Ecch. Sorry for lack of update. I realize it's been over a month...lazy on my party, really. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I hope I'm not going too slow with this...I'm just having trouble figuring out exactly where I want it all to go. Feedback is gracious and helps so, so much. I'll try to update more frequently, and next chapter there is definitley going to be Lottie/Spot interaction. I want to get things moving along... :):) Thanks for all the reviews! They were most kind...next chapter I'll give shout outs, but I'm in a bit of a rush and I want to post this ASAP.

Disclaimer: Nothin', nothin', nothin'. Lottie though...and the plot...that's about it... :):)

The sun beat down on Spot's back as he sold his last morning pape. His fingers were swelled and blistered, covered in black ink, and a trickle of sweat was making its way down the back of his neck. He couldn't find his cap and he felt the consequences of its absence—he was no doubt getting sunburn on his face, his cheeks burning painfully. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as he made his way down the crowded Brooklyn Street, toward Biddy's Diner where the Brooklyn newsies usually met for lunch. Spot pushed his messy locks out of his eyes and side-stepped a vender selling apples on the corner of fifty-first. The day was bustling and busy, a typical late spring afternoon—a whisper of summer was in the air and the excitement of New York City was alive and burning.

Though the street was crowded and noisy, full of plenty of witnesses, Spot kept his eyes alert and his ears pricked for any suspicious noises. He was aware of his surroundings at all times, and his senses were sharp. Since the attacks started on the newsies of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens, everyone was tense and vigilant. Spot didn't know how much longer he could take it before he seriously snapped—if any one of his newsies were jumped, he knew he'd be too far gone, he knew his temper would boil so fierce…and if that happened, Shooter and Tricks, the leaders of the Bronx and Harlem, had better watch their backs.

After a few more minutes of pushing his way through the thick crowd of venders, passerby, and the occasional shady looking bum on the corner which was all too familiar on a Brooklyn street, Spot reached Biddy's and made his way through the heavy glass door, a little bell tinkling as his presence was made known. The small diner was packed full of Brooklyn newsies…the boys of Brooklyn took over the place when their papes were all sold—it was like an unwritten law…the newsies always got the diner mid-afternoon. It was their haven, a place to get away besides the Lodging House—have a hot meal, play a few rounds of poker, socialize, or gossip abbout their day. But today it was a place for Spot to sit alone and think about everything that was going on. It was a place for him to try and think of a plan, anything, to help his newsies and those of Queens and Manhattan. All the fighting needed to stop…and they didn't even know why Harlem and the Bronx were attacking them so. Newsie life could be damn fucked up sometimes.

Spot's head began to pound and he felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. He made his way to a booth in the center of the diner, saying hi to his fellow newsies on his way, taking a seat on his lonesome. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, desperately trying to will it away. He'd been getting frequent migraines for a few months now, but he could no sooner afford a doctor than go dancing around stark naked without getting laughed out of the city. After a few moments of waiting, he gave his order to a waiter and leaned back against his seat, eyes closed and back creaking. The sun poured in from the large front window, and it warmed his face, making him feel lazy and content. He started to doze off when the little bell tinkled above the door sending him jerking straight. He groaned…just as he was about to fall into a little nap too. He opened one eye in curiosity to whoever had interrupted his relaxed state of mind, and his eyes went slightly wide.

A girl had entered the diner, and upon seeing her face Spot's mind immediately began turning—her face was familiar, he knew her from somewhere and yet he couldn't quite place where. Another fling perhaps? The possibility was great, but for some reason Spot couldn't remember bedding this girl—well, he couldn't remember a lot of the girls he bedded—but he had definitely seen this one before. And then it dawned on him—it was the girl from the other night, the new hooker who'd annoyed him when she obviously had been inexperienced. He couldn't remember her name—Lauren or Lyddie or something… Spot grimaced as he recalled the night's events—what the hell was the girl doing in the diner? Didn't she know that newsies got the diner around this time? He'd never seen her around before—he didn't even think she'd ever lived in Brooklyn.

By the look on the girl's face, it looked like she had never been in the diner before. Spot hadn't recognized her right away, for her hair was loose and laying in long, thick curls about her, and her eyes were free from the dark, smudged coal lining. Instead of the provocative red dress she had sported in Spot's company, she now wore a simple, if anything rather ratty, work dress, the sleeves rolled up at her arms. She looked much younger without any make up on and quite vulnerable—especially the way her eyes were widened in fright at the sight of thirty something newsboys staring at her.

Spot continued to watch the girl, unsure if he should go up to her or not. He didn't know why he even felt the need to approach her—he didn't even know her, and he certainly had no desire to know her. But he felt kind of bad just watching her squirm, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Before he could decide on what exactly to do, the girl seemed to have found some courage and made her way to the front counter, her eyes set directly in front of her, as if trying hard to ignore the stares and comments around her.

From where he was seated, Spot had a clear view of her back as she stood at the counter, tightly gripping her dress and making her order. When she was finished, she stood there uncertainly, taking another look around the place. By now the newsboys had shrugged her off, not really caring anymore. The diner took up its once lively chatter again, and the girl was left to wait for her food.

