Disclaimer: If I owned WSS, I'd probably have asked Arthur Laurents to think a little more before adding quite so much Spanish into the revival. And also I'd be wearing Anita's revival dress because it is fantastic. However, Vlad would still belong to LCV Productions!

Hope you enjoy—any and all constructive feedback is treasured. :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

twenty-two : chasing the dragon

.

You do anything long enough to escape the habit of living until the escape becomes the habit.

—David Ryan

.

…and I felt as though I were trapped somewhere outside my life and the war, in some other place where nothing really existed, from which I would never escape.

—Sébastien Japrisot, A Very Long Engagement

.

"So," says Ice a few days after Christmas. "What d'ya got?"

"It's like we thought—them Vipers, they're just some ragtag bunch as wants to make a rep for 'emselves," Anybodys says, scorn coloring her voice. "Not nowhere near a real gang—even their names is stupid." She snorts. "Ain't nobody gonna drop dead from some kid callin' himself Mopsy or Squeak."

Ice laughs—he has to agree with her. "Numbers?"

"'Bout a dozen," answers Anybodys. "But it ain't a problem. They're all scrawny an' not much to look at, 'sides that stupid red an' green war-paint they got all over their faces. We don't got nothin' to worry about."

Ice exhales, relieved. "Sounds good. An' the Commie?"

"I'm still lookin'," Anybodys says, though with more confidence than the last time he asked. "An' what it looks like is he's real hard to pin down. Keeps his head down, doesn't make a fuss, least not with his name attached to it. Kinda like you," she says with a pause. "'Cept I think he's got a brother, or somethin'."

"What about a gang?" Ice asks. One guy could do some damage on his own, sure, but this, he figures, is the important part.

"Maybe," Anybodys hedges, uncertainty flitting across her face. "I'm still workin' on that. For sure there's a buncha Russkies around here, more'n usual."

Ice gives a quick nod. "Good work," he says, and she lights up. "Lemme know when ya got more."

"For sure, Ice," she says, her breath puffing out into the cold air. "You bet I will."

.

Ice gets his first real taste of the Vipers when three of them—none older than fifteen, it looks like, and all, as Anybodys says, with red and green paint smudged under their eyes as some kind of gang marker—jump him behind the old autoyard, hollering and screaming and generally making a lot more noise than trouble, Ice thinks, rolling his eyes as he knocks two of them over. They don't know how to fight, they don't know how to work together, they don't know how to be a gang—like Anybodys also said, just kids trying to be more than they are. They're only a problem when they're all together and outnumber whichever Jets they come across.

This, to a gang that is still itching for the battle it so nearly had, is very welcome. Even if it means traveling in bigger groups than usual, and keeping an eye out for both cops and the tell-tale face paint, war is war, and the Jets glory in it. As January rolls in, the Jets tumble into their headquarters with tales of successful skirmishes with the Sicilians. Big Deal and Gee-Tar, who seem to be speaking a bit more these days, chase Fang and Copper all the way into Shark territory. A-Rab and Anybodys take it upon themselves to trap Cobra in a meat locker. And Action, of course, lays into every Viper he sees with a vengeance.

The funny thing is, though, having an outlet for their frustration doesn't seem to change anything when they're with each other. If anything, the scuffles in Doc's are getting worse.

"Cut it," Ice says without getting up one afternoon as A-Rab leads Joyboy on a mad chase around the candy store, waving a stolen lollipop in the air and cackling hysterically as the irate Boyer twin lets loose with a blue streak. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but—maybe that's the problem, he thinks with a sigh. He is so tired of this.

He has to repeat himself a couple times, but eventually they get the message. A-Rab tosses Joyboy his lollipop, and both of them go back to what they were doing before. And for a moment, the Jets relax.

Inevitably, though, Action snaps at Baby John, and the rest of them join in, cheering on whoever they feel like supporting that day. This time, Ice just watches. Baby John is getting better at handling himself in these situations, he notes. At any rate, Action isn't manhandling the younger boy as badly as he used to.

But what does it matter? Ice wonders. It's all, he thinks, starting to feel meaningless. The same thing, over and over again, day in and day out. Where does it all lead, and in the end—

"He's grown up a little, ain't he," observes Doc, wiping down the counter.

Ice glances over at him, startled. Nowadays Doc mostly keeps quiet, doesn't say too much. But what he does say doesn't usually sound like this. "I was just thinkin' that."

