Spot wandered. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn't much care. There was no safe place for him anymore. He had been to the warehouse. Had seen the long, deep, shockingly red wounds in Soap's chest. Maybe it had been hours, maybe only minutes, that he had knelt there beside his friend.
Mitts' face had been shocked. His skin pale, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Vito had actually cried, something Spot had never seen him do.
And they only knew the half of it.
He hadn't been able to find the words to tell them that Soap wasn't the only one, but he thought maybe Mitts had understood anyways.
Spot was sure Vin was out here on the streets somewhere too, probably singing her song softly to himself.
I had a dream, dear. You had one, too.
A dream to fix everything. To make it right. The dream of a boy with conviction stronger than iron and a heart bigger than Brooklyn. A heart that had stilled tonight.
Mine was the best dream, Because it was of you.
They had shared his dream, briefly. They had believed in it; believed that with enough hard work and a few black eyes they could fix Brooklyn. They had believed in the goodness in people's hearts. They had not counted on the blackness of other's.
Somethings gotta give, I don't know how.
They had given. Each of them had lost something that night. A sister. A friend and leader. They had lost something important, but it was more than just people. That loss, alone, weighed heavily on him, but in truth, it was something more intangible he had lost.
But there's just no way we can turn back now.
He had lost his heart. He had learned the true nature of human beings. There was a line between right and wrong; between good and evil. Good was a boy with conviction and bright ideas. Good was a blond beauty with the voice of an angel. Good was gone. He was not so dim as to follow blindly in their footsteps. He would learn from their mistakes. He would tread closer to that line.
Come, sweetheart, tell me. Now is the time.
Why hadn't he seen this coming? All of this was bigger than the five of them. What chance did five boys standing for what was right, have against Brooklyn; Against the world? The world with it's black hearts that would chew them up and spit them and their childish ideals out.
You tell me your dream, And I'll tell you mine.
He halted in his tracks. They had been childish. It had been a dream; to ask for something so important and not expect anything to lose anything in return. Soap's question that night in the bar floated through his head. 'What d'ya think it's gonna take ta win?' Not this. None of them had expected this. No one had expected Soap would die for his dream.
Spot would never let dreams lead him ever again. Dreams were fantasies; impossible wishes, nothing more. Dreams never came true. He supposed that was what made them dreams. If they did come true, they were never really a dream in the first place, but something more realistic. Something not worth dreaming of.
