Disclaimer: And now I feel bad about my last disclaimer. Goodbye, Arthur Laurents, and say hello to Jerry, Lenny and Ernest Lehman for us! You will be missed. Stephen Sondheim, never leave us.

Note: Behold: the product of eight hours and the Inception score on countless repeats! it ballooned, as all my chapters insist on doing. This is actually the cut version. -_-; I really, really hope you like it, and as always, I die of happiness whenever I get any kind of feedback whatsoever. :)

Proper credit: goes to BardessofAvon for helping to map out Big Deal's contribution to this chapter back in the day, and for being behind so much Anybodys here. Thanks, as always, go to her and RhapsodyinProgress, who is pretty much the best lovestruck, slightly batty, bird-loving Sondheim heroine ever. :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

twenty-three : between heaven and hell

.

"I went a little farther," he said, "then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever get back."

—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

.

They find out soon enough that the Soviets are fast and bloodthirsty—bat-shit crazy, actually, in their hair-trigger eagerness to get into a fight. More than that, they are fearless. It's only been a week since the Soviets' arrival, and Ice has already had to draw on every bit of experience he's had with the Jets to hold them off. This is a gang that's used to winning, Ice thinks, and it's his job to make sure that this time, they don't.

It's all complicated by the fact that Schrank, still determined to hang something on the gang that for once they didn't do, is prowling around like never before, tipped off by some Viper's nosy mother that the hoodlums who scared her son off the streets are named the Jets. This doesn't, of course, stop either the Jets or the Soviets from getting hold of each other and doing as much damage as possible in the back alleys and shadows of the city. And even if the cops weren't all over the place Ice has a feeling that's how the Soviets would prefer to operate, which is just fine by him. But it doesn't make their lives any easier. Twice, Ice only just manages to avoid getting cornered and dragged off on suspicion. It's getting very hard to go a block without seeing Krupke or Goddard or some other clown patrolling, making sure the streets are safe from thugs and juvenile delinquents like the Jets. He's not sure whether they know about the Commies, but with Schrank, it wouldn't matter.

"If ya knew what was good for ya," the lieutenant says when Ice finally gets carted off for questioning—the third time is always the charm—"you'd sing like a bird, buster. You bet your ass I'm looking for any shred of proof to pin this on you, and kid? You ain't a kid no more, unless I miss my guess. So if you don't wise up real fast, you're gonna be going away for a long time."

For once there's something new in that threat, and as Ice mulls this over, he realizes Schrank has a point. He's never gotten caught for anything that would actually get him arrested, but a guy with his juvenile record and buddies isn't likely to catch any breaks if he lands in front of a judge. And now that he is twenty, well—

He just won't get caught, that's all. Simple as that.

Half an hour later, he's met outside by a skinny shadow. "Schrank still chasin' his fat ass in circles?"

Ice doesn't even pause, gaze darting from alley to alley as he heads over to the shortcut to Doc's. "Thinks we cleared out the Musclers an' the Vipers. Long's he can't lock us up for it, I don't mind if he keeps on thinkin' that."

"He get anythin' outta you?" Anybodys wants to know, half-jogging to keep up. "Cops're all lousy, but Schrank, he's real dirty. Still can't figure how he ain't dead yet, with all the people he's mouthed off to."

Ice, though he agrees, shrugs. "Nah, 'course not." He turns to look at the tomboy, who's even grimier than usual. "Did ya get it?"

Anybodys's shoulders straighten. "'Course I did," she says with some pride. "Spent all day scopin' 'em out by the docks—I keep changin' hidin' places, see, so's they don't sniff me out. Last time it was behind some-a the big crates they got piled up in the warehouse, but this time I didn't know how long I was gonna be there so I snuck in real early an' camped out up in the crawl space up in the roof—the roof, Ice," she repeats, a grin flashing white out of her smudged face, "where no one else could get but me, an' I kept real quiet 'cause I knew if I didn't they'd hear me, an'—"

"And?" asks Ice, amused in spite of himself. He's learned by now that the best way to handle the tomboy is to let her go on for a minute or two and then interrupt when she's not expecting it, startle her into getting to the point. "What'd ya find out?"

"They did the Musclers. An' the Vipers," says Anybodys, and Ice nods at this confirmation. "An' not just them, neither. I heard they do this all the time, sneak up behind gangs an' take 'em out in a real blitz without no one knowin' what's up. 'S why it was so hard to get anythin' about 'em before. I got a couple names now—the Panthers, the Bandits, the Untouchables."

"The Untouchables?" Ice repeats, troubled. He remembers hearing about the gang a couple years back when the Jets were still getting things started. He's known they haven't been around for awhile now, but he's never heard how. "That was them?"

