Jemma falls back into the slow pace Fitz and Daisy keep at the end of the trekking boys, still bouncing with the excited energy that fed them earlier. They had stayed outside the shining World gate until the sky started to burn dusky orange - at Jemma's suggestion, of course – to make certain that no one was called in to sell the papers themselves. No one had turned up – and the extent of what that meant was difficult for Daisy's limited scope to fathom. She had made a choice, and the entirety of Lower Manhattan was affected as a result of it.
What they are doing is as big as Daisy's world.
"Tomorrow they'll call in scabs," Jemma tells her softly enough that only Fitz, poised at her other side, can hear, her tone taking on a disgusted edge. "They'll try to replace us just like they tried to replace the Trolley workers."
Daisy nods, remembering the headlines.
"We won't let it happen. We'll go back, as long as we have to. The fellas know you've got smarts, they'll do whatever you say we've gotta."
She bites nervously at her lower lip as the boys in front of them turn off the road, into Jacobi's – the only restaurant in the entire borough that doesn't kick them out every time they walk in.
"If that's the case, Daisy –" she stops, touching Daisy's wrist to motion for her to do the same as the last of the boys slip through the door.
She does, turning slightly to face the other girl and motioning with her head for Fitz to go on ahead without her. Jemma continues after a moment, eyes on Fitz limping through the door before flicking anxiously back to Daisy.
"If we want this to work, to really be successful – I think we need to expand the scope. Lower Manhattan didn't get their news today and that is a big start – but the World is still making sales in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Uptown – Lower Manhattan is just a dent. It isn't enough."
Daisy considers her words a moment.
"You think we need to get the other Newsies in on the strike?" she clarifies, speaking carefully.
Jemma nods, and after a breath, Daisy does too.
"We can do that. I'll send boys out to each of the boroughs, they can talk to the guys in charge. They'll help, I know they will."
Jemma looks less certain, but says nothing. And Daisy knows, understands how much this would be asking of the other kids. But they are in it all together – she and her boys are fighting for all of them, and she can't imagine the others won't be willing to join in their fight.
She swallows uneasily anyway before moving towards the doors of the restaurant, Jemma in her wake.
"Hey," she calls over the loud voices as the doors close hard behind her – peering over the tables they've crowded together and one very tired Mr. Jacobi pinching the bridge of his nose, "hey, Jemma's got another idea for us, everyone listen up!"
She motions sideways at Jemma, inviting her to reiterate the words to the boys – mostly because she is pretty sure she will bang the concept up beyond repair if she attempts to pass it on herself. The other girl has got far better control of her tongue, and Daisy doesn't want to risk what they are doing over a few jumbled letters.
She expects Jemma to be glaring at her for making her the center of the group's unwavering attention, per her usual shy tendencies, but when she takes a seat with the others and looks at her friend, she is surprised to find a focused, passionate glow in her eyes.
"We need to send the word out to the other Newsies," she tells them, voice breaking uneasily but growing in strength, adapting to the position of leadership Daisy has pushed her into. "Get them to join in the strike. We stopped the circulation in Lower Manhattan today but we didn't stop the wagons, and the most certain way to do that is the most simple – let the wagons go, and get the rest of the boys 'round the city not to purchase their papers from them."
The boys react with the same anxious edge Daisy had felt when Jemma first passed the pan on, nervous murmurs going through them – just as she expects. She takes the cue, rising back to her feet and joining Jemma up in front of them.
"We made up this union because we are stronger together, yeah?" She prompts, waiting for the slow nods of confirmation before continuing. "The more of us stand as one, the harder it'll be to pull us down. Yeah, Jemma?"
Her affirmation of the newbie's idea doesn't fully satisfy the boys, but it quells their unease enough.
"We need t' split up," says Fitz after a moment, uneasiness still in his eyes but taking Daisy's back, as usual – staring at her before glancing out over the boys. "Someone needs t' take each borough, talk t' th' guys in charge 'n tell 'em wha' we're tryin' t' do."
Jemma visibly relaxes at the added backup, eyes clinging softly to Fitz as he takes control, leaning up onto his crutch.
"Hunter, take Specs 'n head uptown 'n see Trip," he nods, and continues down the table of boys, assigning boroughs as those remaining grow increasingly twitchy. Finally, the penny drops – "'n tha' leaves Romeo wi' Brooklyn – Morse's turf."
Romeo immediately is shaking his head, hard.
