The Royal Flush

By: Racetrack's Goil

Author's Note:This is for Spot'sGalFrom1899. I think it's her birthday today!

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from the movie is not mine.

It was very dark by the time I began making my way home. The lamplights were burning low, and the cobbled streets were empty. As I walked down towards the looming Brooklyn Bridge up ahead, I decided quite firmly that I was not to show any hints whatsoever that might give away the fact that anything was different. That I had learned anything different. Nothing was going to change.

Of course, I did consider the option of just telling Spot everything. Just to let it all out. I heard the whole story from as unbiased a person I could get, and I had come to the conclusion that…

Hmm.

What conclusion had I come to?

I was sure of one thing: this entire, horrible, awful situation was no longer as one-sided as I had made it out to be. Situations very rarely are, if ever, completely one-sided, and I was now clear that this certainly wasn't any exception. Duke may have initiated the fight, but Spot did nothing to remedy the situation in a way that might have saved lives that might have been needlessly lost.

Yet at the same time, I couldn't imagine myself reacting in any other way than how Spot reacted. His best friend had betrayed him, so he lashed out in the only way I suppose he knew how: fight back. The scale of villainy tipped towards Duke, and the fault of what happened was definitely not Spot's.

No matter how vile the things he did were to hurt Duke in any way he could, I would have done the same. Or at least, I think I might have.

But what did that matter? He had done some pretty awful things, and it made me uncomfortable to know, but it was all in the past, wasn't it? A true friend would not bring it up and make him relive everything he had done. A true friend would not let it affect their friendship. And a true friend would support him, for, even if he had done some awful things to take revenge, he had not initiated the situation; it had been put upon him. And it was being put upon him now, and the Spot I knew now must be different. A true friend would know that.

And surely I was more than friend. I should be able to do that much for Spot. At least, I must try.

Therefore, when I saw a familiar figure on Brooklyn Bridge, staring out at the dark world before him, I went up to him without hesitating. Had he been waiting for me? As I drew near he gave a small start, as though I had actually surprised him; he had been so engrossed in his thoughts. The rain had stopped, but he must have been caught in it since his hair was glistening from what little light there was. Then those marvelous blue-green eyes smiled faintly into mine, and despite all my resolutions, I am ashamed to say I wondered. Looking at that deceptively boyish, charming face, I would never have guessed him to have been capable of taking revenge so far. I wondered how many had made assumptions about his character with that face, boys and girls alike, and I wondered whether perhaps I was merely one of them.

Oh, bother. Was I going to go over this again? Was my trust so easily influenced?

He didn't speak, so I didn't. I leaned against the rail next to him, and gazed out. The night sky met the black outline of the buildings below, and if you held your breath, you could just hear the city breathing, sleeping as one great beast. It felt alive and even in a rough-and-tumble place like Brooklyn, we were all a part of New York, so we could live, breath, and sleep in unison. That was what I saw, staring out, this beautifully dark place I called home. But what did he see?

"Do you remember," he asked in a quiet voice I never heard him use before, "when you called me a coward to my face?"

I frowned, a little taken aback. I shook my head, "Did I?"

"When the strike first began. I didn't want to help Kelly, and you thought it was wrong of me. You called me a coward, and I pushed you off the docks into the water.'

I heard the smile in his voice, even though I couldn't see it. I grinned, remembering how furious I was. "I remember."

How long ago it all seemed. I was even more ignorant than I was now, and I felt mildly embarrassed to remember all those tiny little events and incidences that made up my first few weeks as a newsie. I was just a prejudiced girl determined to hate the one guy who kept humiliating her, yet he kept saving her neck. I felt a flash of humor. Almost like a story right out from a book! Except I didn't know my ending yet, and Spot wasn't exactly Prince Charming. And I certainly was no princess.

"You came right up from the water, all pink and purple 'cos you were so angry," he was faintly smiling now, "You were livid, and I half expected steam to come rising from you. And you came marching right up to me, yelling every single insulting name you knew, and some I could have sworn never existed."