Doc inclines his head, lowers his voice. "You been thinkin' about other things I said, too?"

Ice tenses. "'Bout the kid?"

"Yeah," says Doc, his gaze flicking to Baby John, who's trying to escape Action's headlock. "That, too."

"I think about a lotta things these days, Doc," says Ice, his voice even. "You're gonna have to refresh my memory."

Doc tosses him a candy bar, and with a jolt, Ice remembers the same easy motion of almost seven months ago as he reaches up to catch it. "That there's maybe more to it than this, y'know. Hangin' out at a candy store an' makin' enemies of the world." He seems about to say more, then subsides, passing his hand over his eyes as he shuffles away. "Forget it."

Ice stares at the bar in his hands for a long moment, turning it over and over. When he speaks, it's almost to himself. "Yeah," he mutters. "Wouldn't that be nice."

.

"So tell me more about the Vipers," Velma says one night, laying her pencil down. She's been doing her homework while Ice has been attempting to distract her—and doing a good job of it, actually, until now. Gang business isn't something he really wants to talk about, but from the look in her eyes, she's not in the mood to take no for an answer. "Clarice says she bets her cousins know 'em."

Ice sighs. "They might. They're those little Sicilian kids who keep runnin' around screamin' bloody murder. Turns out they think they're some kinda gang." He half-smiles in spite of himself. "Kinda cute, I guess, if they didn't keep pantsin' A-Rab an' dumpin' Baby John in trash cans."

Velma stifles her own instinctive smile. "So they ain't dangerous?"

Ice shrugs. "Just a pain, really."

"They're the ones with the Christmas-colored faces, right?" Velma asks, her mouth twitching. "I think I've seen 'em around."

Ice has to laugh. "Yeah. They do it on purpose, call it their mark. Mouthpiece calls it war paint an' wants to play cowboys an' Indians with 'em. Action does, too, 'cept he don't mean it that way."

"I bet he don't," Velma says, looking amused. "How old are they?"

Ice shrugs. "Don't know for sure, but none-a them look real elderly. King—that's their captain, the one showin' around like he's top-a the world. I hear he's sixteen, plus maybe Ace an' Bull, too. But most of 'em can't be more'n fourteen. The littlest—Squeak, I think they call him—he's maybe twelve." He snorts. "There're so many I can't keep track."

Velma is silent, and Ice looks up to see that the smile has dropped off her face. "That's younger'n Chris."

Ice glances away, suddenly uncomfortable as if all the air has gone out of the room. "Yeah," he says, trying to head her off, "but neither-a your brothers're the type to be in gangs. Even this gang."

"I'm glad," says Velma, and when Ice looks back at her, feeling a little defensive, he sees that her head is in her hands. "I couldn't take it. Thinkin' about them in the middle of alla this, too."

Ice stares, not knowing how this has happened, how something almost laughable has turned into whatever this horrible quiet is. It doesn't seem like she's crying, but this silent helpless agony—is this what she looks like during rumbles when he's not around to see? he wonders—is somehow worse. "Everything's fine," he says not knowing what else to say. "I swear."

Velma nods without looking up. "I know."

He should go to her, he knows, make her see that she's just worrying for no reason. He used to be able to do that, once upon a time.

But now Ice sits frozen, unable to get up and say the words he knows by heart, unable to lie. He can't move. He can't breathe.

"I—I better go," he croaks at last, swallowing hard. Maybe, he thinks, reaching, grasping for anything that might make it better, if he's not in front of her, she'll stop thinking about him.

Velma half-raises her eyes. "Ice—"

He can't face her. He can't.

"Sorry," he mutters. And in another moment, he is out the window, running along the streets and cursing himself for his complete powerlessness, because of all the boys in the world to fall in love with she had to pick him, and there is nothing he can do to fix this. Nothing.

.

They've just made it back from a successful raid on the Vipers' pizzeria headquarters a week later when Ice spots Tiger skulking in the alley next to Doc's. Hanging back, he waits until the gang has filed into the candy store and jogs over.

"Cigarette?" Tiger offers immediately, a sheepish grin on his face as he holds his ever-present pack out.

"Where the hell were ya?" Ice asks conversationally, taking one and lighting up.

Tiger looks shamefaced. "I was—at work."

