It was going to be two chapters, but they were too short. And I showed Newsies to my parents last night, and they liked it, yay! And give me flames, give me goodies, give me constructive criticism, but touch the button here and review!

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. If I did, I would not be posting it on Fanfiction, and you guys would not know about until I got someone to make the movie and yada yada yada.

XxX

Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins has seen a lot of strange things during his lifetime. But when he found an unconscious, bloody Spot Conlon in a deserted alleyway, he thought he was either dead or dreaming.

But sure enough, Spot was still there when Race opened his eyes again. He bent over Spot, and catalogued his injuries.

"Okay, dis is definitely bad," he decided.

He then spotted Spot clutching a piece of paper. He slowly smoothed it out and read it, his face going whiter and whiter.

It was definitely the work of Sneers, the high-class idiot. Race swore so badly, a seaman would have been embarrassed to listen. He swore in every language he knew, Italian and English and a little bit of Spanish, too.

Race looked at Spot. "We gotta warn Jack and all dem uddahs. But foist, I'se gotta geddya outta heah."

Race picked up Spot and staggered. Spot's not heavy, but Racetrack is one of the shortest and scrawniest people that you can find at his age. Even Spot, who is maybe five feet or so and skinny as a bean pole is at least slightly larger than the miniscule Italian.

He had made it about as far as Manhattan when he gave up. He found a manageable alley, and stowed Spot behind a large crate.

Well, I'se don't think t'ings can ged any woise, thought Race resignedly.

And then he felt a few drops of rain as they splattered onto his face.

Oh, brilliant.

XxX

Sneers smiled as he walked down the street in the fading twilight to a place he used to call home.

Business, just business, he reminded himself as he moved faster towards the Brooklyn Lodging House.

But he just could not wait to do this little bit of conquering. It wasn't anything personal; it was just that Sneers wanted power. And lots of it.

He finally reached the dwelling, and the golden letters on the awning had faded some, but it looked about the same.

He smiled again, as he shoved open the door.

There had been a hum of conversation, but all had ceased.

"I'm lookin' foah your leader," Sneers said roughly.

One of the newsies stood up. "Da name's Slinger," he growled, "And you'se lookin' at him."

"Really? I have heard otherwise. What `bout dat little twig named Spot Conlon?"

Slinger said nothing but cracked his knuckles.

Sneers was in his element. "Where is he, den?"

Silence.

"Aw," Sneers said in a little baby voice. "`As Brooklyn lost summat? `Ave they lost dere leader?"

Slinger looked angry enough to light some kindling. "Get out," he snarled.

"Look who's got a temper?"

Sneers, who had been prowling around the room, stopped in front of the door.

He then threw out a long object so suddenly that Slinger flinched as it landed with a clatter at his feet.

It was Spot's cane.

"Spot ain't your leader no more," Sneers said softly, "And ya know what?"

Sneers walked up to Slinger, towering over him.

"I'm the new one."