Anybodys nods. "Yeah. The Commies, they clean out the local gang an' slap the territory onto theirs. I guess they'd have more of a rep, 'cept they move around, pick their targets real careful so's the coppers never catch on. An' anyone who gets in their way, they burn," she says, her mouth twisted. "This's the first I've even gotten a whiff from anyone about 'em bein' over in our territory, an' we own the place."

Ice considers this. "Okay. What else?"

"That captain, Reaper," Anybodys says, stopping, her blue eyes gleaming. "Gets a kick outta slashin' people up an' across their faces—I hear it was him who gave Tank a whole new mug as was even uglier, an' I didn't even think that could happen. Then there's Saber, Pinch, Snapper, Blade, an' Claw, the right-hand man. Reaper's half-brother, or somethin'. All real nasty, but Claw, he's a whole 'nother level-a crazy. Reaper, at least you see him carvin' ya. Claw, he does it up the back an' twists the knife to really work ya over." She shivers. "An' then a bunch more; couldn't catch their names, but I ain't so worried about them. They're less than us," she says, almost hopefully. "Only nine."

"We can handle 'em," Ice says, as he always does, but even as he says it he feels a shiver down his spine. Beyond what he already knows about Reaper, he doesn't like the sound of that lieutenant Claw. What he likes even less is the way Anybodys gives him that quick, confident nod, like there is no way they will lose. But what if he can't stop them? he wonders, what if he fails again?

"Say, Ice?"

"Yeah?" he says, jolted out of his thoughts by her tentative poke.

"How'd ya know his name?"

Ice blinks. He hasn't been looking forward to this question, and he still hasn't figured out how to answer it. Finally he goes with a version of the truth. "He told me, the last time I saw him."

Anybodys frowns. "What?"

"He was the guy," Ice says. "The Soviet I asked ya to look into. I kept seein' him around. 'S how I knew somethin' was comin'."

"Well, yeah, I figured that when a whole herd-a Commies showed up at Doc's," she says with a snort, then her face twists as she absorbs that last part. "Whaddaya mean, you knew somethin' was comin'?"

"Just what I said," Ice answers, only half-focusing on her scowl. "I told ya, I kept seein' that guy around, an' when I found out about Tank gettin' carved up—"

Anybodys's eyes are incredulous. "You heard about that, too?"

"An' King," Ice says, thinking back to those raw wounds. "Saw both of 'em runnin' around leakin' blood after the Reds wiped 'em out."

Anybodys lets out a big huff, and Ice glances at her in surprise. "Well, what'd ya keep sendin' me out for if ya already knew everythin', huh?"

"I didn't," he says, furrowing his brow. Just how much information he was missing is pretty frightening, actually. "Still don't."

Anybodys scowls at him, looking unconvinced. "You keep holdin' out on me, it only makes it harder," she informs him. "I'm a Jet now. Ya gotta trust me, Ice."

Ice blinks. For once, Anybodys sounds just like a girl.

"I do," he says, and for once his inability to lie comes in handy—she can't say he's not telling the truth in this, at least. "What, ya think I'd send Gee-Tar out spyin' in Commie territory? Guess you ain't as smart as I thought."

Anybodys looks a little mollified. "Gee-Tar wouldn't last two seconds with the Russkies."

"Nope," Ice agrees. "'Sides, I knew you could find out yourself, an' if ya did, then I'd be twice as sure."

"I—that don't get you off the hook," she warns, but the tiny grin spilling over onto her face says otherwise. "I mean, don'tcha think ya owe me somethin' for wastin' my time?"

He shrugs, feeling she does have a point. "You want I should tell the guys to get off your back?" The Jets have mostly accepted that he won't be telling Anybodys to shove off anytime soon, but a couple of them—A-Rab in particular—aren't exactly falling all over themselves to welcome her, even after all this time. "Make sure they know you're one-a the gang?"

A strange look comes onto her face. "I—yeah, sure," she says, her voice flat. "I gotta go." She is turning to leave when she stops, her face slipping back to wariness. "One more thing."

Ice half-smiles. "Yeah?"

"I hear they go by the Red Death."

Against his will a shiver travels up his spine. He raises his eyebrow, starts to make some easy remark about theatrics to shake off the uneasiness stealing over him, but Anybodys is already gone.

.

"Really?" asks Velma, wrinkling her forehead, and Ice sees the same half-amused, half-frightened shiver pass through her body. "That's what they call themselves?"

"Yeah," Ice says, latching on to the less worrisome part of her reaction. He's only got a minute at her place before he has to go. "But we don't call 'em that. Just the Reds. Less of a mouthful."

"An' it don't sound like some horror movie," Velma says with another almost shudder.

Ice half-smiles. "We ain't scared."

"They a problem?" she asks, glancing sideways at him.

He is quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe." Ice braces himself for more questions—for protests—but to his surprise, all she does is look at him, so intensely it feels like her gaze is burned into his skin.

