a scrap of paper would flutter down to the floor - someone had dropped a note they were passing. Haha.

But, eventually, the noises of the awake came to a stop, and only sleep filled the room. Except for Spot. After a while, his eyes were able to make out almost everything. Maybe he would get over this stupid night fear he had...

But instinct mixed with habit forced him to roll over and face the wall again, although he wasn't afraid. Listening to the creaky boiler turning on downstairs... The boiler. He hadn't realized it, but it had been getting colder and colder lately. Winter was coming on fast, so tomorrow, he'd take out his heavy clothing.

Completely relaxed, he closed his eyes slowly, and it seemed like he blinked - when he opened his eyes again, his watch read 2:48 am.

Anyone watching him may have thought it was the same thing he had done last time - woke up because something scared him in his sleep.

But tonight was different. The window, which sat a few inches above where his head lay, had been closed - and now it was open.

'Dat's what I woke up faw,' he thought, 'It's freezin' out.' More asleep than awake, he wasn't seeing the reality of the situation. Leaning over, he closed the window with a loud thwap!

But, suddenly, a weird, empty feeling came into his head. It was a feeling where you say to yourself, "Everything is fine,"and then disaster strikes. The kind of emptiness where you know something is wrong, but don't notice until it happens.

Creak.

Spot froze.

It didn't sound like the lodge this time.

Creeeeak.

Spot didn't feel the hand that wrapped itself around his neck until he had been pulled out of his bunk.

In those twenty seconds, his life changed forever.

Another rough hand covered his mouth, stopping the terrified yell he almost let out. Other hands were pulling him out of his bunk, and one was around his neck. He managed to grab his walking stick, and thank god, 'cause he'd need it.

He didn't need to see kidnappers to know they were parts of the Crib and Delancey brothers.

And Curly.

Spot was thrown onto the floor as quietly as you could throw someone, and abruptly pulled up and shoved out the door. Unfortunately, all of the Brooklyn newsies were heavy sleepers, and did not stir, let alone rise and try to help.

After going downstairs and out the door, there was no need to be quiet anymore. Spot was shoved on the ground, and kicked, but he popped back up.

He was surrounded, and in front of him stood Curly.

"Only a few hours ago, dis boy says he's gonna make everyone hate me an' neva talk ta me again. Now what will dey say when dey see deir leader dead as a doornail?" he asked, and the bunch of sadists laughed, but they were wasting time.

Spot tapped his cane on the ground - no one was going to jump in and save him. He swung the stick around, making everyone back up a little.

"Everyone, back off," he warned, then turned to Curly. "You an' me, we'll do this like men - one on one."

Curly shrugged. "Fine. If ya lose, all my buddies here get ta do whateva dey want ta ya."

"Fine. An' if you lose, you an' all this scum has ta leave Brooklyn permanently."

No one said anything, before Curly stepped foward and reached into his pocket, and pulled out a chain.

Spot was in a bad position. He had nowhere to move and could barely dodge a rock being thrown. But Curly put a stop to that, yelling, "He's mine, an' no one's gonna beat him but me." As he said that, Spot tried to punch him in the stomach, but the chain lashed out and he had to jump back. The only thing he could do was to keep charging at his opponent, but it was no use.

He leaned on his walking stick to take a breath, and thought, 'I need ta cut back on dose cigars.' Getting himself up, he received a punch to the jaw, but in the nick of time, jabbed the stick into Curly's side. Curly had the wind knocked out of him, and in blind rage, threw the chain.

Spot saw it coming, but couldn't do anything. He knew it would break his ribs and back and whatever else was in there, so he made one last attempt to save himself - he ducked. But chains did not fly in straight line, and the end of it hit him in the head.

However, he made it out well. For the idiots who had been standing behind him were hit, and knocked down. Six of them were on the ground in six seconds, and at this point, no one cared if they were dead or alive.

There was a gaping hole in the circle of the Crib, but was quickly, but thinly, filled. Spot knew he could probably break out of it is he wanted to, but he was lying on the ground, his head feeling like it was splitting, and a small trickle of blood coming from a cut in his hair somewhere.

'There ain't no way ta get out,' he though, and a warm, fuzzy feeling eased him. He knew he was about to pass out, but he was Spot, and he couldn't. He... couldn't... He wouldn't, if there was anything he could about it. He sat up, and Curly, who had recovered, was walking over to him.

'Ya call yaself da King? Ya can't even fight fer ten minutes," he mocked.

But that was his mistake, because NO ONE mocked Spot's position. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. That was his one sliver of pride that, no matter what happened, would not be taken from him. He had worked harder than anyone had ever worked to make that title for himself, and it would remain.

And now, Curly was going to pay.

Clearing his head, he stamped out on Curly's right foot, causing him to jump. While he jumped, Spot whipped his other leg out from under him, and elbowed him in the stomach. The brute was the one on the floor now.

Spot had a scary look in his eyes. It was that of murder, and built up anger, and he was going to unleash it. For years, he had been teased and picked on by this boy, who lay before him now. Time for revenge.

There were so many bloody, horrible things he could think of to do, but armed with on a walking stick, the choices were limited.

There was a whistling in the distance.

"Crap, it's da Bulls!" shouted the onlookers, and quickly split up, each running in their own directions, before no one was left. But Spot did not move, and neither did Curly.