Ice raises an eyebrow. Now that he thinks about it, he shouldn't really be surprised, but what with all the trouble lately, he's somehow managed to miss this. "You got a job?"

Tiger's face flushes. "Well, my uncle's got this phone company, see, an' he said I could come help him with the calls he's gotta make all the time. It's like advertisin', kinda. 'Cept most people hang up on ya."

"Huh," Ice says, not quite able to imagine it. Tiger, with a job. "Sounds like—" And then he stops, shaking his head. The Jets, even if they are stronger and better fighters than the Vipers, are still a couple men down from them and can't afford for Tiger not to be there. "Look, buddy, I feel for ya, I really do, but you know how it is. You're a Jet, an' we need ya."

"I'm sorry, Ice, I am," Tiger says, his freckled face earnest. "It's just—I got a lot ridin' on this job, y'know? My kid's showin' up in two or three months, maybe, an' I wanna make sure he's got everythin' he wants. An' I—" Tiger's face turns even redder— "I got a wife to take care of now, see."

Ice sighs. When it comes down to it, he doesn't even really have the heart to be angry at Tiger for doing what he has to do. "Okay," he says. "Just—show up next time, okay? Or tell us when ya gotta play hooky."

"Yeah," nods Tiger vigorously. "For sure, Ice, I will. How was it?"

"Good," says Ice, who in fact is pleased about the day's work. "They don't even got the know-how to post sentries—they were all just sittin' inside eatin' pizza while we nabbed their stash. Wasn't a great one, just some hardware stuff," Ice shrugs, holding up his new wrench, "but still, nothin' to sniff at."

"Great," beams Tiger, obviously feeling relieved. "Lemme know when the next one is, Ice, I swear I'll be there!"

Ice nods, and even manages half a smile. "Sure, Tiger. I'll do that."

But as they walk into Doc's, Tiger already bracing for the ribbing that will be coming his way, Ice can't help but wonder if Tiger's absence is a sign of things to come. Like it or not, the Jet does have a family now—responsibility. And Ice, who has never had either before, can't imagine how Tiger will handle it. It's not something he'd know how to deal with, himself, he thinks with a sigh. Life is already complicated enough as it is. A job—a wife—a kid—

It's too much. Jesus, he thinks, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter as the Jets swarm around Tiger, waving hammers and screwdrivers and demanding explanations. Who'd have ever thought they'd be growing up like this?

.

Things keep moving.

"So why's no one takin' credit for those Vipers' shiners?" asks Ice. January is half gone and things are going pretty well. Though, it seems, not nearly as well as the amount of little Sicilians limping around would suggest.

"They got into a scuffle with some-a the new Reds," explains Anybodys, who is making her regular report. "Guess they stole some-a their vodka or somethin'. Anyway, a couple of 'em got black eyes—Bruiser, Tag, Wheezy—you know, the fat kid who jumped A-Rab a couple blocks from the movie theater an' swiped the candy he stole from the theater." She snickers. "Not that he didn't deserve it."

Ice only hears one thing. "The new Reds?"

"I was just gettin' to that," says Anybodys in a rush. "I was thinkin' about that guy ya wanted me to find, see, an' how he's a Commie, so I asked this old drunk who lives in my building, an' Vlad pointed me over to the docks. Turns out there's a whole tribe-a Reds over there an' their kids formed up an' put themselves together into a gang. That's where they're comin' from. I ain't got the name yet, but I bet your guy's one of 'em."

Ice sits back to absorb this. It's not good news, certainly, but is it bad news? Gangs have territories. And if the Soviets stick to theirs…

"You dunno what I had to do to find that out," she says, watching him narrowly, a strange shyness on her face.

Ice sees it, barely, and normally he'd ignore it, but after all, the kid's been good for the gang, really, which is something Riff and Tony never would have believed. And being a Jet looks like it still means everything to her. That's something, these days. "Yeah? What?"

And she's off again, the words tumbling out of her mouth, skidding and dashing and tripping all over themselves to tell him all about her favorite hiding places, and tailing every sonofabitch with a Commie accent, and all the near-misses she'd had, and Ice listens, or at least he tries to, but he can't escape the idea that it all means nothing. Nothing at all, compared to life and death and staying on the right side of both of them. And how in the world the Jets can do that, he thinks, rubbing his temples, when nobody—not the adults who police them, or the other kids they fight—knows how.

.