"I mean, we can take 'em," he adds, unnerved by the silence. "It'll be fine."

He sees her bite her lip, work through whatever mystery is in her mind before she opens her mouth. "Okay," is all she says, her voice soft and her eyes dark.

It's almost worse, not hearing her ask him to stop. Not hearing her tell him she doesn't believe him. Not hearing her say that she is afraid. Because if she doesn't, and if no one else does before it's too late, there's no way in hell he can say it, either.

Ice clears his throat, feeling as though he's stepping off the edge of a precipice, and touches her hand. "See ya later."

All the laughter in her smile is gone now. "See ya."

.

In March, Graziella goes into labor and out comes a baby who is too dark-haired and too early to be whose Tiger says he is, but the Jets, either because they genuinely don't put it together, don't give a damn, or because there is just no point, keep silent and let the proud not-father imagine Graziella's baby is his son.

Ice, standing in the Roberts' tiny bedroom with hands jammed in his pockets, staring at the kid in his crib while Velma, Clarice, Bernice, and Minnie coo over the new mother, has an uncomfortable feeling he knows exactly who the father is. It's not as if Graziella makes it hard to guess. She's named the kid Riff. Of course.

The open secret is safe with him, though. Ice is very firmly in the 'no point to telling' camp. Ignorance is bliss, he thinks, remembering Tiger's happy grin. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Riff Jr. might as well have a dad, and Tiger is as harmless as they come. He might even love the kid. Stranger things have happened.

As his eyes linger on this last bit of his old friend, Ice becomes aware of the silence around him and turns to find Graziella, the twins, and Velma watching him with a look he can't identify. Only Minnie is missing that shrewd gaze. Ice clears his throat. "He's sure a cute kid, Graz."

The redhead grins. "Wanna hold him?"

Ice chokes. "What?"

"Hold him!" snickers Graziella, looking happier than he's seen her in months as the girls trade looks and giggles. "Ya got hands, don'tcha?"

"I'd drop him," Ice protests with a panicked glance at Riff. It's true that Izzy Gambini has been around for a couple months now, but as she isn't any Jet's kid, Ice hasn't ever had to be closer than ten feet from a baby in his life and he hadn't planned on starting now. Graziella will murder him if anything goes wrong, he thinks, edging back an inch. And for once in his life he guesses he wouldn't be able to blame her.

Velma laughs. "C'mon, Ice," she urges, getting up and walking over. She reaches down into the crib and comes up with Riff. "Just hold him. Make sure ya keep his head up."

Ice, unable to do anything else, lets her deposit the kid into his arms and does as she says. "Oh, God," he says, staring down at the baby. He is absolutely petrified. Forget the Reds, forget every man he ever fought—now he's scared. "Whadda I do now?"

Velma glances up at him, a soft smile on her face. "Nothin'," she says, watching him. "You're doin' fine. Just hold him."

Ice swallows hard, then stares down at the little face just a foot or so below his own. If he looks long enough, he thinks suddenly, maybe he'll see Riff in this kid with his name and blood. There's the nose. And the shape of the eyes. And, he realizes, startled, as the baby gurgles, the same goddamn grin. It's Riff's, all right. Well, Ice thinks with a ghost of a smile, Riff, you did it. You made your mark. You left something here. Huh.

And for the second time, Ice becomes aware of a very unnatural silence and looks up to see four pairs of fascinated, unblinking eyes fastened to him. Only Velma is studiously turned away this time, a faint flush on her cheeks. Ice glances from the girls, to the baby he's holding, to Velma, and feels his face turn bright red.

"I—I'm gonna go see what the guys're up to," he stutters, handing baby Riff over to Velma so fast she barely has time to blink. "Cute kid, Graz!" he adds one last time, before fleeing out the door and into the hall, where he leans, panting, against the wall and wonders at the changes this year has brought. Babies. Jesus, he shudders, he is twenty years old and there is no way in hell he is ready for babies. How can Tiger just sit there all happy like he doesn't have a care in the world? Real father or not, it's still a kid. It wasn't very long ago, Ice thinks, feeling very young and very old, that all of them were just kids themselves.

He hasn't been out of the room for five minutes when Big Deal comes staggering into the hall, clutching two bottles of beer. "Hey, Daddy-O!" he grins. "Get tired-a the hens cluckin' in there?"

The title is nothing new, but coming on the heels of a Jet actually becoming a dad, Ice winces. "Yeah, pretty much. Girls," he says feelingly. "I don't get 'em. It's just a kid."

"I'll tell ya what you need," grins Big Deal, lazily swinging a bottle at him. "Some booze."

"Thanks," Ice says, popping the cap off and taking a healthy swig, "I need one." He slides down onto the floor. "Jesus, buddy," he says, shaking his head. "Still can't believe it."

