Disclaimer: Spike and Mouse are all that belong to me. Promise.

Author's Note: This chapter is depressing, as well as a little violent. Hopefully not to graphic however - I figure most of you are bright enough to get the idea without me having to paint you a picture. So this is finally the big show down. I wanted this chapter to sort of bring a bitter sweet taste to your mouth. I do not condone killing, and I cannot stand the fics which make newsies disposable, as if bar fight murders and suicides are nonchalant everyday occurances. So since death is indeed a part of this story, this chapter in particular, I wanted to make it a dark, sort of lost innocence, fallen angel type chapter. And I want it to be painfully obvious to readers that we are not dealing with murderers or bad people here - newsies were only children. They lived hard lives, but they didn't have a choice, that was the hand they were dealt. And so, that was my long speech, basically to say, I hope that this chapter of my story kind of touches the depth of killing that so many stories overlook. Because it's not a casual thing at all, and I hope I convey the rawness of it effectively. Hm, anyway, please review and tell me your thoughts.

The next morning broke upon the city warm and radiant. Spot walked home as if in a trance. His head was reeling; his hands were shaking. The last two nights had been the best of his life. Everything from the look on Jack's face when he'd found out, to the laughter of his friends. And then of course there was the feel of Racetrack's fingers on his skin, the sound of his own name on Race's lips, Race's lips in general …Spot felt his face heat up even against the chill air, and realized that blushing was something he'd never done before.

The sky was bright and clear now: the storm had passed, but every inch of the city was blanketed in nearly a foot of white powder. Early as it was, Spot's were some of the only footprints around and the snow still gleamed as if it were composed, not merely of frozen water, but of shining sun crystals.

The walk back to Brooklyn took twice as long as it normally would have, but Spot didn't complain. He needed some time alone with his thoughts. He'd never felt anything quite so powerful in his short life. Everything he'd ever done or seen or been seemed to have brought him to that one night with Racetrack - the annoying Italian who was now more important to him than anything in the world.

Coming upon the docks Spot took no notice at all of his surroundings. Instead he trudged straight to his room, prepared to nap after his exhausting experiences of the last few days. He shut the door behind him and hung up his cap, laid his cane close to his bed, as he always did, and was about the lie down when the door swung open.

Then Spot noticed several things at once. Several things which the sharp-eyed king of Brooklyn would never have missed, but the euphorically in-love Benjamin had overlooked. First, he could hear no voices selling the morning edition. Brooklyn was dead silent. Second, the sentries who usually watched the borders of Spot's realm had not greeted him as he'd come home that morning. And third (and even Benjamin couldn't overlook this one) suddenly all of his boys had barged through Spot's bedroom door without so much as knocking, and were all standing looking expectantly at Spike, who seemed to be leading the bunch.

Spot jumped from his bed, throwing his hands up and screaming. "What in da hall do ya think ya doin'!" Never in his life had he been so disrespected, especially by his own boys, in his own bedroom.

Spike stepped forwards and glared at Spot, saying nothing.

"Ya bettah have a damn good explanation fah dis, Spike …" Spot growled dangerously.

Spike laughed cruelly, and pulled a dagger from the inside of his vest, pointed it directly at Spot's chest and let it speak for itself.

Spot's eyes were wide; he couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. He raised his hands in a surrendering motion, and gazed around at his boys. He had never thought this day would come. Rebellion.

And he was in the worst possible position. No weapon aside from the cane at his bedside, and his own dagger hidden in his mattress, neither of which was in reach. Vulnerable.

Thoughts flew through Spot's mind like hornets: buzzing and angry and demanding attention. He didn't understand how this could have gotten so out of hand. But then he remembered the last few days, and he could … But Spot had an advantage. Spike was strong, sure, and he had the upper hand right now. But Spot had many years of fear and respect behind him. Not to mention Spot knew how to manipulate a crowd. They loved an underdog.

"We're tired a' bein' ignored, Conlon," Spike growled. "We ain't gonna be second aftah some doity Manhattanah."

"Ya don't know what ya talkin' about," Spot tried to coax his opponent. "Dis is stupid, jus' put down da knife."

"I ain't stupid. We's all in agreement here. Ya done in Brooklyn."

So much for trying to be civil. Spike had threatened Spot's kingship, and Spot would have none of it. "God damnit, Spike, ya fuckin' ignorant, ya don't have a clue in da woild what ya doin'. I'm gonna toin around an' count tah ten, an' when I toin back, I expect ya all tah be downstairs, with all dese stupid ideas outta ya head."

And Spot did the only thing he could do in the given situation. He turned his back on the boy holding the knife. Now, Spot knew two things for certain. One: while the Brooklyn boys weren't the most amiable bunch, they prided themselves on fighting fair. They could take out anyone in New York, and they could do it in a clean fight. Spot had made sure of that. And second, for whatever reason, Spike had always been an exception to the aforementioned rule.