"Uh uh, I ain't messing with Brooklyn. Send me anywhere else, not there."
Fitz begins to argue with him but Daisy speaks faster.
"You aren't scared of Brooklyn, are you Romeo?"
She isn't sure whether or not she expects the tactic to work, but she thinks it might when he jumps defensively to his feet at her words, face contorting in a sort of angry offense.
"I ain't scared of no turf, Johnson," he snaps, holding her stare steadily for a moment before his expression cracks ever so slightly and he sinks slowly back into his seat. "Look but Morse, she gets me a little jittery, alright?"
She tries a new plan, rolling her eyes as she does.
"Fine, Jemma and Les will take Brooklyn."
Jemma looks at her like she has just grown a second nose, all of the previous brawn melted away.
"Excuse me?"
"She'll go easy on a fresh face," Daisy lies, probably concerningly easily. "Besides, you talk best outta all of us. She'll listen to what you've gotta say."
Jemma looks ready to say plenty more about it, but she is interrupted by the creak of Jacobi's door and the gaping mouths of the boys who can see who is entering in behind them. Daisy turns slowly to follow their combined gazes, stomach flipping nervously as her mind flutters around what possible outsider could possibly be causing such a unified reaction.
"What's so bad about Brooklyn?"
It's the blonde reporter, typical pencil and notebook extensions to his hands.
Daisy has to bite back her own gape, situating her face into something that might resemble disinterest.
"I thought you didn't talk to strangers?" She says before any of the boys can speak up to answer him, taking a half a step towards him and still trying to balance his odd presence out in the grey surroundings that just aren't meant for someone like him – not with his clean skin and his bright hair and his ironed clothes.
Seeing him in the streets they share, in the theater that isn't hers – those are things that she can adjust to, places that his presence fits easily into. But it is only in the greyscale of this place that is all hers that she realizes that even though he might see through the veil, he is still very much a part of the parallel universe that lives in bright pastels above their little underground world.
The thought isn't entirely welcome in her mind, but she nails it firmly into place.
"We're not strangers anymore," he says deadpan, but his light eyes twinkle playfully. "We saw a show together last night, didn't we?"
She squints at him distrustfully, suddenly less of a fan of the unpredictability that she is having trouble muddling through. She decides two can play the game he is initiating.
"For a Sun reporter, you spend an awful lotta time around the World," she muses confidently. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were following me."
The boys back her up with a smattering of nervous laughter as she smirks.
He rolls his eyes, but they are still twinkling in spite of the dig.
"Just following a story," he assures her. "Daisy – it is Daisy, right? Why do none of you want to go to Brooklyn?"
She looks at the notebook in his hand, pencil poised readily over blank pages – and remembers how week after week the trolley worker's strike was headlined in bold on the papes she waves around every day.
"Brooklyn is the 6th largest city in the world," she says carefully after a long pause, watching his expression closely as his focus shifts to the paper he is suddenly scribbling on, "if they've got our backs, Pulitzer will have no choice but to listen to what we've got to say."
He looks up after a moment, but his eyes are on Hunter instead of Daisy this time.
"Is that how you're planning on getting them to give the time of day to a bunch of kids without a nickel to their names?" He asks in a practiced tone, and Hunter looks offended.
"Oi, you don't gotta be insulting!" he says, and lowers his voice conspiratorially as he reaches deep into his pocket, "I've got a nickel."
He is still scribbling, and she tries to fight the feeling of entrancement that edges at her when his face hardens in intelligent concentration.
"So I guess you could say you're a bunch of David's looking to take on Goliath?" He says under his breath, peering up at Daisy through his lashes a moment before snapping his attention back to his feverish scribbling.
It is then that Daisy feels the angry shift of Jemma beside her, stepping up to the reporter with arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"Hey, we never said that," she tells him defensively, eyes narrow with suspicion. "And quite frankly, I think that we ought to save this exclusive for a reporter who actually has a column."
It is his turn to look royally offended, brows furrowing heavily over his light eyes.
Daisy catches quickly on to the weakness.
"You know, I've seen a lotta papers in my time," she agrees, "I have never seen a kid our age writing hard news."
He finally stares back at her, scowling defiantly – and god, somehow this expression is a perfect match to his careful face, too.
"The game is changing," he says, looking between Daisy and Jemma – but his cheeks are burning red. Daisy joins Jemma, crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest and staring him down.