Spot's food finally came, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he found himself watching the girl again. He felt stupid and foolish—why was he bothering to look at her? She'd made a fool of him a few days ago and here he was watching her like some kind of stalker. She wasn't even that cute, Spot reasoned. At least if she was good-looking, he'd have an excuse to be watching so. She was kind of plain—the kind of girl most would just look over and never second glance.

Before he could ponder anything more about the strange girl, she'd grabbed her food and made her way towards the door. Just as she was about to leave, her eyes locked with Spot's. He felt himself stiffen and just kind of look dumbly at her. The girl's eyes widened slightly, letting Spot know she knew exactly who he was. She didn't wave energetically like most girls would have done, she didn't flounce over to him, and she didn't even stop walking. She just gave him a questioning look, as if to say 'I know you recognize me'. Then, she smiled at him…a small smile, her eyes kind and gentle, a smile he'd never really received from a girl—a reserved smile, polite yet friendly. He didn't return the gesture…just kept looking at her as she walked passed him and out the door, never looking back or anything.

Spot stared at the door for a few seconds before snapping out of it and rubbing his temples. Blaming his inability to function properly on his migraine, he settled into his sandwich and forgot all about the girl who'd smiled at him but kept on walking.

"Spotty Conlon, I ain't ever seen ya's dis quiet! In fact, you'se never keep ya damn trap shut."

Spot looked up from his seat on the dock, the bright sun glaring down upon him. Jack Kelly stood before him; sweat glistening on his bronze skin; hand over his eyes, looking down at his best friend. Spot smirked, standing up and shrugging. The two spit shook and Spot sighed, leaning against a large dock and looking out over the vast Brooklyn River, the waters glistening blue from the bright sun.

"Heya Jacky-boy," Spot greeted, turning his face back to his friend. Jack looked tired and spent, probably from the long trek to Brooklyn in the hot weather. Spot had finished his lunch at the diner earlier and was just about to go pick up the evening edition to sell, when his routine was halted by the presence of the Manhattan leader. It wasn't an uncommon thing—Jack and Spot were just as comfortable in each other's boroughs as their own, and plenty of times Jack Kelly would drop by, sell a few papes with Spot, talk politics, either spend the night or head back to Manhattan—either way, Spot knew why Jack had come. To try and figure out exactly what they were going to do with their current predicament with Harlem and the Bronx…it was a subject Spot quickly tired of, but one of great importance.

"Ya look so out of it," Jack commented, wiping at his brow which glistened with perspiration. Spot looked at his best friend and studied him, wondering if he should tell Jack about the girl the other night or not. More than likely Jack would understand—Spot knew Jack wouldn't laugh or anything like that, but he still felt kind of embarrassed about the whole situation—especially since he had no real reason as to why the girl was bothering him so. Usually he'd just forget about her, never think twice…and he had, except she just had to come to the diner today and jog his memory. Argghh, Spot thought angrily. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed deeply. He thought way too much.

"I don't feel so hot," Spot told his friend, still debating on whether or not to indulge into the story of the strange hooker. "Kinda have a headache."

Jack looked at Spot, quirking an eyebrow. Spot cursed his friend right then…Jack always knew when something was bothering someone. It was one of the many traits that made him a great friend and a superb leader. It was a trait Spot lacked, a trait that only so many were blessed with. Personally, Spot didn't mind lacking the ability to tell if someone was troubled—in fact, his life was easier that way. Don't ask, they won't tell. Simple. Sure, it may have been a bit cold and bitter of him, but Spot had his own problems to worry about—he didn't need to be bombarded with other people's problems as well. Of course, Jack was a different story. He went out of his way to make sure those around him were happy, while his own problems stirred in the storm that was inside of him. Occasionally Jack would open up to Spot, or Race, or someone close to him, but he mostly liked his problems to himself.

"You shoah?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. "Ya don't look like it's just a headache." Spot winced inwardly, wishing Jack would just leave him to his shitty self.

"I guess it's all this shit that's going on," Spot half-lied. Sure, a lot of it was with the boroughs fighting, but more of it was personal. He just felt so drained…so empty. And he had no idea why. He wondered briefly if he was falling into a minute depression. "Ya know, wid da boroughs an' everythin'."

At the mention of the boroughs, Jack's eyes lit up. A dawning expression took over his features, and his eyebrows rose high. "Oh yeah!" Jack said excitedly. "I forgot—the reason I came heah was ta tell ya that one of Blaze's boidies came back wid a shitload of information!"

Spot snapped his head up, suddenly extremely interested in what Jack had to say. "What? What dey say!"

Jack began to untie his red bandana, the heat almost unbearably hot. "I know, right. Crazy. Well Blaze came tah me dis aftahnoon all troubled an' whatnot. Heah, the boidie Blaze sent over got friendly with Tricks' right hand man—apparently they ain't too cahful of who dey spill information wid…anyway, Blaze's boidie pretended to be out of it, not knowin' what was goin' on…an' the kid told him pretty much all we needed tah know…"

"Well, what was it!" Spot demanded impatiently. Jack waved his hand in front of him.