"Tiger, a dad? I know," Big Deal says, dropping down next to him. "'Least it's not Mouthpiece. Kid needs a leash." Lying down, he begins to hum a quirky tune Ice doesn't know, punctuating notes with a giggle or two.

Ice makes a face and glances sideways at Big Deal, gauging the Jet's level of sobriety. His lieutenant is the kind that doesn't remember anything that happens when he's drunk, and Ice, if he plays his cards right, might be able to use that. "Say, Big Deal?"

"Yeah, Ice-man?" the Jet slurs, eyes firmly shut.

Ice weighs his next words carefully. "I been thinkin'-a…maybe coolin' things with Vee a little bit."

Big Deal jerks up, eyes shooting open. "What?" Sitting up, he winces and rubs his head. "Ow."

Ice ignores this. "Only 'cause I keep messin' things up for her," he says in a low voice, mindful that there is only a wall separating them from the girls. "I'm with the Jets all the time, an' I keep lettin' her down. Don'tcha think she's better off without all that?"

"Oh, Lord, are you stupid," says Big Deal to no one in particular, sinking back down to lie on the floor. "Who are ya an' what've ya done with my buddy-boy, buddy-boy?"

"I'm only thinkin'-a her," Ice insists, annoyed that Big Deal doesn't seem to get it. "Look, I don't like it neither, but think about it. What if somethin' happens to me? What if one day I don't come back? You saw what happened to Graz. Why the hell would I want that to happen to Vee?"

Big Deal frowns. "What the hell kinda idiot are ya, Ice?" he demands. "For starters, ain't nothin' gonna happen to ya. An' second, I really don't think Velma's out to get knocked up by—Tiger," he stumbles, making a face. "Or marry him, neither."

Ice grimaces. "Jesus, I hope not. But no," he persists, "I mean, you saw Graz walkin' around in a funk for months an' months cause-a Riff. I thought she was gonna go off the deep end. An' Vee—she oughta be with someone who might not be about to die on her." He sighs. "Like some jock or somethin', I don' know."

Big Deal gags. "Now I know you're off your rocker. Ya want your girl to go out with some dumbass prepster wannabe jock?"

Ice winces. "Well—"

"Oh, shut up an' quit tryin' to be a hero," Big Deal says, taking a halfhearted swing at him. "Don'tcha think she'd feel even worse if ya dumped her? Plus, if ya dumped her an' then ya died, she'd be dumped by a dead guy." He hiccups. "Ain't nothin' worse'n that."

Ice takes another gulp of his beer and sighs. "Listen, buddy-boy—"

Big Deal lurches up to shake his head and glower at him. "It ain't just that, is it," he says. "You wouldn't think about leavin' her just for some shit noble reason like that. Ya can't be that stupid. There's gotta be somethin' else."

Ice stares back. He can tell that he is not about to win Big Deal over. Well, he thinks, tipping his beer back and feeling the dull fire burn its way down his throat, it was probably a long shot anyway. Big Deal is the best buddy he has left, but even he doesn't get it. It figures.

"So," he says. He is so tired. "How about that kid, huh?"

Big Deal watches him with narrowed eyes for another moment before flopping back onto the floor with a sigh. "Man. You could knock me over with a feather. I sure as hell didn't see it coming."

"Yeah," says Ice, settling deeper against the wall as his head begins to ache. "Yeah."

.

A few days later, Velma tells him that there will be a dance at the gym that week. She doesn't ask but it's obvious she wants to go.

Sure, he says. It's not only Velma who wants to pretend their world is normal. It would be nice, he thinks, to have a night off. For all of them too, maybe. And for an hour or so, while he, Big Deal, and Baby John pick up the girls, it works. Velma's in a dark gray dress like shadows and she's done something around her eyes, he can't tell what, that makes him want to take her home before they've even left. He feels more alive, looking at her standing there with that smoky blue gaze, than he has in almost a year.

"Ya look…" He clears his throat. "You look good, Vee."

She dimples, just like she used to. "I was hopin' you'd think so."

But when they get there, Ice sees the wide wooden floor of the gym and the decorations and even Glad Hand and it's too close, he thinks, almost choking on the familiarity of it all. Too close, and even nine months after it's too soon.

There's even a Shark or two there, he observes, hand tightening around Velma's. That skinny kid, and the dark-skinned one who Ice supposes must be the lieutenant now, if Pepe is captain. And a few others.

Who else will he recognize? he wonders. As far as Ice knows, both the Sharks and the Jets have kept to their truce, have stayed out of each others' territory. But this is neutral ground, and not part of their agreement. Ice doesn't think it'll be a problem—after all, the Jets are dealing with another gang right now and don't have time to worry about the Sharks—but he does wonder what the Puerto Ricans know. If they've had to deal with other gangs, too, and whether they've had any more losses.

