Hi, friends! I'm back with a very old request from an old friend named FuriedNight.

I know this isn't exactly what was asked for, a backstory for Jack, but it's got a lot of his past.

This is the scene in between Santa Fe and Act II.

Please enjoy!

Jack still remembered it all. It was a curse of his. The inability to forget.

Sometimes he could pretend it was all some kind of nightmare. He could smile with his brothers and put on a brave face. For them he could pretend.

Maybe it was because he'd had no one to pretend for him growing up. He'd had no one to tell him that monsters aren't real. He'd had no one to tell him that things would get better. He'd had no one to tell him that all his hurts would heal and that the pain would one day melt away, almost like it was never even there.

He'd have given anything to hear those kind lies growing up. To hear someone say Jack, everythin' is gonna be okay…

So when he'd found himself in a position where kids looked up to him, where kids trusted him, he made it his mission to comfort them and pretend. To pretend things were okay.

He wasn't okay. He never had been.

He'd never wanted any of the rest of them to have to go through that. None of them.

Some of them already had.

Racer. Albert. Henry. Specs. He hadn't been able to save them.

But he could still pretend. He could still pretend that Race's night terrors would go away, that Albert's tremors cease. He could still lie to Henry and tell him he wouldn't always feel the need to hide food in his pockets every time he had the chance. He'd continue to tell Specs that he'd be able to hum tunes from Medda's shows sometime soon without the fear of someone striking him.

He should've taken a page out of his old man's book. It wasn't his pa's fault. Not really. He couldn't blame him for being as harsh as he was. He was a product of his environment. Maybe at some point in his late father's life, he'd been just like Jack.

Jack wished he could have known him then.

The boy hugged his knees tighter to his chest as he hid. There was only a curtain to hide him from the stage hands and singers who were rushing around backstage. He couldn't hide in the closet.

He was afraid he wouldn't be able to get back out.

Maybe if he hadn't pretended to be brave none of this would've happened. Maybe if he hadn't somehow convinced them all that this was a good idea.

He'd told Snyder, that horrible, condescending man, that he could never break him. The Spider had always been so smug, so arrogant. Maybe the man had gotten to him. Snyder starved him, beat him, broke his shoulder, twisted his ankle, knocked him out and locked him up time and time again.

But Jack had continued on. He'd gotten out of that hell.

The first time, he'd wiggles himself through the loose bar windows. The second, he'd dug a hole beneath the fence in the sad, wilted garden that was behind the building. The third was nothing short of a miracle.

His newsie brothers called him a hero, a wonder, a big story. A headline.

But it was his own idiotic escapes that were the reason no one else could get out of that place. That hellish place. It was the reason Henry had stayed six weeks, Albert for ten, Specs for four months, and Race for six. Jack was the very reason they couldn't escape. Because he'd made Snyder smarter, more careful and all the more cruel.

It was his own fault.

And now… it was his fault all over again.

He gripped onto his own hair. He'd promised Crutchie that everything would be alright. He'd told him they were going to leave. They were going to go out to that place out west and get out here. This place that takes innocents and destroys them. This place that takes people like Crutchie and drives them into the ground. Drives them mad and crazy and takes that smile off of his face.

Crutchie was an innocent. He didn't deserve any of what he got. A bum leg. A dead father and a crazy mother. A trip to The Refuge.

It was Jack's fault. There was no denying that. Not anymore.

There was nothing left that could be okay. Because Jack had done this. He'd been pretending so long that he'd forgotten he'd been pretending. And he was done. Nothing was okay anymore.

The strike was his own fault. The brawl had been his own fault. He'd told those boys to stand their ground. Because yes, he was done with being told how to live. He was done being treated like dirt. But even then, a part of him had known. A part of him had known from the beginning that there was no winning this fight.

Pulitzer was the most powerful man in all of New York.

The newsies were just some poor kids who lived on the streets and ran from the bulls everyday.

They'd never stood a chance.

But he couldn't stop pretending. It was like he'd forgotten how.

And now Crutchie was paying the price.

So that was it. It was over. Jack Kelly was done.

No more pretending.

No more strike.

No more New York.

He was getting out of this city. Those boys would be better off without him anyhow. No one would lie to them anymore. No one would tell them everything would be okay when everyone knew damn well it wouldn't be.

Crutchie's innocence would melt away and the poor crip would toughen up. It was the only way to survive in this cruel world. Jack couldn't protect him from that any longer.

It was all his fault. Everything that had happened, it was all him.

"Jack, baby… are you alright?"

All Jack could do was sob at that voice.

He was done pretending.

No more.

Alright, there it was. A little short, but I had fun writing it! I hope ya'll enjoyed it!

Thank you, FuriedNight, for the request!

As always, thanks for reading! Make sure to tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what you'd change or what you'd improve by leaving me a review! Love ya, fansies!