A/N: Long chapter, but splitting it would not be right. Bear with me, for the end is quite abstract. Stretch your mind…hehe.

Spot knew not to hold his breath. Though he had been carried out of the pitch black closet, he knew sometimes it was better to be kept in the dark in situations such as this—although he could not recall many times which he had been knocked unconscious and stuffed into a closet. Although he would have never told you if you asked, but he had never been more scored in his entire life; scared for himself, yes, but more for Gabby and Noah. He need help.

He sat, still bound and gagged, in the middle of an empty room which held only a dresser against the wall in front of him and a light standing in the corner. Johnny stood beside him currently, unwinding the blood-soaked cloths from his mouth. Spot watched him out of the corners of his eyes with more malice and hatred than he ever knew he could possess.

"Jesus, Conlon, you bite yer tongue er somethin' in there?" asked Johnny, repulsed, as he tossed the scarlet-colored rag across the room.

Before measuring its consequences, Spot hocked back every fluid he had in his mouth and hurled it at Johnny's face, an immature act of assault, indeed, yet extremely well-deserved in Spot's opinion. The Italian quickly wiped it away, even more repulsed now, and back-handed his opponent across the face. His knuckles collided with the bridge of Spot's nose, more pain to enveloping his face.

"Now, yer probably wonderin'…" began Johnny, as if making polite conversation. He hopped up, almost jovially, onto the surface of the dresser in front of Spot. "Why am I doin' this to ya, huh?"

Spot eyed the boy who looked as though he lost ten years while he dangled his feet from the surface of the dresser. He sighed, answering him in a biting, sarcastic tone, "Ya think?"

"Yeah, I'd probably be a lil' suspicious about things if I found myself trapped in a closet a three in the mornin'." Johnny yawned exaggeratedly and continued, "Anyway, I'm gettin' kinda tired so let's just cut to the chase."

Spot sighed again impatiently and turned his eyes away from Johnny's. His feet tapped against the floor incessantly.

"Ya're probably thinkin' to yerself, 'This guy's just pissed off 'bout the way things turned out a few years ago,' but ya couldn't be more wrong, Conlon." He hopped down onto the floor and began walking about the room slowly, as if making a speech. "Well, I mean, ta be honest, that is one reason why I hate yer guts, but not entirely…"

"Save the story, Johnny, just tell me why I'm heah, a'right?" spoke Spot with extreme agitation.

"Hey." Johnny smacked him in the back of his head. "Don't be mean. I hold more cards than ya think I do, Conlon. Wouldn't be wise to piss me off, of all people, know what I'm sayin'? Oh, if yer still wonderin', I didn't lie when I told ya I didn't start that fire at the lodgin' house over in Brooklyn. I mean, I did play a part in it, but only 'cause I was in charge 'a Queens at the time…That's another thing I should tell ya before I kill ya. I had my Queens boys wander 'round Brooklyn fer a while. They started that fire like I told 'em to. Ha! What's even funnier is that you did exactly what I thought you'd do. Ya walk tall but yer still as predictable as evah…"

Johnny walked over to the door and looked into the hallway. Spot watched him curiously with fearful anticipation. It took a moment for him to absorb the information; on some level he knew without a doubt that Johnny played a part in Queens bothering Brooklyn; but he also felt at ease when Bolt told him they had gotten them out of there. So he couldn't help but anticipate Bolt coming to his rescue at the present time, the way he had done for him so many times in the past; but he felt that was next to impossible.

He felt his heart speed up and feared what Johnny could be looking for in that hallway. After a moment, the Italian shook his head and entered back into the room.

"So, where were we? Oh, yeah. I hate you for a different reason, Conlon. I mean, yes, you were in charge of the most intimidating borough in all 'a New York; yes, you defeated Tyce, my only ally in that…war, if that's whatcha wanna call it; yes, you was probably the most respected newsie in the whole city. But when ya dig a little deeper, Conlon, you an' I go way back. Before we was even newsies. An' ya might not even realize it…"

"Whadda ya talkin' about, Johnny?" Spot's eyebrows knitted in confusion. He searched his mind to the furthest corner as quickly as he could to possibly advance one step ahead of him.

Johnny smiled crookedly and smugly. He pulled a chair from the corner and sat strangely close to Spot, who recoiled at the tight distance. Johnny leaned forward on the backrest of his seat with his elbows and set his chin on his arms.

"Why don'tcha tell me yer father's name, before we start," requested Johnny.

Spot was cautious. There was only one reason Johnny Salvini would want to know the name of his father, and it suddenly started to become much clearer. Spot's father, when he was their age, was considered the predecessor of Spot's Brooklyn. He had known fame, even in his prime, but in a way that was not as admirable for some. His father, he had been told before he was killed when Spot was no older than six, was a well-respected figure of the underworld of New York City, his roots in Brooklyn. He was in charge of his gang.

"C'mon, Spot, tell me the name,"

"Patrick Conlon," said Spot lowly. He hung his head and felt the strain on his neck and was unwilling to fix it. He could feel the defeat coming, there was nothing he could do to erase his father's past, and more than likely this had something to do with it.