From her quick glance up at him, Velma sees them, too, but she doesn't say anything, just tugs him over to their usual spot and puts her arms around him. He can tell she's doing her best to block his view of the gym, of the other people there, and he lets her. In some ways he's almost grateful. He's not a kid anymore, and he never was good at playing pretend, anyway.

He does his best to keep his head down and focus his attention on her until Clarice comes over and whispers in her ear. Velma, listening, nods.

"I'm goin' to the ladies' with Clarice," she says, and touches his hand before she leaves. Ice watches her go, just in case, and is surprised when one of the Shark girls, a curvy brunette with a pretty face, scurries over and joins them just as they reach the door. He recognizes her—she's the lieutenant's girl, maybe?—but he wouldn't really be able to name her. She looks nice enough, he supposes. It's just odd, that's all. Velma isn't one to socialize with people she doesn't know, especially not one of the Sharks' girls. But he can't see how Clarice would know her, either.

Now that he's by himself and looking around at all the kids there, Ice feels almost useless. He doesn't know where Big Deal and Baby John have gone off to, and not for the first time it strikes him that without them or Velma, he has no reason to be here. With the Jets is the only place he has ever belonged, and if they aren't here…

He almost thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him at first. Ice has to look, again and again, to make sure. But after five minutes, he knows what he's seeing: Reaper, standing alone on the other side of the gym, leaning against the wall.

Ice hasn't seen Reaper by himself since before the Reds came out into the open and he is not in the mood to see him now. That guy, he thinks, his anger rising, that guy who came in, cased the neighborhood, asked for a light like he owned it. That guy. And Ice let him.

He knows. He knows that this is neutral territory, that he shouldn't start trouble. He knows. And yet the sight of the Red captain standing there bold as brass sets his teeth on edge and Ice, feeling the blood rush through his veins, can't just let him go.

"What're you doin' here?"

Reaper glances over. "Ice."

The Jet captain doesn't budge. "What're you doin' here?"

The Soviet smiles. "I don't think that's your business."

Ice grits his teeth. "It's my business if you're thinkin' to come in an' pretend like this neighborhood's yours, too. There're rules. This here's neutral territory; I an' every other gang around here knows it, an' if you—"

"Ice?"

It's Velma.

Her watchful gaze passes from him to Reaper. "I didn't know where you went."

Once again, Ice thinks to himself that he's lucky she looks before she leaps, that she's got a sense of when a situation's sticky. Still, he doesn't want to worry her, not tonight. "Just talkin'."

"Yes," the Soviet says, as Ice glances at him, instantly wary. "Nothing for you to worry about."

Velma's attention is back on Reaper now, cautious blue eyes meeting dark gray. "Who're you?"

The Soviet smiles, and Ice thinks to himself that though he can't say why, he doesn't like the casual way that Reaper's eyes settle on her. Not at all. "Anatoly. But what is your name?"

"Velma," she says, voice still guarded, and Ice wishes she hadn't told him. It's there, something niggling him at the back of his mind, but he can't quite understand what it is. All he knows is he doesn't like it.

"We gotta go," Ice says abruptly, taking her hand and ignoring both her startled look and the Red. "C'mon, Vee."

Reaper doesn't move. "I am sure we will meet again."

"We'll see about that," she says, giving him a cool stare. "But I wouldn't count on it."

Reaper's expression doesn't change, and the focus in his eyes doesn't either. And as the Red continues to stare at Velma, Ice realizes with a start that he's seen that half-calculating, half-fascinated look on Reaper's face before, in the entrance of Doc's and around the neighborhood.

"If you want something—if it is there—why don't you take it?"

And in that moment, Reaper's gaze flicks over to Ice as the corner of his mouth rises in a deliberate smile.

A wave of pure terror crashes over Ice as he breaks into a cold sweat. He wants to hit him, wants to pummel him so hard there is no way the Red will get up again. This—this is something Ice hasn't even thought of—

"C'mon," he says again. They have to get out of there, they have to—

"Goodbye, Velma," calls Reaper, and Ice wonders if he is the only one who can hear the mocking taunt in that voice. Velma barely turns her head.

"Oh," she says in that cool, distant tone of hers she reserves for people she doesn't like. "Goodbye."

And for once he wishes she weren't so pretty.

"C'mon," he says for the third time, hurrying her toward the door. "Let's get outta here."

As they leave the Red behind, they pass Baby John, who is talking to—Ice isn't sure but it looks like that skinny little Shark again. Their eyes widen as they see him, and it's so much the same expression on both of their faces that normally Ice would be amused, but not now. Not after what has just happened. So he doesn't say anything, just nods and gets them out of there as fast as he can, wondering all the while how the hell he could have missed this in every game plan, in every possibility he ever mapped out. All eyes are on them but right now he'd prefer if no one knew the Jets at all.

