The warehouse was quiet.

Scraps had not left. Blue had turned up only a few days later. It was as if Soap's lingering dream had called to them; the violence of his end had spoken to them. The choice was being made. Brooklyn was coming together.

Despite the fact that the warehouse now housed around thirty boys. All of them sat silent and still. Waiting for what would come next.

None of them asked the question of leadership. As of yet it was a loose alliance of two groups of boys and what remained of a third. None of them asked, because they all knew, but Spot Conlon had sat at the end of the pier for the better part of three days. Watchful, but silent.

Around noon, seven boys showed up, led by Marcus. They stood crowded at the end of the pier, but they did not advance on it. They stood still and silent. They were an emotionless sea, but they were threatening all the same.

The boys on the pier got to their feet, staring. It was a few minutes before someone pushed their way to the front of the crowd. He advanced a few paces from the rest of the boys, leaving the safety of their numbers; standing in the no-man's land between the two groups of boys.

"Why are you hea, Marcus?" Spot called down the pier.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably at being called out, but he too advanced a few paces into the neutral territory, holding both of his empty hands up in surrender and as an act of good faith.

"Finch is gone, high-tailed it."

"So what? Now youse want to back Soap? It's a little late for dat."

"No." Marcus called, his voice firm. "We's hea ta back youse."

In the silence that followed, the air practically crackled with electricity. Spot shook his head disbelievingly. He turned his back on Marcus and took one step back towards his boys when Marcus' voice rent the air again.

"We's fightas. We ain't killas. Soap and Finch are both gone. I ain't no leader and even if I was, I ain't 'bout ta side wit' Queens. So all dat's left is youse, Conlon."

"Vin-"

"We don't want Vin."

Spot's back was still turned to Marcus. His ice blue eyes scanned the faces of his own boys. There was approval and hesitant triumph written plainly on all their faces. His eyes lit on one particular face. Mitts nodded once. A motion that was so small it was almost imperceptible.

He breathed deeply through his nose and turned back towards Marcus and his boys. His jaw was set. His features resolute.

"I'm gonna say dis right now: Dere ain't gonna be no more fightin' between Brooklyn Newsies." His voice was measured and steady. It carried to everyone on both sides of the docks.

"Our only enemy is Queens. Dat's tha way it always should have been."

There were murmurs of ascension from both in front and behind him.

"If all a youse can agree ta dat," His eyes raked the faces of the boys at the end of the pier. "Den we're on tha same side."

Wordlessly, Marcus stepped forward, brought the palm of his right hand up to his face and spit in it. Then he held it out to Spot.

The Brooklyn Newsies, delighted at being a united front for the first time, would drink, toast and laugh themselves into friendship that night. Barriers would break, old grudges would be forgotten and all emnity would be lightly tossed away in the face of a new struggle against Queens; a struggle they would face down as a whole. It was one they would conquer, easily, under the leadership of Spot Conlon.

Unlike any other leader in the history of Brooklyn, he was to be the first the newsies had chosen for themselves. He was the youngest leader they had ever had and the most respected. He shouldered the weight of it like a man, with calm, emotionless eyes and a smirk. Few would ever know that he had never wanted it.