I groaned. "Oh, shut up. How is this relevant?"

He laughed. "Let me finish?"

"Oh, alright. But don't make fun of me."

He smirked. "When you came splashing out like some roaring tidal wave and stormed up to me with your wet hair all over those amazing eyes, I suddenly just started to think. You were different, Ace, not just because you were having none of me, but because you cared about things that most of us forgot we should care about."

I felt my eyebrows furrow, and I tilted my head, hoping I could see his eyes, but I couldn't now. Just his hair, glistening a little, and his silhouette facing the world beyond, his shirt unbuttoned down the top two as usual despite the cold weather. Then he turned, as though he sensed my gaze, and I wondered whether he was smiling or not. His voice was reflective, but I heard a worn sort of weariness to it, and I knew then that something was bothering him. Or no, everything was bothering him.

And then, I couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like to have such an enormous responsibility to so many people, yet having to deal with his own personal issues with Duke. It was sheer pressure, and the weight of it must be crushing. I felt pity right then, pity for the road his past had forced him into, and even more pity for the things he had done that had set his path in stone. Duke had done terrible things, but Spot also had to live with what he had done. With the entire cursed situation.

But I wasn't about to start patting him on the back and letting him weep on my shoulder (as if he would). He wouldn't appreciate it. And what good would that do?

I struggled for words, something uplifting, something morally true that would somehow give him strength or comfort. But how could I, someone who had absolutely no experience in such a situation as he was in right now, be able to speak and give him any form of advice or encouragement? I could feel his struggle, but I didn't ever experience it. What could I possibly say without sounding obsequious?

Then I didn't have to say anything at all, because he touched my face lightly, and then kissed me. His hand found mine, and I leaned into him, shivering as his other hand lifted my hair and traced the back of my neck. It's been a while, I thought to myself. I'd missed this. We'd been so caught up with everything going on that we hadn't had time for each other. After a moment, I stepped back.

"It's late, Spot. Let's head back."

There was silence. Then a sharp, bitter intake of breath that was part scoff, part laugh. "That is so you, Ace," he breathed, laughing slightly, "So maddeningly sensible. Don't you ever want to do something that isn't right? Aren't you ever tempted?"

The question was so ridiculous that I nearly started laughing myself, but it would have sounded rather awfully obnoxious so I didn't. I said, "That's just silly. I'm human. Of course I do things that aren't right. We all do."

He tugged my hand and I stepped closer as he said wryly, "Stickin' around here certainly wasn't right. Look at da mess you're stuck with."

I pretended to think. "Nah. I'm thinking that sticking with you wasn't right. But it's all good, 'cos you know what, you're not half-bad."

He kissed my forehead, barely brushing his lips against my skin. For a moment there was comfortable silence, and then he went, "Did you have a nice chat with Verge?"

There is nothing to say, is there?

"Yes. Yes, I did," I said as calmly as I could. I struggled and strained against the irritation that came springing up out of nowhere. I let go of his hand. Could I not talk, walk, or do anything without him not knowing it? Was there to be absolutely no privacy if I were to become a Brooklynite? Or his girl?

"Oh c'mon, don't be angry, Ace," he leaned against the rail again, facing me still. He seemed amused and that old sniggery part of Spot returning, "It's my job to know things."

"I know," I muttered sullenly, because I did know, "But I don't like it."

"If it makes you feel better, I don't know what you talked 'bout."

I squinted at him. He wasn't asking me to tell him. That meant he already had come to his own conclusions, and I was pretty sure he had guessed right. He always guessed right. I was under no obligation to tell him, was I? However, did he think I didn't trust him? I was sure he knew we talked about Duke. It was all there; his just bringing it up like that, hinting that he had guessed, the whole talk before…

I said, "I trust you, Spot. You know that right?"

"Do you really?" he asked simply, not tentatively or sadly; just a neutral question thrown out there. My irritation slipped away. This was one of the things I loved best about Spot. He'd be all tough, all smart, but then he'd turn right around and make you think. He'd judge and demand, but then make a statement that would normally sound like an accusation into a mere thought. He valued my opinion and just wanted to know.