They're three blocks away before he slows down, still cursing himself for his idiocy.

"I don't think I like that guy," Velma says, her eyes narrowed. "Who is he, anyway?"

"Don't," he says, speaking so low he can barely hear himself. His voice, his throat, are almost paralyzed. It's so hard to look at her.

Velma stops him with a hand on his arm. He can hear her concern. "What?"

Ice pushes his fear away and concentrates on getting the words out, his voice tight and controlled. "Don't say—don't do nothin' around that guy. I don't want him to remember ya. I don't know what the hell that name was he told you, but he's the Red captain. Reaper."

Velma frowns, then looks incredulous. "What d'ya think he'd do?"

He clears his throat, tries to chuckle because he doesn't want to think about that. "I mean, with you lookin' like that, I guess I can't blame him for starin'. I—" He stops, as he comes to a realization. He can't, Ice thinks. He can't laugh off what very well might happen no matter how hard he tries to avoid it. "Even if you didn't look like that," he says, shaking his head. "Even if you weren't pretty. You'd still be with me. It wouldn't matter to him."

He doesn't have to say it. They both know what he's talking about.

"I don't know if he'd really do anythin'," he says, eyes locked with hers, "but—look, I trust him a lot less than I did the Jets, an' if they could do somethin' like that to a gang captain's girl…"

Velma's face is set in an expression Ice doesn't like. "I ain't some wiltin' flower ya need to put under glass, Ice."

"Yeah, well, neither was that Shark girl, from what I remember," says Ice. That dance. That last dance, when none of them thought anything like this could ever happen to them. "An' it still happened."

Velma's looks stricken. "That's different."

"Is it?" Ice asks. He's never wanted to believe someone so much in his life. And yet— "It'd be one less worry," he says, willing her to understand. "Please."

After a moment, Velma reaches forward, her expression softer. "I'll be careful, Ice," she says gently. "I promise."

Ice exhales, only a little relieved, and takes her hand. "That's all I'm askin'."

The walk home is stilted, awkward, mostly filled by Velma telling him about Rosalia, that Shark girl. Apparently she babysits for Izzy sometimes and gets on well with both twins, though how that happened Velma has no clue. Still, though, the girl is nice, if a bit chatty. They'll probably be seeing more of her now, and—

Ice barely hears any of it. He hasn't thought about it—has tried so hard not to think about it—that sometimes he almost forgets what happened. He's pushed it away, he knows. He's concentrated on the Jets' part in it, because that is what he has to concern himself with. But the fact is that what almost happened to Anita could happen to any gang member's girl. To Graziella, to Clarice. Bernice and Pauline. Maybe even—and this is truly sickening—Minnie.

But not to Velma, he thinks, gripping her hand tighter. Even if he has to personally take out every single sonofabitch Red in the city. Not his girl. Never.

.

"Look, Anybodys," he says the next day, "I got somethin' I need ya to do. This's real important. Maybe more'n anything I ever asked ya to do."

Anybodys's eyes light up. "Gee, Ice, what is it?"

He takes a deep breath. "I need ya to—stick close to Vee for awhile."

The girl's face twitches, and Ice remembers that she's never really gotten along with the Jets' girls, except Minnie. "What?"

He shrugs, not knowing what else to do, not knowing how to explain this. "Just—keep an eye on her, is all I'm askin'."

Anybodys's face is wary. "Gee, Daddy-O, I know you're over the moon about her, but—ain't that takin' it a little far?" She frowns. "An' if it's 'cause ya want me to spy on her or somethin', I gotta say, I don't—"

Ice shakes his head. "It ain't that."

"Then what is it?" Anybodys wants to know, her small, narrow face puzzled.

At first Ice isn't going to tell her, doesn't want to remind her of what happened back in June. She's a girl, after all, and for the first time it strikes him that this might be something she needs to be careful about, too.

But then he looks at her determined expression, remembers that she has always done everything he's asked of her. Even if she didn't like it. She's been a good Jet, and deserves an explanation.

"That girl," he says at last. "Bernardo's girl."

Anybodys frowns. "Why—"

"You know why," he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. He still remembers the absolute terror in the tomboy's eyes, how for once she didn't know what to say because what can you say when you're trying to explain the unexplainable?

"They were gonna—if Doc hadna come in, they woulda—"

Anybody's blue eyes shoot wide open, and Ice swears he sees her bottom lip tremble for the first time since that summer night. "Reaper?"

Ice nods. "We ran into him at the dance last night. I don't know what he'd do. Any of 'em. I ain't riskin' it."

Anybodys chews her lip for a moment, then looks up at him. "Don't worry, Ice," she says, her voice quiet. "I won't let ya down."