Ice is just dropping Velma off at her apartment after a movie when she mentions it.

"Bernice's back."

"That good?" he asks. Velma isn't the type to hate people but she's never really warmed up to Bernice.

Velma watches the falling snow. "I guess. Maybe. She looks kinda tired," she says. "Like she gained a little weight, maybe."

Ice shrugs. "Italian food's good, right?"

"I guess so," Velma says again. She doesn't look at him. "Anyway, it might be nice havin' her around again. Like old times."

Ice blinks. This is a surprise. "She comin' back to school?"

Velma hesitates. "No," she finally says. "I don't think so. Clarice said she's goin' to help their ma with Izzy. Anyway she'd be behind if she did."

"Izzy?" he asks, drawing a blank.

"Isabella. The new baby," she explains with a small smile. "She's real cute."

"Oh," he says. By this time it is more than obvious that Graziella is pregnant, too, and he wonders what it will be like. A baby—two babies, if you count Mrs. Gambini's—around the Jets. Noisy, he figures.

Velma shivers as a gust of wind blows snow into her face and her eyelids flicker. "It's cold."

Ice can see flurries dusting her eyelashes and reaches forward to brush them off. "That better?"

"Yeah. They're gettin' numb," she says, fingertips fluttering around her blue eyes. "You ever get so cold, sometimes, that you wonder if you'll freeze?"

"Yeah," he says, watching her. Her skin is pale, so pale that it seems almost translucent, and he wonders if it was like this last winter. He can't remember. "I do, sometimes."

She leans forward, puts her arms around him. "I'd better go."

Ice leans over and touches his lips to her forehead. He's meeting up with Big Deal to talk tactics and he's already later than he meant to be. "Sorry I can't stay."

She smiles a little before she goes in. "Me, too."

.

He sees the boy with the slow, enigmatic smile once more as the Vipers continue to pester the Jets. As always, he doesn't say much. But this time—this time, with everything closing in on him, Ice can't just let the Soviet go.

"Look," he says, trying to keep his voice even, "I don't exactly know if you've noticed, but this here block is Jet territory. An' since you've been hangin' around, you gotta know what that means by now."

The boy's expression is unreadable. "And what does it mean?"

"It means," says Ice, narrowing his eyes, "that you don't belong here. You an' all the Commies you know."

"Oh, I would not say that," says the Soviet, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Ice is unimpressed. "Yeah? Why not?"

"What it really means," the boy says, "is that whoever takes the street says who uses it."

Ice raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty much what I said, ain't it?"

The boy drops his cigarette to the pavement and grinds his heel down on it. "Not quite." He raises his hands, shrugs. "But I see your point. I will go. And you will not see me again for some time."

Ice should be satisfied with this. But somehow, he's not.

"Who are you?"

There again is that slow, almost painful smile, but this time—this time, he answers.

"Reaper."

And then he goes, and Ice, despite getting one out of the countless answers he's been looking for since August, is left feeling more troubled than ever.

.

They're still awful at fighting, and the Jets are still getting the best of them, but Ice has to admit that the Vipers—that ragtag gang that never seems to see when it's defeated—are getting to him.

They're taken to hanging around in groups of five or more, waiting for a Jet to come by, and when he does, they attack. Usually there's another Jet or two near enough to help, but there have been a couple of bloody noses, some near things. If the Vipers were anywhere near the Jets' level—in a real battle, not an six-on-one ambush—it wouldn't be so bad. Then it'd be worth it, beating on a gang that gives as good as it gets. But as it is these Vipers, play-gang as they are, aren't even worth a war council and a rumble. They don't understand that they're just wasting their time, taking on a gang so much stronger than they are, and Ice is getting fed up with it.

It's after one of these street scuffles that Ice wearily scales the fire escape and climbs through the window into Velma's room. His girlfriend is sitting against the headboard of her bed, legs curled up underneath her.

"Hey," he murmurs, heading over. He's tired as hell and can't get the image of Action's raw, red knuckles out of his head.

"Where've ya been, Ice?" she asks, blue eyes steady.

He doesn't look at her, just strips his shirt off and slumps down on the bed, limbs aching and heavy. "With the Jets. Half the Vipers tried to take Action outta commission. They forgot he ain't exactly Baby John, though."

"Yeah, she says quietly. "I figured." She pauses. "I just maybe thought that it bein' today, they'd all be off with their girls, for once, an' give you a break."