"I do," I said. It was so dark now and I could just see Spot leaning thoughtfully with his arms and back against the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge, his head held high as he looked reflectively towards me. Impulsively, I took his hand again and kissed it. "I trust you. And so do the rest of us."

His face was devoid of any emotion, just contemplative. "Let's hope dey do."

It began raining again while we walked home.

The next morning was cold, and I was shivering as I stepped out from my bunk. Cat was awake, staring listlessly up at the ceiling as though she was yearning to jump out of bed and go mad-spying all over the city. All the girls were rather quiet; everyone was tired. It was a nasty sort of tired, and no one was going to snap at anyone. It was actually a pleasant tiredness. The past few days had been hectic, but we had all pulled through. I shrugged on my worn oversized coat and bent over to up my hat that had fallen to the floor off the bed sometime while I was sleeping. I put it on and turned around to find Milkshake behind me.

"So, how are you?" she said easily, her green eyes slightly mischievous and lively despite the dark rings under her eyes. None of us had been getting much sleep recently.

I shrugged and tied my hair together haphazardly. "Good, I guess. I hurt everywhere from that silly dance lesson from Medda."

"You came back real late," she remarked nonchalantly, sitting down on her bunk next to mine to put on her shoes.

"Yeah." I sat down to put on my own shoes.

She raised her eyebrows and smiled suggestively. "You and Spot, I mean."

I reddened, rolling my eyes at her insinuations. "Yes, we came back late."

"Oooooh."

"We were just talking, stupid," I stood up quickly, embarrassed as usual whenever Milkshake or any of the girls brought things like this up. I couldn't help smiling a little back though. It was all in good fun, I knew, and it was true, nothing happened. Nothing like thatever happened with me and Spot. And you know what? I was fine. Maybe it wasn't normal, and I knew it puzzled some of the Brooklynites, but Spot and I were just fine with how our relationship was. It was strange and unspoken. I think that despite it all, he understood what I felt about everything he used to do; all those flings, he used to be a player, and it was natural for me to wonder sometimes. So I got the feeling he was being extra careful, every time we kissed, every time we touched, to show that he wasn't like that anymore.

Although after last night…I don't think I'd wonder so much anymore.

Milkshake gave a giggle and grinned. "Talking is good." Then she was off, in her usual Milkshake fashion, bounding out the door to find Pike.

Cat was being all moodily silent, and I would have said something to her, but I was still mad that she had suggested I would betray Spot. So I just stuffed my money into the pockets of my over-sized trousers and headed toward the door. Jackal walked past just then, and stopped. Then, with his huge smile, stepped into the room.

"Good morning ladies!"

An unforgivable act, of course. I moved aside to make way.

All manner of clothing, rags, pillows, blankets, and the occasional shoe went flying through the air and, since they were Brooklynites, nearly every missile hit Jackal accurately in the face. It was glorious, really.

"Get outta here!"

Everyone was snickering, everyone perhaps except for Artemis, who had actually been in the process of pulling on her trousers when Jackal had made his grand entrance. By the time she recovered, Jackal had already fled, and I grinned as we heard him yell as he ran down the stairs, "Arty's got chicken legs!"

Artemis' face went pasty white. She looked so embarrassed and for a moment, her cheeks turned red. Then her face took on a lovely shade of livid purple, and we all hooted as she went raging out the door, shrieking Jackal's name and pairing it with every swear word ever constructed in the English vocabulary. There was a yell downstairs from Jackal, and we heard pounding of footsteps downstairs.