"What's the last news story you wrote?" She challenges, taking a small step closer to him – not entirely sure whether her need to one-up him is fully related to the cause or not.
She thinks, probably, not.
He doesn't sway from the challenge, instead taking his own defensive step nearer to her, glaring down at her with squared shoulders.
"What is the last strike you organized?"
His voice is steady and clear, and they stand there a moment glaring at each other while the boys "ooh" traitorously at his quick response.
After a moment of letting his point sink in, he speaks again, leaning down nearer to her as he lowers his voice.
"You see anyone else giving you the time of day?" He asks, eyes suddenly soft and honest, voice almost pleading. "Look, maybe I am just busting out of the socials. But give me this exclusive, let me run with this story – and I will get you the space."
"Wait," Romeo says from somewhere on Daisy's left that she isn't entirely aware of, too busy trying to add the boy in front of her up. "You could get us in the pape?"
He steps back from her, looking to Romeo – and the spell snaps as she clears her throat and tightens her arms across her chest, making her own step back.
"You stop a paper like the World," he tells him with that same special brand of soft genuine honesty, "and you will make the front page."
Silence answers his words, and Daisy glances sideways at Jemma – who still doesn't look entirely convinced. But her shoulders have relaxed and she at least has let her guard down, if only barely.
Daisy isn't sure if the decision is the right one, but she does think that it might just be worth the risk.
That he might just be worth the risk.
"You want a story?" She says, filling the tentative space left between them as he turns to face her, eyes wide and receptive. "Be at the World gates tomorrow morning and you'll get one."
xx
He hangs around as the other boys and Jemma disperse out in the directions of the various boroughs, following Daisy as she walks out the door – pen and paper back in hand from his pocket.
"Now you really are following me," she notes, stopping when they reach the corner of the Deli to turn around and grin at him.
She is oddly relieved at the soft way he smiles back.
"I wanted to ask you some questions," he says, and she returns his eye roll.
"A likely story, Mr. Still Nameless Reporter."
She smirks fully as he joins her leaning up against the wall, pressing a cheek to the ice cold brick and staring down at her.
"Lincoln," he answers the unspoken question. "Lincoln… Campbell."
He hesitates oddly on his last name, and Daisy can't help but wrinkle her nose at him.
"What, aren't you sure?" She asks, pressing her own cheek to the wall in an attempt to find the appeal.
It is goddamn cold, and she pulls her face straight back upright.
"It's my byline," he answers, surprising her when he raises a hand, brushing warm fingers across the still-numb bit of her cheek. "The name I publish under."
"I know what a byline is," she lies as he drops his hand back to his side quickly, like he almost didn't realize what he was doing.
A moment later he lifts his own head back up off of the wall, one cheek burned asymmetrically red – glancing down at his little notebook before meeting her gaze again.
"So what is your story, Daisy Johnson?" he asks, pronouncing her name deliberately against all his other soft and careful words.
She likes how he says her name, like how the boys say it when they are bragging about her mythos or trying to talk up her talents. She likes that he doesn't know any of it and still says her name like it is the name of someone important, someone bigger than she is.
She forgets to answer, and it makes him smile again.
"Are you selling newspapers to work your way through art school?" He follows up with genuine curiosity.
The question catches her entirely off guard, and she can't swallow the nervous chuckle that rises up the back of her throat at the odd assertion. His expression doesn't change, however, and she finally shakes her head slowly.
"No, Campbell," she says, "I am definitely not in art school."
He scribbles her unexceptional words.
"Well you're an artist," he says as he writes, sparing her a quick glance up from the page, eyebrows knotted seriously. "That drawing you did last night… you should be inside the paper illustrating it, not out selling it."
She stares dubiously back at him as he finishes scribbling down whatever it is he has managed to find interesting, beginning to feel the edge of defensiveness bite at the pit of her stomach.
"Well maybe that's not what I want," she retaliates, shifting on the wall and coming inadvertently closer to him when she does. He is warm – they are close but not that close, but she can still feel heat gathering between them. And his eyes, she thinks, are the color of the sky, the real sky behind all the layers of smoke and smog and dust in the city.
"Then tell me what it is you want," he says, nearly pleading, probably desperate for anything even remotely interesting about a girl she feels certain he has overestimated.
She can't help it – she waggles her eyebrows a bit, scanning his body briefly with her eyes alone.
"Can't you tell?"
He blinks, unamused, and as she smirks back at his blank expression, she notes how his cheeks are now a matching shade of pink.