He stares at her, and then all of a sudden it hits him like a ton of bricks. Today is the fourteenth. Of February. "Oh, hell."

Velma shakes her head. "It's fine," she says, though it doesn't seem like it. "It ain't your fault."

Ice sighs, feeling like just about the biggest louse in the world right now. Riff, he thinks, a sick ache spreading through him, Riff always used to remind him about stuff like this, anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine's Days that could send you sky-high or face-down into the dirt with a girl. "Come to think of it, Big Deal didn't show all day. Tiger, too. Even—" he blinks in surprise—"Baby John."

"He an' Minnie had their first real date," Velma explains, with a sideways quirk of her mouth he could almost call a smile. "She's s'posed to call Clarice later to say how it went. Clarice'll call me."

"Oh. Good," Ice says, distracted for the moment. It is about time, after all. But then he gives himself a mental shake. "I shoulda remembered too, Vee, I'm real sorry."

Velma shrugs. "I know ya got a lot on your mind, Ice," she says in a soft voice. She hesitates. "I just…"

Ice moves to settle in next to her and pulls her close. "What?" he asks, even though he's not sure he wants to know.

She sighs. "I miss you."

There is no blame in her voice, just a wistful sadness, and that makes it even worse. Ice doesn't say anything, just glances down and watches the little light there is reflect off of Velma's hair and feels a tightening in his chest. She means more than just tonight, and he doesn't know what to tell her. Now, or any other night he sees her. There are no answers anymore.

Finally, he leans over and presses his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry," he repeats quietly. And he is, more than she or anyone else will ever know.

That night he lies awake, turning over possibilities in his head. Where this could all lead, and what could happen. What might hurt the least.

Ice still thinks, more and more, that she might be better off without him. He hasn't forgotten the look on her face in November when he'd brought it up, the way all the light in her seemed to fold in on itself and die. He hasn't forgotten those whispered, fierce words, or her arms around him, or his promise. He hasn't forgotten any of it.

But somehow what he sees now, every time they're together, is worse. Because he still remembers her as she used to be before the summer, vivid with love. And now—

There's a sadness in her eyes, that won't go away, and for Ice, it's too hard to look at her and see what he's done to the girl he loves best in the world. How tired she is, and how he can't see how it'll be any better in the future, because this is a problem he can't solve. This is beyond all of them now, and he begins to think, more and more, that there is only one thing that he can do for her to make it all go away.

"Talk to me," she whispers in the darkness when she thinks he is asleep, and regardless of whatever he tells his mother, there is nothing more that Ice wants to do. But he can't.

I love you, he hears. It's a voice from a dream. And you love me. That's all that matters.

And he wonders, now. Is it?

Hours later, as he pulls his shirt on, he feels a hand on his arm.

"You're leavin'?" she asks, and Ice can hear the hurt in her voice. But he can't stay, can't face her when morning comes and daylight enters her room.

He nods, not looking at her. "Yeah." He hesitates, hearing the dream-voice once more and wondering if it's true. "I love you."

And there it is, the one time nowadays that her voice ever sounds just like it used to. "I love you, too."

.

It's the eerie quiet that bothers Ice.

This time, the Vipers don't miss a war council or fail to show up for a rumble. This time, they simply vanish, go missing from their old haunts and hideouts. As a gang, that is. Ice sees one or two of them in the street, scrubbed up and almost unrecognizable without all the dirt and war paint. Which, he's starting to think, might actually be the point. They pretend not to see him, walk with their mothers and not each other. It's as if they never existed in the first place.

Something's scared them good, that much is clear, and Ice is starting to suspect it's whatever got the Musclers, because sure as hell the police have never been particularly effective in that area.

And this time, when he sees a long scar running down and across the face of the blustering, big-talking boy formerly known as King—softer, less horrific, but unmistakably the same—he doesn't wait.

By now, Anybodys doesn't need to be told; she just nods, face wrinkling, the next time he approaches her.

"Yeah," she says, her voice short. "I'm on it."

.

Since his father died, Ice has been scared out of his mind maybe two or three times in his life. He's not the type to shy away from a fight, or a rumble, or even all-out nuclear annihilation like the government is always warning them about. But some things can't be fought and what is fast catching up to them, finally, looks like it might be one of them. The Musclers. The Vipers. Both wiped out, one way or another. Ice has escaped death twice now. How many more times can he get lucky?