There was something comforting about all this. Everyone knew these were dangerous times. Duke might start picking us off one by one. Or set fire to the LH or something. It was frightening, knowing that there was an enemy out there who wanted to kill your leader and anyone in his way. Yet everyone was acting like nothing was different. Honestly, as much as I tried to see small giveaways of fear and tenseness in anyone's eyes, I couldn't find any. Pithon was snarkily making nasty comments to Cat, while Sodapop was just whistling her morning away in the washroom. I could have sworn they had no idea what was going on, but I knew they knew. It was comforting to see no change, and I realized that this was, in a way, their manner of coping with danger. No matter how hard I looked for some uncomfortable shift of the eye, or quick frown on someone's face, I couldn't find any sign of fear or tension. Laughing in the face of it, and daring it to stab them in the back.

There was a brief thump and a hoarse yelp from Jackal downstairs. I went out of the room and Pike came bounding out of the other room enthusiastically. He linked arms with me with a cheerful grin, and escorted me down the stairs.

"And how is me little Ace doin'?" he chirped, beaming at me with irresistible optimism.

I chirped back as we came outside, "Lovely, thank you, at least up until I saw your ugly mug."

He grinned, "Thanks darlin', you're a sweetheart."

"Milkshake's looking for-," I started say, but suddenly Spot appeared out of the LH door and Pike went over to him without another word. "…you," I trailed off, rather caught off guard. I blinked as Spot gave the taller boy a slow challenging look and muttered something under his breath that made Pike grin. It sounded something like, "Today, yeah? You ready for losin' some money?"

Of course, I may have heard wrong. I didn't want to make a fool out of myself by asking something idiotic.

Spot turned his back to Pike as I walked up, and properly woke me up with a swift kiss. "Mornin', Ashley," he greeting, his eyes meeting mine with a mischievous glint. He looked alright, somewhat brighter than last night, but still he seemed tired. But the smile on his face was genuine. "You gonna sell papes with me today?"

I rolled my eyes at the unnecessary question. "You're too cruel sometimes, Spot. No."

We never sold together. Mostly because somehow people shied away from a boy and girl team selling papes. I didn't understand why; they thought it immoral maybe and then just walked away. Anyhow, Spot sold much faster than I, and I ended up feeling rather competitive whenever he sold more than me. It was the worst when he then stood there waiting for me to finish, watching me flounder around with a paper in my hand. And I wouldn't ever let him help me, because that would simply be embarrassing and humiliating. But he certainly did love to rub it in.

"You sure?" he drawled, and I scowled at him.

"Maybe when I can finally keep up with you, then, yes. Not today though."

He grinned, "Aw, you're already improvin'. But hey, meet me at Rays for lunch?"

I readjusted my hat and gave him a look, "Yes. Like we always do."

"Just makin' sure."

We started walking over to the distribution center, our fingertips brushing occasionally 'by accident.' I caught Pike glancing over at Spot once more before ducking back into the LH to look for Milkshake. Spot didn't even look his way and I inwardly brushed away my curiosity, deciding it must have been nothing. Although…I had to admit those two, especially Pike, had been looking meaningfully at me for this past week. Something was going on…I was mildly bemused, but not enough to press the matter.

Jackal and Artemis was there at the distribution center. We could see them along with a couple other newsies clumped up all together a little ways off from where they purchased the papers, and I noticed that Jackal was limping slightly, and Artemis looked very satisfied with herself. Spot smirked, and we made our way to line up..

We bought our papers, said our goodbyes, and I went off to sell. I headed down to my usual spot at the market place, passing by Pithon on the way. She waved at me with a nonchalant air, as she scanned the crowd for a good prey. I grinned, knowing I could never be as forward or as brave to sell as the rest of the Brooklynites did. They went up to people. I could never go up to a stranger and blare news at them. I had to sell the 'Manhattan' way, as Spot called it, which was just stand there and holler so they came to you. He seemed to look down upon it, but hey, it was the only way I could make money.

I scanned through the pages of the paper. Headlines were dull, and I needed to find something I could use. Eh, boring. Death of a Mrs. Lambert. Stolen horse. Rising prices. Fire in Harlem. Stories of everyday lives, raises in prices, and deaths, and none of them stood out for me. I sighed and turned to page six. Then took in a sharp breath as I read what was written in the column at the bottom left corner of the page. The words barely processed in my mind as I took it all in, feeling a sudden chill seem to creep up from the very ground to wash over me.

