Crouching over the toilet in the cramped bathroom stall, Spot shoved two fingers to the back of his throat. He hated doing this. In fact, if you asked him, Spot would tell you he has never made himself throw up. It was a sign of weakness. His gag reflex activated alarmingly and his stomach spilled out before him within no time. Charming, he thought.

No, this was not the price he was paying for too much fun the night before. Nor was he sick. This was something itching to get out. It was driving him to the point where he could not fight it any longer and he chose to regurgitate it back up. Spot had had another sleepless night. He had tossed and turned in his sheets, the same dreams plaguing his mind.

Running, sprinting, racing…He had entered the same place he always did: A dead and lifeless city without any inhabitants. He had been alone again. He had dashed through the streets with but a sliver of moonlight ahead of him, once more going south. Until he had stopped. He had rounded a corner and stopped directly in front of a run-down building. This place, this once-strong edifice seemed as if it had braved everything and it was on its last thread of hope.

The cold, bone-chilling breeze felt like it had been sucking the air right from his lungs. Then there had been movement. Just ahead of him, through the decrepit, black doorway of the tall and crumbling building. His feet had taken him there, all the way until the doorstep. His numb fingers pushed open the door and what terrifying thing before him had knocked him off his feet and onto his back.

Before Spot had a chance to see what it was, he was awake. His flesh crawled with goosebumps and his chest heaved in and out dramatically. Gabby had not woken up; she never really did anymore. He lay awake for the remainder of the night. Thinking of the dream and the uneasiness it gave him drove him to the bathroom stall that morning.

At work, Spot got Benny to cover for him after his lunch break. He had to meet Bolt. They hadn't seen each other in over and month, and were long overdue for catching up.

The Brooklyn Bridge stood before him on the horizon while Spot sat casually at an empty spot near the Hudson River docks. It wasn't a very ideal place to meet an old friend: the strong smell of dead fish created a suffocating cloud of rotten stench. With the current condition of his stomach, Spot seriously considered walking away. Nevertheless, the bridge before him overtook the smell, for it brought him comfort.

"Hey," came a familiar voice behind him.

Spot turned his head at a glance and came back. Not a second later did he realize it was Bolt. Without Bolt's usual, whimsical greeting, Spot did not know who it was.

"Oh, hey." Spot got to his feet and looked at his oldest friend; he barely even recognized him. Bolt was thinner than his usual lean. He was skinny. His face had grown much paler and his light brown hair lay flat on his head.

"How ya been?" asked Bolt in an exhausted voice. A smile strained onto his bony face. It was not the type of smile one paints on against their will; it was truly difficult for Bolt to smile. His cheeks were no longer and his eyes seemed exasperated and tired.

"I'm all right." Spot was unsure whether to ask him how he had been. He suddenly felt terrible for making Bolt walk all of this way just to meet him for conversation. It looked like a light breeze would send him away.

"Good to hear." Bolt's brown eyes traveled to one of the fisherman on the docks as he rubbed the back of his neck. Spot noticed his left eye was healing from a small bruise.

"Ya wanna get some lunch?" inquired Spot hopefully. The boy needed to eat.

Bolt furrowed his eyebrows and dug around his trouser pockets pulling out the tip of only a limp cigarette. No jingling of change was to be heard. "Uh…"

"I got it, don't worry 'bout it," offered Spot.

"No, it's—"

"Bolt."

There was a long pause as if agreeing to a free lunch was painfully hard. "Okay."

Tibby's Restaurant was fairly busy while they waited on their food to be served. Bolt had been tapping his fingers nervously against the table for some time now, and if Spot looked under the table he would find Bolt's foot tapping against the ground incessantly. Cigarettes and coffee was the routine meal for him now, Spot deduced. Bolt needed a full meal. Or two, or three.

"How's life treatin' ya now?" asked Spot carefully. "How's Brooklyn?"

"It's all right…I mean, how excitin' can sellin' papahs be?" answered Bolt. He grabbed the glass of soda in front of him and gulped it down.

Immediately the response did not set well with Spot. It spoke volumes of trouble and he could call out Bolt's bluff with ease. And Bolt was so good at poker…

"I don't buy it," spoke Spot.

Bolt's eyes looked up at his friend's skeptical stare. He sat back and threw his palms upward. "Well, what the hell d'ya want me to say, Spot?"

There again was a hint of Bolt's lost character. He had always called him "Conlon." Only a few situations arose in which Spot was called his first name by Bolt.

"I dunno, I mean, are things slow, they good, any problems with the boys? That kinda stuff," sighed Spot in an aggravated tone. He watched Bolt outline the rim of his glass while he drummed his fingers quickly against the polished wood surface. Spot reached to his hand and stopped Bolt from any more movement. "You ain't tellin' me somethin'."

Bolt's knitted eyebrows loosened as he let loose the grip on the drink. "It just ain' the same as it used to be is all. Sales is average, we ain't 'at war' with anyones. 'Cept Queens boys keep leakin' in to our turf still." An irritated scoff came from his mouth as he shook his head.