"I'se gettin' there, I'se gettin' there," Jack said. "Well, heah Tricks an' Shootah want part of Queens' land…see, dere's dis unknown territory, supposedly Harlem and the Bronx want it for their own, like a joint borough. But, Blaze knows for a fact dat the territory belongs to Queens, it always has, an' they use it for like special meetin's an' stuff, no one evah knew about it befoah but Queens, and somehow Tricks an' Shootah found it. The place is kinda like a headquarters for Queens when their Lodgin' House ain't secret enough."

Spot shook his head, confused. "But dat don't explain why we is gettin' attacked."

Jack sighed. "I ain't finished yet. Ya see, Tricks an' Shootah are tryin' to wear us all down…they'se is tryin' to get us all weak an' shit, break us down, cause they plan to attack, an' when they's do we'se won't be able tah fight back as bad, and they can get the territory easily."

Spot looked hard out to the Brooklyn River, his mind whirling and spinning. He couldn't believe what he was hearing…he had once considered Tricks and Shooter close friends…politics could sure mess someone up. It was disgusting how they could turn on one another so easily.

"An' Tricks' right hand man told Blaze's boidie all dis?" Spot asked disbelievingly. "Dat seems a little unlikely."

Jack shrugged. "Yeah, dat's da only t'ing dat don't fit…but Blaze's boidies is damn good…they'se can pretty much trick anyone into spillin' out anythin'…"

Spot sighed, trying to digest all that Jack had just poured into him. He didn't know why this whole war was taking such an exhausting toll on him…well, he knew why it bothered him—it was his boy's safety that was at stake. From the moment he had become leader of the Brooklyn newsies, he knew all the responsibility that was entrusted with him. Though he'd rather diet than admit it to anyone, sometimes it really was a bit much. Sometimes that hard exterior Spot put on every second, sometimes it was painful to keep up. But Spot was a fighter, strong, and he knew he'd make sure his boys came out of this alive if it was the last thing he did.

"What's botherin' you Spot?"

Spot flicked his eyes up to Jack, trying to read into his question. Really, how could Jack sense that someone was hurting? Especially Spot, who did so well to hide it? How could he just know? Spot was slightly amazed at his friends 'sixth sense.'

"I told ya already," Spot grumbled, having a feeling he'd end up telling Jack anyway, but rather to drag out the process in an attempt to gather his jumbled and swirling thoughts.

Jack quirked an eyebrow, biting on a hang nail that looked quite painful. "Don't play dumb wid me. I ain't stupid ya know. What the hell is makin' you look all bothered an' shit?"

Spot bit his lip, finally deciding the hell with it. Why not tell Jack about the hooker from the other night? Jack wouldn't laugh, Jack would probably find it interesting and want to know more about this girl. Spot knew Jack wouldn't think Spot was foolish, and for that Spot was glad to have Jack to talk to.

"Dammit Kelly," Spot growled. "I swear, one of these days I'se is gonna figah out how ya can tell when somethin' is botherin' someone."

Jack smirked and shrugged. "Just one of my many gifts."

"Yeah whatevah," Spot chuckled. "I dunno. The otha night, right, I was waitin' foah Spice to get here."

Jack whistled. "Spice? That blonde beauty? Damn Conlon, you shoah know how tah pick 'em. From the Widow's Rose right?"

Spot nodded, ignoring Jack's comment about Spice. "Yeah, her, well I was waitin' foah her in me room, and instead of Spice like I was expectin' Miss Velvadine sends me this new broad. She was real young, like sixteen or somethin'. I forget 'er name…Lyddie or Lanie or somethin'…Well, it wouldn't have been a big deal, ya know, if this girl hadn't been so…I dunno, weird?"

Jack frowned. "Whaddya mean 'weird'? She wasn't some psycho witch girl was she?"

Spot laughed at his friend's absurdity. "Er, no, not that weird. Just real noivous an' shit. Like all chattery. She wouldn't even do nothin' wid me! She fuckin' was like…afraid of my touch or somethin'. Can ya believe dat?"

Jack shook his head, his eyes widening. "A goil refuse Spotty Conlon's touch? Damn, I just saw a pig fly."

Spot rolled his eyes, slightly regretting telling Jack. "I'm bein' serious heah. Have ya evah hoid of an inexperienced hookah? I mean, she was nice an' all…and then I saw her today too. And she just, looked at me and gave me this smile and just kept on walkin'. Fuckin' weird."

Jack stood there, a pondering look on his face. He was silent, and Spot looked at to the river, watching the current swirl below them. The sun was heading west, the day growing later and later.

"Ya think Miss Velvadine'll send 'er again?" Jack finally asked. Spot shrugged.

"I hope not," he mumbled. A gaggle of newsies caught his eye as they made their way to pick up their evening papers. "We bettah go buy the evenin' edition. S'gettin' late."

Jack obliged, and the pair made their way off. Spot followed his friend, trying desperately to rid his mind of that damn hooker and her strange smile earlier in the day. Why, why, why wouldn't she just leave his mind?