Two boys. Found murdered. Queens. South of Freeport. 3 am. Multiple stab wounds.

I read on, feeling as though something was crushing down on me slowly, whilst the bustling crowd passed by me on the streets. I sat down on the step of an apartment, feeling cold. I didn't hear a thing, as my eyes read a single sentence over and over again. The older boy found was about six feet with dark hair, slim, and the other a young boy around 5'5", skinny and blonde.

…Six feet with dark hair. Slim. Older.

Oh, surely, surely it could not possibly be-

"Get away my door!"

I leapt to my feet in sheer surprise, and saw a thoroughly nasty-looking lady emerging from the apartment door. I got out of her way and started walking down the busy street, thinking furiously as I mulled over the small piece of news.

There are plenty of tall, slim, boys with dark hair who were six feet tall, I told myself fiercely. Just because one of them was found murdered in Queens doesn't mean it was Philip. And just because Duke is a knife fighter doesn't mean that it was his knife that caused those wounds.

I began selling my newspapers with only half a mind attentive to my job.

If Philip was dead...

If it was Duke who killed him, I don't think I could be as ethical as Spot was trying to be right now. I would want Duke dead. I squelched down the irrational fear that kept rising, and tried to keep calm. I was overreacting. Multiple stab wounds? Duke was good with a knife. He wouldn't need to stab them so many times.

Right?

All of a sudden, I felt this surge of panic. I wanted to talk to Philip again. I wanted to know whether he was helping Duke or not. Verge had said he might be. I could find out.

Verge must be wrong. Philip had helped me with Cat. He saved me from Fire. It wouldn't make sense of for him to join Duke against me and Spot. Besides, he was new to these boroughs. He must not even know who Duke was! Maybe I could warn him.

Unless…he was already dead.

I should tell Spot. Tell him and find out.

What with the state of mind I was in, the papes took much longer than usual for me to sell. I managed to mangle up my words a number of times, and end up making the headlines much worse than they already were. Therefore, it was well past noon when I finally was holding onto my last paper, and I was thoroughly tired. The words in the newspaper still in my thoughts, I wondered whether I ought to talk to Spot about it first. Tell him about Philip. Oh, but how could I? He would take it all wrong, wouldn't he? I felt a stab of guilt, then I shook it off impatiently.

I would tell him. I wanted Philip to talk to Spot, whatever nameless feud he seemed to be having with him. I wanted Spot to know about Philip, never mind what sort of assumptions he came up with.

"Two boys found stabbed!" I hollered, wincing inwardly. All these lies we spilled, and yet they were a lot harder to say when they actually meant something. I felt like I was a traitor. "Ruthless serial killer in Queens!" I bellowed, turning so my voice would carry across the crowd…

A strong hand gripped my elbow, making me jump in surprise. Then, in the middle of the crowded marketplace, I heard a low voice at my ear mutter, "Calling one of your own a 'serial killer', eh? Typical Brooklynite, dere ain't nothing too low for you bastards."

I turned around sharply, and faced a tall stranger in front of me. He was dressed in the dirty clothes of a factory worker, and his face was smudged with soot. I did not recognize him, and was pretty sure I had never seen him before. He had an ordinarily face, and would have been pleasant looking if it wasn't for an overly large nose and a very murderous glare in his eyes. I slowly folded my newspaper, and glanced around swiftly. We were on the sidewalk, and there were people passing by us. None of them seemed to notice us.

"Who are you?"

His lip curled. "Does it even matter?"

There was a long pause, just me and this complete stranger standing on the sidewalk with strange, unspoken words between us that he was aware of and I wasn't. "Um," I thought furiously, and ended up asking, "Are you…from Queens?"

Then I started. "And what did you mean by 'calling one of your own'?"

This time, a girl's voice came from behind me. "One of you did it." I whirled around, alarmed, and saw a young woman in similar dirty clothes, her blunt green eyes cutting into me. "Those two boys had nothing to do with your war. Nothing! And you lot slaughtered them." She looked even tougher than her friend, with short brown hair framing a square face and brushing across her broad shoulders.

