For Brooklyn 2

By: Ambrlupin

Chapter seven: Why!

Summary: Spot is being forced to leave New York, but how will Brooklyn take it? How will Red...? One thing is for sure though. No one is going to let him go without a fight. (Sequel to For Brooklyn)

Disclaimer: No. I. Do. Not. OWN. Blah.

A/n: SECOND half of my first Newsie fic. -smile-

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"You don't get it, do you? Spot isn't just a newsie of Brooklyn. He is Brooklyn. He is the air that you breathe, the ground under your feet, the sky above your head, everything you see he has bled to protect, and you will, BY GOD, SHOW HIM SOME RESPECT!" - Red.

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Blinking his eyes open, Spot yawned, rubbing at his face as he took a look around. He didn't remember falling asleep again, and certainly didn't remember when he had fallen asleep in Race's bed.

...Race...?

Scrambling to his feet he looked around, trying to get some idea where the poker player had gone. He should never have fallen asleep, he shouldn't have let his guard down. He still wasn't a hundred percent sure Race wouldn't do something stupid...

Plus he wanted to tell him what he had done.

He spun on his heel and his eyes spied the corner of an object that had been sticking out from under the small lump the newsies called a pillow.

Frowning, Spot leaned forward, tugging on it and drawing it out. It was a card, a playing card he recognized as belonging to Race's deck, but it was the card itself that froze him where he stood, made his breath catch in his throat.

It was the Jack of Clubs. Race's card.

"Hey, Race!" Skittery laughed as he leaned over the smaller newsie. "You've told us what cards we are, but what about Spot?"

Spot looked up from where he was sitting, sipping his drink, "Naw, don't worry about it. I don't care-"

"AW, be a sport, Spottie!" Specs cried, clapping him on the back, "Go on, Race, which one is our lovely master here?"

Race smiled, flipping the card off the top of the deck. "King of Diamonds."

"And that means what, exactly?" Spot, the ever clueless. Sure, he was king, and that was cool. But what did it mean...?

"Fair-haired man, or a man of the Earth. A man of authority, status, or influence."

"Sounds bout right!" Dutchy called out from the back.

The leader of Brooklyn chuckled, "So, who else has gotten a face card?"

"Red and Ace. Red is the King of Hearts- a fair haired man with a good nature, usually of water. He has fair, helpful advice, and is affectionate and caring. He helps youwithout much in the way of talking, but his actions reveal all."

The Brooklyn newsies nodded, yeah, that was Red all right. Some of them looked over to

where the elder was sitting and he flashed them a smile. Ace, who was sitting right next to him, raised his glass with a flourish.

"I, dear friend, am the King of Clubs!" He smirked and recited, "Darker-haired and

kind, with fire as his element. Generous, spirited, and the handsomest of them all!"

The group laughed and Race threw a pillow at him, "That wasn't in there, you big tub of lard!"

Spot grinned, "Oh yea? Then you are...?"

"Sure you can handle it?" He teased, shuffling his cards with quick movements.

Suddenly he flicked his wrist , sending one sliding out in front of him, face-down. "Im the Jack of Clubs." He reached over and flipped it so everyone could see that the card he held was truly the Jack.

Now Spot held it, and couldn't help the panic that spread through his mind. No, no, no, it couldn't be...not Race...

The card was torn nearly in half, and taped to it, back-to-back, was another. He flipped it and stiffened in horror.

"Hey, Race...ya dropped one." Spot reached down and picked up the lone card, turning it over in his hand. It looked harmless enough, just a simple card, an ace to be exact. But his heart slammed hard in his chest, his stomach did flips and he could only look up as Race's eyes fell to the card he held and sucked in a sharp breath.

"What is it?" He had managed to ask, "What does this card mean?"

"The Ace of Spades." He murmurred, slipping it back into the deck before turning quickly on his heel, "It means misfortune, a difficult ending...or death.'

It was the Ace that Spot held.

All the blood drained from his face in mere seconds, leaving him light-headed and faint. Gripping the side of the table, his legs literally collapsed, sending him to the floor on his knees. All his mind could think about were his father's eyes, seething in rage...

And the dream...

The minute he stepped in the room, however, he knew something was wrong. Someone...was missing...

"Where's Race?" He asked, his heart in his throat as he scanned around the room for the hyper newsie. "Where is he?"

And, just like in the dream, he knew where Race was.

He just prayed to God he was wrong.

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Ace looked up from his game when the door upstairs slammed open and Spot came running down the stairs, half-dressed with a wild look in his eyes. In his left hand he clutched something torn, and in his right he gripped his cane so hard his knuckles were bone white.

"Spot...?" Jack rose slowly from across the table, "Spot? What is it? What's wrong?"

'Who are you going to kill?' was left unsaid.

Because, judging by the way he stormed down the last steps, he was indeed, going to kill someone. Every one in the common room knew that, just as they knew that if they didn't get out of the way, they would be the ones meeting the ground face-first.

So they moved, every single one of them flying back to the walls in an attempt to keep out of Spot's line of vision. And none of them breathed again until he was out the doors and running off down the street.

Dutchy, who was the one closest to the entrance, bent down to pick up something Spot had dropped. His eyes widened and he staggered backwards, nearly knocking over Specs, who reached out and steadied him quickly.

"What's wrong!"

Dutchy gulped as he held up the mutilated cards, just as the bottom half of the Jack fell away, floating down to land on the floor.

Race...

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As soon as Spot's foot left the lodging house he bolted, slipping in and out of people, his legs flying as he pushed them to their limits, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, ignoring the looks he was getting, ignoring the annoying voice in the very back of his head that told him he was already too late.

He ignored it all and kept on running.

His breath was ragged by the time he came to his street, his legs burning and ready to fall off. Every intake of air hurt him, made him wince in pain, but he couldn't stop...Couldn't take a rest, couldn't pause to catch his breath.

He knew if he did that, he was dooming Race even more.

'Almost there...almost...' That was the chant his mind started up as he blocked all else out but the door to his home as it came closer and closer. 'Almost...THERE!'

He barreled in the door, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Race...

"Race..." He whispered, seeing the Manhattan newsie on his knees, head bowed as tears dried on his face. His back was torn apart worse than Spot's had ever been, blood pouring to the carpet in a scarlet waterfall.

He couldn't even look up at Spot.

"Do you like you're present, Matthew?"

"Why!" Spot snapped weakly, having to grip the frame to keep from collapsing. Tears were building up in his eyes, threatening to spill over and arch down his face in hot lines.

"WHY!"

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I updated in the morning...cause. -grin- so...review? Please?