"Hey," he says, catching her arm as she moves to go.

She glances up, her face still troubled. "Yeah?"

He doesn't quite know how to say it to someone who for the past nine months has been one of the guys. "You be careful, too, kid. We wouldn't want nothin' to happen to ya."

And for a moment, there's a flash of—softness? gratitude? he can't tell—in her expression as she gazes up at him. "Ya mean it?"

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable. "'Course. You're one of us."

Something different flickers through her eyes now, but before he can catch hold of it, she shrugs.

"Just like I always wanted," she says, and is off.

.

"Fuck," says Joyboy as he crashes into Doc's. Ice is unnerved to see him expel a mouthful of reddish spit. "What the hell is goin' on?"

"You okay, buddy-boy?" asks Snowboy, getting up and hurrying to his twin's side.

"Yeah," says Joyboy, still in that short, terse voice. "They kept punchin' me in the mouth. Coupla teeth feel loose, but they're okay."

"What happened?" asks Ice, keeping his voice at a dead calm. "The Reds?"

Joyboy nods. "Five of 'em." He glances at Ice, his face twisting. "In neutral territory. Only gave up when a squad car came by."

A yelp of outrage comes from Baby John's corner. "Them lousy Commie—"

"I told him," Ice says, barely controlling his anger, "I told him. Neutral territory means neutral territory."

"Rules don't mean nothin' to these bastards," explodes Action, hammering his fists on the counter. "Well, soon's I get holda one-a them they'll see who they're dealin' with, an' if any-a those motherf—"

"Cool it," snaps Ice, though he's having just as hard of a time doing that as any of the Jets in the candy store. "Okay, we're gonna set up a coupla ambushes of our own, where they won't be expectin' it. We're gonna tell 'em when, where, an' who's gonna be fightin', not them. Got it?"

A low growl from the Jets answers him, and Ice, looking around at his gang, expects to feel happy that they're united. When they're all together, he knows, there's nothing the Jets can't do.

Instead he just feels a ball of anger in his stomach that pushes him on. When they do meet the Reds again, Ice thinks, clenching his fists, he knows exactly who his target will be. "We do what they'd do for us," he says, seeing that look in Reaper's eyes once more. "So no holdin' back."

But no matter how hard he tries, Ice never seems to be able to get to Reaper. Sometimes it's the two or three younger Reds who swarm up and get in his way, and sometimes it's the one called Saber, but more often it's Claw. It's like he knows that the Jet captain is out to get him, Ice thinks, frustrated, and is just playing with him.

It's weeks after the war with the Reds intensified and the Jets are lying in wait by the abandoned tire factory. Reaper, his face settled in that familiar expression of casual ownership, has just appeared across the street and as Ice sees him, the Jet feels a burst of white-hot rage flare inside him. This time, he thinks, his anger settling into cold fury, this time he will get to Reaper and make it very clear that he is to stay away from everything Ice loves.

"Now?" Anybodys hisses from his left, and Ice snaps his fingers.

"Now."

The Jets erupt out of the alley and toward the Soviet, who turns and, incredibly, smiles. Ice feels that maddening desire to wipe the presumption right off his face when he slows, his inherent caution taking over—why isn't Reaper worried, why doesn't he even look surprised—

And before he can even look around, seven other Soviets are there, fists up and ready and aiming for the Jets. How, wonders Ice, gritting his teeth as the Jets launch themselves at the Reds, how did he figure it out—

That doesn't matter, he thinks in the back of his mind, focusing on Reaper and the clear path to him. What matters now is—

But before he can move to the Red captain, Claw steps in front of him, fists raised, a grin dancing over his scarred face. And Ice utters every silent curse he knows, because Claw is the best fighter and so is Ice and if he doesn't want to let the Red loose on the other Jets, he'll have to take Claw out first. And Reaper knows it.

"Get outta my way," Ice snarls, rage building inside of him.

And Claw, teeth bared and green eyes glinting, doesn't move. "Make me."

.

In the end, as all of them have known since the beginning, it comes down to the eleven Jets, the nine Reds, and what one small shadow has figured out about the Soviets' headquarters.

As they step into the dim warehouse down at the docks, Ice glances around. It's just like Anybodys said: tables, crates, cards. The Reds, holding small glasses. Smoke drifting lazily in the air. And something Anybodys never mentioned.

"These are the Jets?"

The accented voice is low, unimpressed, and female. Peering in the darkness, Ice can just barely make out the silhouettes of four girls, lit by their cigarettes.

"Yeah," sneers Action before Ice can stop him, "an' if you broads knew what was good for ya, you wouldn't be hangin' around while we was here. You might not like it."

Claw jerks forward with a growl, but Reaper, sitting by the biggest table, holds his hand up. "Ice."