He needs a drink, Ice decides, and there is really only one place for that.

"Oh," he says, stopping short as he opens the weatherbeaten red door to a cramped back-alley bar. "Hi, Graz."

His girlfriend's best friend looks up from her seat at the counter and gazes at him, expressionless. "Hi, Ice."

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, unable to help the quick glance to her midsection. He hasn't seen her in awhile and the change, at least to him, is startling. From what Velma says, she's due around March, and though he's as far from an expert as he can get, he can tell.

Graziella shrugs, and from the look on her face he knows he hasn't fooled her. "Can't really drink, but I drop in sometimes. It's good for when ya wanna be alone. Usually, anyway," she says, her mouth twisting as her gaze drops briefly to the counter.

Ice shuffles his feet. "Hadna thought of it that way," he says. "I ain't lookin' to steer clear-a no one. Look, I'll let ya alone, then."

He is nearly out the door when her low voice stops him. "Ya gotta work on your lyin', Ice."

Ice turns. "What?"

Graziella shakes her head, and her fading curls fall limp around her. "It ain't just the Jets you're runnin' from. You don't wanna see her, do ya."

Ice shakes his head. "No, that ain't—"

"Look, I know. I get it," she says, her voice soft and dull. She traces aimless circles on the counter. "You can't look at her 'cause it's too hard. 'Cause you ain't the same person you were an' you can't ever be again an' who the hell knows if she'll ever look at you the same way she did an' even if she does you don't deserve it." She turns to face him. "That wrong?"

Ice stares at her for a long moment, then shakes his head again. "No."

"Yeah. I get it," she says again, her voice bitter. "We ain't all perfect."

Ice, unnerved, isn't sure what to say. This is so far from the Graziella he remembers that she's almost a stranger. And so he sits, signals for a drink, and when it comes, downs half of it in one gulp.

"D'ya remember what you said that night?" she asks after what seems a lifetime, her voice quiet. "After?"

Ice thinks of the long walk home in the silent empty street and leaving his best friend's girlfriend on the sidewalk outside her apartment. The way he'd never seen her so quiet and thinking how strange it was. If they spoke, he doesn't remember it. "I don't know."

"Ya do or ya don't, Ice," Graziella says, voice flat. "There's no between."

Ice shakes his head. "No," he says. "I'm sorry."

"You said everything'd be okay," the redhead says, twisting the dull gold ring on her finger. "D'ya still believe that?"

Ice stares at the counter. Does he?

He wants to say yes, can feel it on the tip of his tongue. He knows it's what she wants, that reassurance that something out there can be depended on, that comfort that he himself has been given several times. But he looks at her and he can't bring himself to lie.

"I don't know that I ever did," he says. "I don't know that I ever believed in anything."

Graziella glances up at him. "That's about what I thought," she says, her voice slow, heavy. Again her fingertips worry the edge of her ring, and the movement seems so instinctive that Ice wonders if she even realizes she's doing it. "That's just it."

Ice exhales, tries to smile. "I'm that easy to figure, huh."

Graziella's shoulders rise, then slump down again. "You didn't used to be. I used to tell her—Velma—that she was the only girl you'd ever say more'n two words to." She shakes her head. "She couldn't believe it."

The air in his lungs dies. "Yeah. Well," he murmurs, "a lot of things didn't used to be."

"D'ya miss him?" she asks suddenly. "Riff. I mean, I know you was buddies, but I don't know if it's like me, with you. Like how sometimes it just hurts to breathe an' there ain't nothin' that helps."

Ice takes a deep, slow breath and wonders if Bernardo's girl—Anita—looks this bruised, this wounded nowadays. "'Course," he says in a low voice. "Him an' Tony. They were the best friends I ever—"

As he breaks off, Ice thinks of hot summer afternoons spent running all over the West Side, never believing in their own mortality and never knowing they carried their deaths with them all along—does he now? is it here? he wonders for a brief, panic-filled moment—and he thinks of how their weight is so heavy that sometimes he wants nothing more than to forget he ever knew them at all. It's horrible, he knows—but it's true.

"Yeah," he says, tipping the rest of his drink down his throat. His voice is so quiet even he can barely hear it. "I miss 'em."

.

He's spent so much time imagining it, dreading the moment, that when the door swings open and Ice looks up, it's almost unreal. Standing there, outlined in the reddish glow of sunset, is Reaper. And eight other guys.