"Patrick Conlon!" shouted Johnny.

"Johnny, that's got nothin' ta do with you an' me."

Johnny's hand flew to Spot's chest and began digging around the collar of his shirt. He pulled out the key necklace the Brooklyn boy had worn everyday and yanked it hard off his chest. Johnny held it above Spot's head and let the key dangle in front of his face as if he were trying to hypnotize him. As the key got closer to Spot's face, Johnny laughed and eventually scooped it back up with his hand.

"Now that we got that name outta the way, tell me what Árdanach Thirteen means to you," ordered Johnny in a calm, collected fashion.

"Johnny, this is got nothin' ta do with me!" expressed Spot in a gradually enraged tone; the amount of passionate anger in his voice surprised Johnny, and most of all himself. The Italian's eyebrows rose at the sudden inflection of the Mick's voice.

"You're tryin' ta blame me fer somethin' I had no control over, whatsoever!" yelled Spot. "Fuck, I was probably just a baby when what you're about to tell me happened! Grow the hell up and accept that it's not my fault, it's not your fault! Goddammit, Jumper!"

Johnny was taken aback by the Brooklyn boy's oration, as well as the name he was called, but was nonetheless undaunted by it. He inhaled deeply and stood in front of Spot.

"Conlon…you of all people should know that when you'se got a family, newsies or not, ya rise together just as much as ya fall together. Now, I want you to know that Patrick Conlon, the man who handed you over to the streets 'a Brooklyn, killed my father, when I was five years old. Árdanach Thirteen. Nevah been able to forget that night. An arrogant sonuvabitch, that Conlon, short in stature I must admit, but still, cocky as hell…"

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth, Salvini."

Johnny continued, unfazed. "He an' his 'gang,' if ya wanna call it that, stormed into my home in the middle 'a the night. Kidnapped my mother, shot my father in the process." He suddenly leapt forward and grabbed a chunk of Spot's hair near his temple, getting uncomfortably close to his face, forcing eye contact with him and speaking through a clenched jaw. "I watched the whole thing with my own-two-eyes. I was five years old, ya got that, Conlon? Yer potato-sack piece 'a Ireland trash father killed mine."

Spot struggled to control his head. He turned his eyes away and focused on a place in the corner. Suddenly a familiar noise came in the distance. He wasn't sure if it was real or imaginary, but a sound that uncannily resembled Noah's voice streamed into his conscience. For a moment the noise gave him peace. Then Johnny let go of Spot's hair with force and walked backward towards the door.

"Your family…" spoke Johnny as he walked, "killed my family, Conlon. Not just my parents, Spot, Brooklyn killed everythin' I had…newsies, Queens…all 'cause 'a you. Both my families." He grabbed hold of the doorknob tightly. "So, now, in return…"

The door swung open widely and everything Spot feared came to his eyes; Gabby had been bound at the wrists and mouth by Johnny Salvini, the boy from Harlem, and was tossed into the room. She fell to the ground, blood spattering certain places of her body, her wrists and her face. As she looked up at Spot, her evergreen eyes poured floods of tears over her red, scratched-up cheeks. She, as well as Spot before, had a thick cloth tied in her mouth. She could not speak.

"Fucking bastard!" screamed Spot in agony. "I swear to God, Johnny, I'm gonna kill you! Yer dead!" He moved his arms fiercely about in his constraints, wriggling with such force that he started to imagine actually breaking free and murdering him.

"Conlon, don' make promises ya can't keep, a'right?"

Johnny closed the door again and grabbed Gabby by the arm. Resisting out of fear, she fought to get his hands away from her, until Johnny finally jerked her arm practically out of its socket. He sat her down forcefully in the chair that stood inches from Spot.

Spot looked into her eyes, which frequently dodged his gaze, and found no words. His throat felt as though it were swelling and a rare but natural phenomenon occurred; a knot had lodged in his throat and he felt as though he could break down at any moment. Johnny, though, was quick to bring him back to reality. He stood behind Gabby and wrapped his arm across her collar bone, loosely but tight enough for her to remain in place. In his grasp was a simple, powerful handgun which pointed toward the wall.

"It ain't too good of a feelin', is it Conlon?" inquired Johnny, "seein' someone ya love at the other end of a pistol. But wait…Gabby, don't you remember that war a while back? Didn't you play some kinda part in that?"

Gabby's head lowered, her hair, tangled, falling in front of her face.

"Yeah, guilt's a bitch, ain't it?"

Suddenly Johnny pulled the triggered of the gun and the bullet shot through the other end of the room, traveling through the wall and causing Gabby to jump to an upright position.

"Spot, I want you ta look into Gabby's lying, cheating face, an' really see what you'd be missin'. You can let Gabby live but I'll take out the rest 'a yer life. Noah, Bolt, Jack Kelly, the Jacobs', Racetrack, Thompson, Skittery…all 'a them."

Gabby closed her eyes and began hyperventilating, her chest heaving in and out in rapid motion. She sobbed painfully, the cloth in her mouth muffling the sound.

"Or I can kill this one an' be done with the whole thing. Bam, pull the trigga now and you can go back to ya life and everyone else who decorated it, minus the girl, 'a course."