I felt a wave of confusion, along with the growing sense of being trapped. Who were these two? They did not seem to be newsies, but there was no way of truly telling. Queen newsies? "We had nothing to do with the boys who were killed last night," I said carefully, sensing that this unexpected situation was alarmingly volatile. I took a careful step back towards the street, gauging whether I should run or keep my stance. "And who are you?" I repeated.

They both sneered. "Liar. Brooklynite," said the girl, the word practically spitting from her mouth as though it was a new swear word. "Queens never did anything to you, did dey? Dose boys," she stopped, just for a second, and I stared. She choked out, "Dose boys were not even involved."

Why was it that I seemed to always find myself in these situations? "We had nothing to do with it. We never made a move to harm anyone."

"You're all da same," the boy growled, "It doesn't matter to you who you hurt, as long as you hurt someone."

I was too confused to make head or tail out of this. But one thing I did know was that these two were from Queens. So I was very sure of myself when I said sharply, "Queens never did anything to us? It's all you, Queens! And you still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

They glanced at each other at that. Then the boy took my arm firmly, and snapped, "Get movin'."

I really shouldn't have been surprised at those words, considering the usual predicaments I was always in. But despite it all, despite all my glorious experiences at getting into trouble, I felt a familiar nasty jolt inside. "What?"

There was a sharp stab at my back. Goosebumps broke out all over my skin, and every single nerve in my body came alive as I realized that there was a knife touching me. I stopped breathing and the girl snarled, "I said, get movin'."

Everything came spiraling quickly into a cold pinpoint of fear right then and there. But there was nothing I could do. They would stab me here, even in public, and they were sure to stab me anywhere else. Fear and anger threatened to send me plummeting straight into panic, but I somehow managed to shakily say, "You're making a mistake. We had nothing to do with last night!"

There was a pause, and then another sharp sting of steel. The girl's voice was cold. "Last warning, Brooklynite. Walk."

This was crazy. It was broad daylight, and yet the familiar marketplace had turned into a nightmare.

"Spot," I said helplessly, "He'll know." Spot, where are you?

"Move."

We went out of the marketplace, and soon the streets were less crowded. There were still people walking here and there, and yet no one seemed to see the knife or the fact that I was being taken by force. Why was it they never do? Were people really that blind?

The next thing I knew, I was pushed into a narrow dead-end alleyway, and for the first time, I found myself facing the awful realization that I was going to die. Ace, think.

Everything was happening too fast. I turned to face them, the girl with the knife, and the boy whose eyes were narrowing to a single-minded purpose. I wish I could say I glared back at the both of them proudly, with confidence that I could fight them back. But the fact was, I never had met any two strangers with such an unfounded rage inside both of them, and they were mindlessly furious.

So I was scared. I was so afraid I barely knew what to think, what to say. One minute I was selling newspapers, and the next I was going to be killed by two complete strangers. I could see it in their faces; they had come with the purpose of just hurting anyone they thought were even indirectly involved. Were they going to kill one more after me, to make the deaths even?

I knew it was hopeless. But before the girl advanced, I clung desperately to a sudden pathetic idea. "Did Duke send you?"

The girl actually took a step back, startled. The boy's eyes widened. "What?"

My mouth was dry; I could barely speak. "Was it Duke who sent you two?" I blathered, "Or was it…Philip?"

The girl suddenly sprang forward and struck me, hard across the face. "Don't you dare act like you know anything! Don't you dare act like you know anything at all!"

Her response did not make sense to me, although I may have been disoriented from that blow sent me stumbling backwards into a wall. My hand automatically went up to my face, which began stinging and burning like mad. I gritted my teeth and felt that nasty fear rapidly begin to be replaced by anger, sparked by that unnecessary hit. Without thinking, I snapped, "I do know Philip Danford; he's a good friend."