Curly smiled up at him. "Whattaya gonna do?" he asked, smartly.

Spot did the only thing he could do - held his cane so the metal end was facing his enemy. He raised it, and smashed it down on Curly's face, hitting him from side to side. Probably breaking his nose. Payback for the chain, and he seemed to be unconscious, as Spot himself had almost been.

The Bull's whistle grew louder, and he turned and ran.

Ali felt sick.

It was the middle of the night, and she had a huge fever. Her parents sat by her side, her father anxiously waiting for the doctor and her mother holding her hand. There was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," her father said, rushing from the room. Thinking it was the doctor, he opened the door. Instead, standing there was a short boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with a dirty grey hat on his head and old clothes.

"Hey there, mista," he said courteously, taking off the cap, " My name's Anthony. I know it's really late, but is yer daughta Ali here?" He had a Brooklyn accent.

"You mean Andria?" Her parents never called her by her nickname.

"Yeah."

Her father, who was named William, was taken aback by the kid, but couldn't say no. "Uh, uh, umm, yes. She's right upstairs -but," he said, stopping Anthony from walking in, "But, she's really sick. Keep your distance."

Racetrack nodded. "Thank ya, mista."

So, Racetrack was back in the Bronx. He had returned home earlier, but nothing interesting had been happening. As he lay in his bunk in the nice, clean Manhattan lodge, all his thoughts were of Ali. So, at one in the morning, he got up quietly and started on his journey.

Of course, being who he was, he got sidetracked - he stopped at a few pubs and a bar along the way. So what if he forgot about the time? After an angry bartender dumped some cold water on his head, he remembered what he had set out to do - see Ali. And so he would.

Ali's house was... nice. It smelled of cinnamon and potpourri. A small fireplace sat in the corner, with two logs burning. The house was warm and cozy, and would probably make a great place to stay in the cold of winter... If they were still friends by then.

As he went up the stairs, her mother, Victoria, came down, and stopped, staring at the strange boy who was in their house.

"William," she asked, "Who is that?"

"One of Andria's friends. I suggest you go up and listen in - make sure nothing happens."

Upstairs, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," called Ali, and Racetrack entered the room, smiling. "Racetrack!" she cried, in surprise and delight, then realized she had to keep her voice down.

"Ali," he said, relieved, "Why you sick?"

"How should I know?"

"I didn't make ya sick, did I?" Street rats like him were more immune to viruses and bugs than someone like her who was always sheltered.

"Nah, I was running around without a scarf of a jacket before. That's most likely why. But I might have the flu."

Racetrack gulped. The flu was... bad. As far as he knew, there wasn't a cure for it yet (Note: In 1899, the flu was a deadly virus, and there was no vaccine yet). But he tried to hide his worry and grinned. "Ya used ta gettin' vis'ters (visitors) at three in da mornin'?"

Ali shook her head and coughed. "Now I've seen everything," she laughed. They watched each other for a few minutes in silence.

"So, why'd you come here?" she asked.

"Ya said ta come back da next day, an' accowdin' (according) ta my wondaful (wonderful) educatin (education), the day starts at twelve. So I'm here now."

They sat in another moment of silence, before Ali said, 'Do you newsies consider yourselves a gang?"

"A... gang?"

"Yeah."

"Kinda. We got leadas an' territories an' all that."

"So you do have a gang," she said. (Note: Back in the day, having a 'gang' didn't always mean a bad thing. To have a gang of friends, which is what they are talking about now, was good and most of the time, legal. However, to have a gang today is looked down upon.) "Don't tell anyone else this, but I have one too."

Race stared at her. A girl in a gang? Was that even possible?

"Wha?" he asked. Ali grinned.

"Well, we have a union, as you put it. Me and Natalie and some other girls. In all, about seventeen members."

"What's it faw?" Race asked, and Ali gave him a funny look.

"What does that mean?"

"Evwy union has ta have a cause."

"Does yours?'

Racetrack shrugged. "It did but... Well, dat ain't the same thing. We was a union, but now we is just a gang, I think."

"Okay," she concluded," so there is no reason for yours, and ours. But we have one, and I thought I should tell you. I just have a feeling you should know."

Race took note that her pretty brown hair was scattered all over, and a piece of it hung in her face, and she may have not been bothered, but it annoyed him. So, delicately reaching out, he brushed the piece out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

Ali smiled, and opened her mouth to say something, but before anyone could say anything else, footsteps were heard at the door, and the doctor walked in. Race quickly pulled his hand away and stood up.

Looking something like Pulitzer with his big bushy beard and brown hair, he strutted in and put down his briefcase, filled with lots of medicines. At his heels came Victoria and William, looking worried. Racetrack knew they were paying a lot for him to come, but sometimes the doctors wouldn't charge. He moved aside.

After twenty minutes of poking probing, temp-taking, and a bazillion other things, the doctor stood up. He went over to her parents and said something, before nodding. Her parents sighed. She'd be alright.

William turned to Race. 'I think it's time you go," he said, but not angrily. "Dad," Ali called in protest, but Race nodded. "Yes, sir."

He went over to Ali and gave her a small hug, the sweet scent of her hair surrounding him, and before he pulled away, she whispered into his ear, "I'll see you soon."