"We're here to talk," the Jet captain says, and nods toward the girls. "We ain't interested in them. Get 'em out."

Reaper's gaze doesn't waver, but Ice doesn't care what he might be thinking. He is telling the truth: no matter what the Reds and their captain might stoop to, the Jets have gone down this route before and Ice isn't giving another gang any reason for revenge. He intends to keep his promise to Velma. The girls are off limits, no matter what.

At last Reaper nods, and the four Soviet girls file out past the Jets, who, at a look from Ice, let them pass in peace. They're beautiful, in that cold, detached way, he thinks, but they look like they could freeze you with a glance.

With them gone, Reaper crosses his arms. "Well?"

"War council," says Ice without any preamble. "We're settlin' this, once an' for all."

Reaper glances back at Saber, who shrugs, and turns back to Ice, raising one eyebrow. "You had to have the police stop us from running you out the last time, even though you tried to surprise us. Why should we bother?"

"The police came an' broke it up 'cause they've been watchin' us for a year," Ice says, his voice tight. "It's got nothin' to do with us not wantin' to fight."

"An' win," Anybodys adds, jutting her chin out. "'Less, a-course, you're too scared."

Reaper gazes from her to Ice, and this time when he speaks there is the slightest hint of anger. "We are not the ones who must ask a girl to fight our battles."

"Hey!" protests A-Rab, indignant, before Ice clears his throat.

"She's a Jet," he says. "That's all that you gotta worry about."

Again Reaper glances at Saber, before he shakes his head. "You keep talking about how there are rules," says the captain, eyes glinting. "Why don't you tell us how it is done, then?"

"Tomorrow. After dark," Ice says. It's only when Big Deal, on his right, shifts his weight that Ice recognizes the words. Riff, and his last war council. Ice, and his first as leader.

It doesn't matter, he thinks uncomfortably. That's the only thing that will be the same. Nighttime is better for rumbles, anyway. "Now the place. We was thinkin'—"

"How about under the highway?" says Reaper, and Ice feels a jolt of stomach-churning nausea shoot through him. No. No. Never there, never again. He glances back at the Jets, most of whom look as stricken as he feels. He tears his eyes away and meets Reaper's taunting gaze again.

"Actually," says Ice, forcing his voice to stay steady, "we were thinkin' the railyard."

"No," says Reaper, who regards him for a long moment, gray eyes calculating. No one expects what he says next:

"The roof of the police station."

"What are ya, nuts?" bursts out Action, springing forward, only to be grabbed by Big Deal. That doesn't stop his mouth, though. "I don't know about you Commie crazies, but we ain't that dumb!"

Ice ignores him, his eyes narrowed. "Why there?"

Reaper grins. "It is the last place they will be looking, yes?"

Ice considers this. It's true. And yet—

"Cops ain't never caught us," interjects the smallest one, Pinch, his sharp voice jarringly American. "An' if they did—"

"We would say their friends had just let us go. From questioning, you see," says the blond Switch, with an angel-faced smile. "They would believe it."

"We have done it, many times," says Saber, his gaze confident. "We even rumbled with the Untouchables up there."

"Really?" ventures Baby John, before Anybodys shoves him.

Claw glances over at him, and releases a slow chuckle. His voice is low and dark, and Ice can see Baby John shrink at the sight of the long scar running up the Red's face. "They were not so untouchable after all."

Ice turns around to look at Big Deal, who shrugs. The Soviets make a good case for the stationhouse. It's a short drop and run from there to plenty of hideouts, and if the cops suspect anything about a rumble, they'll all be out of the place and on the streets. It's ingenious, really. Though in the back of his mind he's wary about any place that the Reds have used, he doesn't have any real concrete reason to say no.

"Okay," he says. "Weapons."

Reaper gives him a deliberate smile, and this time, he doesn't say anything at all, just reaches into his pocket, draws out a long ivory handle, and lays the blade on the table in front of him.

"No," Ice says, voice flat. He has let Reaper decide everything else for just this moment. "No knives."

Claw snorts, and the light flashes off a glint of gold in his mouth. "What, are you afraid?"

Ice shakes his head, doesn't look down. "No. But no knives."

Reaper watches him for a moment, and Ice can't read what he's thinking behind those dark eyes. Finally, the captain gives a dismissive shrug. "Pipes, then."

Pipes. They might bleed, a little, and certainly they'll bruise, but they won't die, not with those. Ice steps forward and extends his hand, remembering, as he does, Riff's belief that it's always important to do the thing properly. After all, there's no other reason for this. "Pipes."

They shake, and Reaper inclines his head, that slow smile spreading over his face. "Til tomorrow."

Tomorrow, Ice thinks, breathing in deep, when he'll see to it that Reaper never has a reason to give them that smile again.

"Tomorrow," he says, and without another word leads the Jets out into the city, and the night.