Spot reacted quizzically, surprised. "Queens? Thought we settled that." How could anyone forget…

"Yeah, me too. But soon as you left they started comin' in to sell our papes and goin' back to Queens at the end 'a the day. And that's a damn far walk just to be sellin' in Brooklyn."

"Just tell 'em to get lost!" Spot's voice rose an octave at Bolt's indifference. "Whatsa mattah with 'em? Why would they wanna sell our stuff anyway…?"

"We did. They don't listen. They don't got a leadah. They come in, spend the day heah, and pick fights with our guys. And they know we know who's from Queens and who's from Brooklyn. Thompson and I been tryin' to haul 'em out everyday but they just keep on comin'."

Spot let out a disappointed sigh. "How many come to Brooklyn?"

Bolt looked up in thought. "Started out with a couple of 'em. Then it got to be near nine or ten. Now it's almost fifeen. They don't even buy that many papes so it ain't like they showin' off how good they are. They just come in, get around twenty, twenty-five papahs, and bug the hell outta ev'ryone. It's like they just doin' it to be pests."

"'Course they're pests. When have you known 'em not to be pests?"

The waiter came around and brought their lunch to the table. Bolt spared no time getting to his bowl of hot vegetable soup and bread. He stuffed it all down so fast Spot worried he would choke himself to death.

"We barely e'en do an'thing to 'em now," said Bolt through a mouthful of bread. "We just don't see the point in tryin' to get 'em to leave when they won't."

Spot dropped his sandwich inches before getting to his mouth. "Did I heah you right?"

Bolt looked up with a puzzled look.

Spot threw his sandwich back down to the plate. "Bolt, ya can't just let 'em get away with ev'rything! That's givin' 'em power over you, and I did not fight last yeah just so they can come back in and do whatever the hell they want. Might not seem like a big deal that they ain't doin' anythin', but it's still the fact they got they balls to do it. Don't forget which territory you'se from."

Bolt gulped down his food slowly at a loss for words.

It quickly became evident that Brooklyn lacked the reputation it very much deserved. As he walked about the street after lunch, Spot tried his best to let out the aggravation it all gave him. Was he that valuable to Brooklyn that it fell apart once he left? Did he choose the wrong person to continue him? Bolt was his first and only choice for the job; he would not have it any other way. So why was everything so messed up?

Spot kicked a rock hard in front of him and it hit the ankle of a girl standing outside an apartment building. He looked up and the girl looked at her leg, then back up at Spot, and instantly smiled.

"Hey you," she said in a certainly-happy-to-see-you sort of way.

"Oh. Hey Kat," replied Spot carelessly. It was the girl from the bar last week. The girl with cherry red lipstick.

Kat glided over in her bust-friendly dress and placed a long kiss on his cheek; Spot definitely felt a pinch the lower side of his hips too. He did not, however, return the pleasant greeting with his hands in his pockets.

"You okay? Ya look like someone just killed your best friend."

It looks like it, thought Spot with an image of the new Bolt entering his mind. "I'm sorta dealin' with a lot right now."

"Well, you wanna come upstairs and we can talk about it?" Even in her friendly tone she sounded sultry. "I'll make us some tea and we can talk about what's botherin' you. Just us. Away from the noisy, crowded streets. You an' me."

Something told Spot that even if they did go upstairs, just them, Kat would still enjoy the audience of the "noisy, crowded streets." He knew there would be very little tea involved.

Spot thought about this for a very long time. So long, in fact, he forgot he hadn't given Kat an answer. "Let's just take a walk."

A look of defeat washed over her face very faintly until she said reluctantly, "Okay." She turned to the side and waited for Spot to join her.

Spot swallowed down and took a deep breath. There was no harm in going for a little walk, was there? It's not like Gabby would have time to listen to everything anyway, and by now she was so fed up with him that she would sooner knock him out than help him sort through problems. No, he was not breaking any rules and cheating any sort of system by going for a walk. Right?

It was when his hand slid around Kat's hips as they strolled past her apartment building that he felt a twinge of guilt come over him. Kat then scooted in closer to his side and brushed her hand up around his opposite cheek, stroking over the firm jaw line.

Spot did not look at her, even though he felt her gaze, and continued to walk. He brought her hand down from his face but still held onto her hips, his face unmoving. Acting only on impulse and hardly any sense, he swiftly walked Kat over to the side of an alley and pinned her against the brick. Ignoring the purr of giggle issuing from her throat, he gripped her shoulders and kissed her lips. Hard.

A/N: I hope you're enjoying this one as much as the last. I am, just because I want to explore each character more. It's very different, I know. But I hope you're getting to see the main purpose of the story--the difficulty of leaving a world you've known all your life and starting a new one, specifically with Spot and Gabby. I know it is a little dark and depressing, but hey, I've created these lives so we don't have to live them! Post your thoughts...