So Spot was completely prepared when Spike raised the knife behind his back, ready to strike. And the entirety of the room gasped as one when Spot turned back again, with catlike reflexes, ducking out of the way of the knife and grabbing Spike's elbow to stop the blade. Spot couldn't help but smile at Spike's shocked face in that instant. Because while Spike was strong, it took much more than that to make it in Brooklyn, and Spot possessed the cunning that his opponent lacked. The crowd had watched as words were exchanged, yet Spot had won back the respect of at least half of them without having to utter so much as a word in his own defense. They had watched as the rebel leader tried to stab a man while his back was turned. And Spot was that man. He had made himself the underdog…

Spot twisted Spike's arm backwards and watched as he roared with pain. Then the fight began. The room was still divided. Half were still with Spike: he had merely done what he'd had to do in the face of the situation. The other half were back on Spot's side: Spot didn't deserve this disrespect, and somehow seeing him fearless in battle reminded them of their loyalty.

The two were wrestling over the knife now, and Spot, small as he was, managed to get Spike's grip on it lose enough to knock it a few inches away, just barely evading his grasp. Then, as if in slow motion, Spot saw the situation unfold before him. He saw Mouse at the edge of the crowd, a look of regret for some unknown crime plaguing his face, but overcome by a quiet admiration for Spot in his eyes. The boy saw the knife, and recognized it as his own chance at greatness, to save his king. He scurried over and dropped to his knees to retrieve the dagger.

But just as Spot had seen the situation, so also had Spike. And he reached the knife before Mouse, throwing Spot off as he did so.

Before Spot could do anything, Spike had grasped the knife with both hands, screamed "Traitor!" and there was blood everywhere. Not the blood coming from Spike or Spot's minor scuffle wounds; it was Mouse's blood. The fighting lulled, and no one spoke. Spot watched the boy, smaller and more innocent than any present, fall forward, clutching his stomach in pain until the light was gone from his eyes. He had no dying words; only that look of admiration for Spot which had quickly changed into fear and agony, and something which looked curiously like misunderstanding. Misunderstanding, perhaps, of the situation, of the people around him, of the horribly unkind world in which he'd lived his short life.

There was a moment of silence in which everyone was too shocked to say or do anything. This was the last respects the Brooklyn boys paid to their fallen comrade. Then a surge of heat made it's way through Spot's body. It was unlike him to mourn the death of anyone, even innocents. But not only did Spot mourn Mouse's death, he craved to avenge it.

He was the first to break that shocked silence which lasted barely more than a few seconds. He flew on top of Spike from behind, wrapping all of his limbs around Spike's body with a mighty yell.

And Spike fell, unable to react to such an unexpected attack. His legs crumbled beneath him, and he fell on top of the knife he held, only inches away from Mouse's body. As soon as Spike was down, Spot pushed himself away from his opponent towards where his cane rested next to his bed, the only weapon available to him. Spot noticed as he towered over Spike then, that Spike had lost a finger to the blade when he'd fell on it, and the boy was whimpering on the floor now, cradling his hand. But Spot's fury had no mercy, and there was no stopping him now, not with the heat of battle flowing through his veins.

The Brooklyn boys watched, half in horror, half in wild esteem, as Spot, King of Brooklyn, wielded his gold-tipped cane to beat the life out of Spike, the rebel leader. When it was all through, Spot stood panting above the tragic forms of the two boys, both lifeless on the cold floor. The crowds' heads were all bowed, whether in mourning for their fellow Brooklynites, or in acknowledgement of Spot, no one could know. Perhaps they bowed their heads because they could not stand to look at each other. They were defeated, ashamed, afraid of themselves.

And Spot threw down his cane. Spike had been right all along: he was done in Brooklyn. He left them then, all his once-loyal followers. Given time and effort, Spot knew he could win them all back as easily as he'd won them in the first place. But it could never be the same. The first time Spot had fought and won Brooklyn, it had cost him his innocence. This time he had fought for Brooklyn, and it had cost him much more. It had cost him the realization that so many years of his life had been wasted in the pursuit and attainment of that which had never really mattered, and never could matter to him now.

This. The fighting and killing. The respect he commanded. The instant silent when he walked into a room. The familiarity every New York newsie had with his name. They meant absolutely nothing to him now. He was appalled by his former self.

And standing in the bedroom, stunned, were all the poor souls that Spot left: alone, leaderless, lost. They were only children, after all.

And Spot wasjust as much a child as any of them. He found himselfwalking out ofBrooklyn that blue-skied day for the last time. Trailing blood like some black, angel of death; unsure of where he was going, but knowing he had to go.