Her eyes were blazing, her chest rising up and down from heavy breathing. She narrowed her gaze, and she seemed ready to spring at me again. "A good friend of yours? Is dat right, Your Highness? How good a 'friend' are you?"

I was taken aback at the jealous tone in her voice. "Not very," I shot back, "But we are still friends." I plucked up my courage and said firmly, "We are friends enough that he'd not like me killed." Hah, I hope.

The boy stepped up and towered over me. "What's your name, tell us who you are."

"Ace," I said shortly, suddenly sick of all this rude manhandling and questions. If they were going to kill me, they were doing an awful job of it. "Look, if you think you're taking revenge by killing me, you're wrong in every sense of the word. We had nothing to do with last night!"

It seemed useless. The boy swore, but the girl seemed to also be doing some rapid thinking. "You're Ace? Conlon's girl?"

"Are you even listening?"

"Dis is perfect," the girl said, her green eyes coldly lighting up. "Dis is exactly what we need."

I paused, and realized belatedly my mistake. She looked too gleeful, and the boy much too relieved. She continued, "We get directly to Conlon through you. What luck, eh?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but she cut me off with a warning flick of her knife. "Philip told us 'bout you," she said coldly, and the boy smirked. "Spot and him ain't exactly on good terms, did you know?"

The boy looked at her and they exchanged glances. Then the boy said drawlingly, "Well, at least, Philip ain't on good terms with Spot."

Then they laughed, a little too hard, and I felt my anger rise once more. However, somewhere I had the sense to make note of one thing. It wasn't Philip who had been stabbed. It was some other boy. But who? My head seemed to spin. "I got the vibe," I answered stiffly, but said no more. I saw the boy shift, and I caught a glimpse of the street behind. Could I possibly get past these two and the knife, and make a run for it? As if sensing my thoughts, the boy stepped back again, blocking my path once more.

"You knew den?" the girl probed, "Knew, but still kept up your little 'friendship' with Philip?"

I clenched my fists. I imagined myself as Spot, as Philip, as every newsie I admired. Suddenly, I was Spot, standing there in front of two people he couldn't care less about. I couldn't explain it. But I heard myself say with cool, careless authority, "This is none of your business, is it? I owe neither of you an explanation. Now, get out of my way."

For a second, this seemed to catch them off guard. "Get off your high horse, missy," she sneered, every inch of her oozing contempt, "And don't think we're gonna spare you for darling Philip's sake. Mr. Danford isn't as perfect a gentleman as you may think he is, and believe me," her lips twisted into a cruel smile, "I would know."

Spot/Philip coolness slipped away and I was back to pathetic, angry Ace. I was trembling with rage. Never had I ever wanted to hurt anyone more than I did now. This strange girl, with her confusing words and her unexplainable hatred, was pushing my temper and she knew it. If I made a move, she wouldn't hesitate to use that knife. And I could tell she knew how to use it. The boy was watching me coolly, without a hint of sympathy, and I knew he would do nothing to stop her.

"You truly think we killed your boys last night?" I spat out vehemently, "You think we would do something so vile? It was probably Duke, trying to get you newsies riled up against us again. Tricking you lot."

Her eyes flickered with surprise and they exchanged glances again. Then the boy looked at me, his gaze haughty and almost condescending. "You really don't know anything, do ya?"

Evil Girl laughed shortly. "Dis is too perfect, Harry. Didn't know Conlon's girl was so stupid. And here she is, having a fling with da enemy and oh, what would Conlon do when he hears dis?"

I went cold. "That's not true, and you know it. It's nothing like that."

"Nothing like what?" The boy, Harry, jabbed at me, laughing. I winced and stepped back.

"Spot wouldn't believe a single word you say, even if Philip is your leader."

The girl leaned in, her eyes coolly appraising. "Leader? We ain't newsies."

I drew in a shuddering breath, and tried to stop shaking. "Then how do you know Philip?"