"Yer fuckin' crazy if ya think yer gonna get away with that!" spat Conlon. He looked at him square in the eye, willing himself not to look at Gabby to stay strong, for if he acknowledged her appearance he was sure to fold.

Johnny smiled wickedly and stepped away from Gabby. He made his way toward the door and said, "I had a feelin' you'd say that. So I brought someone else for ya."

Spot closed his eyes as his mind raced. He needed to get out. What had he done in the past to get out? Face the enemy and he'd defeated him. That's how it always was. He dueled with his opponent and he always won. Always. But now, he was helpless. He didn't have control of the situation. He didn't have Bolt, who always aided in his victory. He didn't have Jack Kelly, the most loyal friend he had next to Bolt. He didn't have David Jacobs, the logic, the brains behind every situation. He had nothing except remnants of past triumphs. Only figments of a memory…pieces of the past…

"Open yer eyes, Conlon," demanded Salvini.

Spot came down to reality. He turned his head and in Johnny's arms was Noah, his perfect cheeks red and slick with tears. His innocent being squirming around in the Italian's grasp. Truly his father's boy, Noah wasn't crying. Gabby glanced in Johnny's direction and immediately turned the other way. Her muffled cries resonated lightly through the gag. Her head lowered still, she shook her head and her body trembled violently.

"No! Salvini, I swear!" Conlon felt himself weakening. He felt himself breathing harder and harder, becoming more and more distressed, his voice fading way. His mind sped dizzily, his head shaking from side to side. This was the end. He had a decision to make, he couldn't wait in his choice for fear of the repercussions.

This was his doing! All of this, it was his fault! Spot had created this! His enemies, his brothers, his life, this scene before him was his entire fault! What had he to offer another human being? A life threatened with danger behind every corner? His past lurking about everything in this world, putting others in peril? He had created this!

The past zoomed through every fiber of Spot's being. The war with Tyce. The Queens leader had ripped his key from his neck. He had defeated Brooklyn and cast a spell over it. A light came into his life, a girl who changed him and had ultimately deceived him. The light had not burned out; he had had Noah. They had spawned a life more dangerous than the sins of his and Gabby's. What was he to live and let live if they lived such a life of danger? No matter how smart or courageous or honorable Noah was, he was doomed to suffer from his father's past. He had nothing to live for.

"KILL ME!"

An eerily serene silence enveloped the room which was that of a man coming to terms with his guilt. This helpless, sacrificial act had made for an end to Spot. He panted, slouched over as much as his binds would allow. He sobbed painful cries with the weight of a thousand men. No one spoke. No one moved.

"Ya heard me, Salvini…" croaked the boy who finally controlled his breathing.

Spot Conlon looked up pathetically and dejectedly into Johnny's eyes, who struggled to pick apart the puzzle in his enemy's face.

"Do it."

The Italian raised his head, his chin pointing slightly upward. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and walked to the doorway. He handed the innocent Noah to a lackey who had helped with the scheme. He whispered lowly to the boy and the subservient one walked into the room and grabbed hold of Gabby. Struggling and writhing at first, she was hauled out of the room eventually.

"Salvini. End this."

Johnny looked at Spot and hesitated. He shut the door slowly and walked purposefully to the seat before him. Spot could see his jaw was locked in place, his teeth pressed together sharply. He didn't scare Spot. There was a morbid connection between the two, as if Johnny had respect for the boy who had given himself up, ultimately for Gabby, Noah, Brooklyn; his family.

As Johnny grabbed the root of Spot's hair, lifting up his face with a deadlocked gaze, Spot was at peace. His breathing was calm, his heartbeat normal. Johnny raised the gun to Spot's chin. The Irish boy didn't concentrate on the pistol, or the pistol's holder. He squinted his eyes shut and visited a place bigger than himself.

Deep down, as anyone would feel the same, Spot had chosen his life over his untimely death. He had chosen to watch his son grow up. He had chosen to stay with Gabby and live out the rest of his life. But he didn't have that particular choice of fate; for so long he had had control over others' lives, but never his own. Yet this was his control now. He chose to save his life, which was, undoubtedly, Gabby and Noah.

Salvini cocked the gun. The noise set deep into Spot's stomach. In his heart, he was ready. But his mind pictured a different outcome. In his mind, Bolt had found where he was and the rest of his boys had stormed in with him. He could feel it. He could feel this happening all around him. They had just taken out the group of Johnny's men and were fighting their way toward the room. Gabby and Noah, they were safe; he didn't worry about them. They were safe. Bolt had taken care of them. Bolt was coming to his rescue. He needed not worry.

Now, the door to the room had swung open. Spot had opened his eyes and there stood Bolt, a ghost of his past who had always come to his aid. He held up a pistol to Johnny Salvini. The gun still lodged against Spot's chin. He felt it, he felt it, he felt it. He watched Bolt and he watched Salvini both with pistols in their grasps, equally sharing power. Spot closed his eyes.

There was a single shot. It was a different place, so much bigger than himself...so much bigger.

"Open your eyes, Conlon."