A few of them he's seen before, mostly the little ones, but the older boys he doesn't recognize. They're dressed in different shades of red and black and they're anywhere from skinny to huge but they all have one thing in common—knife handles that look like white bone, sticking out of the pockets of their jeans.

"Reaper," Ice says in the silence that follows, as the Jets turn questioning eyes toward him. Word gets around quickly in a gang and he's sure they've all seen a couple of these guys hanging around, but he doesn't know if they've connected the dots like he is doing now. They know better, though, than to make a fuss with a new gang standing right there in front of them.

"Like the Grim? Oh, ya gotta be kiddin' me," chuckles Snowboy, always the joker, but Ice puts a hand out to quiet him and gets to his feet, feeling older than ever.

"I see ya made some friends."

Reaper gives that smile that by now is so familiar to Ice. "And now I meet yours."

"Cut to the chase," Ice says, the blood rushing through his veins. This is it, he thinks, everything is finally coming down to the other question he has asked, over and over for the past six months, and has never gotten an answer for. "What d'ya want?"

And Reaper lifts his hand, gestures around him. "This."

Ice doesn't budge. "Doc's?"

"The territory," comes a new voice, one that belongs to the tall, dark-haired boy on Reaper's right, and it, too, carries a heavy accent. He meets Ice's eyes squarely. "It's good. The best, even."

"We don't need to fight, though," says a younger boy, and to his surprise, Ice hears barely a trace of an accent in his voice. The slim boy, who almost resembles Baby John with his blond hair, blue eyes, and naïve face, doesn't speak like the Jets, but he doesn't talk quite like the Reds, either. "We're giving you a chance. We can just make a deal. Then none of you will get hurt."

"Why, you—you think we're just gonna keel over and let ya have it like that—?" bursts Action, glaring at them—this offer is all the excuse he needs to declare a new enemy on the spot, no matter who it is—and as A–Rab and Big Deal wrestle him back into his seat, Reaper steps forward.

"Sasha," is all he needs to say before the younger boy steps back.

"Sasha? That ain't no kinda gang name I ever heard, an' if it was, it sounds like a girl's," taunts Anybodys, eyes narrowed. Til now she's remained quiet, but she is leaning over, her face twisted in a scowl. Reaper turns to her and as ever, his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"To you, he is Switch."

His gaze meets Ice's then, and the Jet captain can feel the contempt he has for the only girl in the gang, and for the gang that let her in. I thought better of you, his eyes seem to say. But Ice doesn't move.

"But you heard him," continues Reaper. "We know what happened this summer. We don't have to fight. No one has to get hurt, or"—and every Jet's ears prick up at this—"die."

"Fuck off," spits Action again, and for once, Ice can't blame him. "We fought for this—we bled for this—an' we ain't just gonna give it up like it's nothin'!"

"It is the best. An' it's ours," says Baby John, and Ice, though he still doesn't move, is struck by the difference between now and two months ago, when the Musclers came to call. He is stronger, thinks Ice. Good. By the looks of this gang, the Jets will need him more than they ever did against the Emeralds, or the Sharks, or the Musclers, or the Vipers.

And again, a new voice cuts in. "So—we fight." This boy, on Reaper's other side, has the heaviest accent of all, and when he looks at him, Ice can see a long white scar running up the left side of his face, through a pale green eye. He doesn't sound scared at all—he sounds like he needs whatever fight that is coming. Maybe even more than Action does.

Ice sizes up the rest of the gang. Reaper. The big one. Two about Mouthpiece and Tiger's size. A skinny one. A middling one with muscles to make up for his height. Three little ones. Not ideal, but the Jets outnumber them and they can handle it.

"Yeah," he says, and a sigh seems to go up from all around him, from both his gang and Reaper's. This, then, is what they have all been waiting for without even knowing it. The real deal. "We'll fight."

"We will give you time," Reaper says. His expression alone is unmoved, and Ice has a feeling the Soviet expected nothing less. "You may change your minds about that when you see what we can do."

And Ice, his gaze locked with Reaper's, shakes his head. It is Action's words, and Riff and Tony's faces, that echo through his mind—we bled for this—and he knows now that everything from summer on has been leading to this one moment, with this one gang, and this one boy. And for that there is only one answer.

"Go to hell."