She suddenly struck me again, viciously, and this time I went sprawling back, my mouth streaming blood. She glared down at me as I wiped my split lip. "Don't talk about him, you Brooklyn slut. Just stop talking, and try worrying more 'bout whether we're gonna let you live or not. Believe me, I-"

I pulled back my foot and kicked her as hard as I could in the knee, and to my satisfaction, there was a sickening crack as the knee gave. She gave a cry of pain before she hit the ground. The boy Harry sprang at me, but I somehow managed to land a couple of wild punches on her face before he sent me flying against the wall.

"Why, you word-I-didn't-even-know-existed," the girl swore, and she lunged for the knife that she had dropped when she fell. But I had seen it coming. I grabbed it before getting back up to my feet.

Now, I felt really pathetic. What would Spot do in such a situation?

Fight them and come out gloriously victorious, not a hair out of place.

This was not going to end happily.

They were still blocking my way out. The girl, I noticed with slightly cruel satisfaction, seemed unable to get up. Harry suddenly seemed to take charge, as if he realized that the talking was over, and now it had come down to the dirty work. I knew that too. I had the best chance of inflicting the most harm, with this knife in my hands, but I had no idea how to use it.

"Come on," the girl taunted, none of the previous pain I had inflicted on her showing on her face. She couldn't stand, but she could still hurt me, "Let's see what little Ace's got. Did Conlon teach you some of his moves?" she smirked, "You gonna kill da both of us with a sling instead?"

"You know," said Harry in his harsh voice, "Jerry and Pipes didn't stand a chance."

"I suppose," I said shakily, "It wouldn't do me any good if I told you again that we had nothing to do with it?"

The boy's eyes were level with me, and I saw no sympathy, no understanding at all. "Jerry had a gimp leg. Sort of like what you just did to Yona."

Yona, I mentally noted. Yona and Harry. She glared at me from where she was on the ground, "And Pipes was barely thirteen. You Brooklynites don't have any limits at all."

A child, killed, and a lame boy. The situation was terrible, and it was even worse that I was going to have to pay for it.

I could feel my hand starting to shake. The sweat on my forehead was sliding its oily way down into my eyes. I could see that as the girl kept talking, the boy was moving closer to disarm me. A kick? A punch? How would he do it? How was I supposed to deflect any of that? What would Spot do? If there ever is a time to do something right, Ace, now is the time to do it. There wouldn't be any more chances after this.

Then Harry moved, and my mind seemed to shut down. He lunged at me and as I jumped back, he caught my sleeve and grabbed my arm. His other hand came out of nowhere and I fell as it hit me hard. Dazed, I realized I was still holding onto the knife. I had enough presence of mind to try to get up, but something hard hit my side and all the air whooshed out of me. The world spun as I gasped in pain, and I resisted the urge to curl up into a ball. I started hollering for help but there wasn't enough air in me. When his foot came again, I yanked back and it grazed the side of my head painfully, but it missed my face.

"Get the knife, idiot," Yona was yelling. "Stop foolin' around."

He leaned down to grab the knife in my hand, and I swung it in blind desperation. To my immense shock, the blade caught him deeply up across his side and the girl screamed.

The scream seemed to echo. Harry swore and let go of me, stumbling back. For a moment, I was too terrified to move. Blood spread across his shirt and I numbly let go of the knife, staring. He tried to grab me again, but he was too unstable and stumbled to one knee. It snapped me out of my shock. The girl yelled something incomprehensively foul as I avoided her swipes at me, turned, and sprang down the alleyway.

I kept expecting a hand to yank me off my feet or to feel that knife across my back. When I looked over my shoulder once, I saw that they weren't even chasing after me. The girl was talking to the boy, speaking rapidly and looking half hysterical. She looked up for a second and her eyes met mine. I felt my stomach tighten with that same fear. Even though they were far away, I could feel her hatred. The boy was on his back, and I felt like I was going to be sick. They wanted me dead, even more now that they were both injured. The boy…he was bleeding badly, and it looked as though he was unable to get up. There was so much blood.

I swallowed hard. I wasn't about to hang around and wait for them to come after me. I sucked in a quick breath and kept running.