"Have you always been their leader?" He quickly changes the topic, staring hard at his notebook and very pointedly not at her.
She scoffs again, and he sighs loudly in response to the reaction - enough to make her feel badly and search for a halfway-decent response.
"I'm not even particularly a leader now. Just a figurehead, really. Jemma is the brains."
"Modesty is not a trait I expected in you," he muses under his breath, and it makes her smile grow because of the mere fact that he was expecting something of her, has thought of her beyond their two terribly brief encounters. She doesn't say anything about it. "Tell me about tomorrow," he goes on, "what are you hoping for?"
"Let's go back to what I'm hoping for tonight," she teases, because she is pretty sure it will make him go pink again – and he does.
She likes being the cause behind the subtle shifts in his carefully composed expressions, likes that that composure seems to slip, if only slightly, in her presence.
This time he scavenges together enough wits to glare at her.
"You are completely incapable of being professional, aren't you?"
She grins, but thinks again for a serious answer, something to help him and help her strike - something to get them heard.
"Today we stopped the local Newsies from selling the papes. Tomorrow we stop the wagons so that the papes don't get sold anywhere in the city."
Relief washes over his face and he hurries to record her words, moving his hand like he is afraid they will slip away if he doesn't trap them down quickly enough.
"Are you scared?" He asks, a single line forming across his forehead in the second unfamiliar showing of concern she has been on the receiving end of in the previous days.
She shrugs, turning off the wall and slightly away from where he stands, away from the pressure the cautiousness of his eyes pushes against her. If she is honest with herself – which she generally isn't – her heart hasn't quite slowed its frantic pulsing against her chest since she read the headline in the afternoon.
She is sure as hell scared.
"Ask me again in the morning."
His pencil stills for a moment, and she can still feel his eyes on her.
"That's a good answer," he notes softly, before lead scrapes on paper a final time and she hears the notebook flip closed. "Goodnight, Miss Johnson."
She hears him take a step and whirls around, forgetting whatever pretense she is supposed to be holding up.
"Hey, where are you off to? It isn't even dinner yet!"
"I'll see you in the morning," he says past a soft and reassuring smile over his shoulder. "And off the record… Good luck, Daisy."
She watches him stride away from her a stretching moment longer before calling after him.
"Hey, Campbell!" She yells, waiting for him to glance back at her before she continues, softer but still with enough force to be heard. "Write it good. We've all got a lot counting on you."
xx
Brooklyn is not waiting for them at the front gates of the World when they gather uneasily around it as the city wakes up – and neither are any of the other Newsies of New York.
"Is anyone else comin'?"
"Midtown said they'd be here, if Brooklyn was."
"Harlem too."
"Queens'll be right here backin' us up. As… soon as they get the nod from Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn… they want proof, Daisy. They want to know that we aren't going to crumble under the first wave of pressure before they commit themselves."
Daisy looks around the crestfallen frowns of the small group of boys – and she can see the resolve cracking, the excited energy of the morning before beginning to grow heavy in the face of reality, in the face of days without pay, the prospective debilitating, aching hunger they are all on far too close of a first name basis with.
It is just them, still. Their little family standing all on their own.
She can see in their eyes that they are debating their options, see the matching trend through all of their somber, dirty faces. They want to quit. They want to walk up to the circulation window, put up the extra money and pretend they aren't sulking off with their tails between their legs.
She isn't sure she is entirely opposed to the thought, herself.
"Maybe we oughtta put it off for a day," Spec murmurs uneasily, shifting his bag on his shoulders.
Daisy isn't surprised by the soft and hesitant noises of agreement that follow.
She is surprised by the adamant "No!" that sounds from Jemma, however. Every eye turns onto her with shock equivalent to what Daisy feels, and the other girl's cheeks burn slightly pink against the attention, her own wide eyes staring back at each of the boys in turn.
"We can't back off now," she says, voice softer as she shakes her head. "We can't. We back off now, they'll never take us seriously again. Not one of us can go up to that window."
This time, however, her clever words aren't quite enough.
Hunter shakes his head, watching her sadly.
"Whatever we do isn't going to make a difference," he says, defeated. "We don't have any backup. We can't do this on our own."
Jemma looks to Daisy, eyes pleading for her support – but her tongue is dry and her brain too sluggish to draw anything of any real meaning together.
"We should listen to Jemma," she manages halfheartedly – and it only leads more boys to shaking their heads, drifting back from the little group looking conflicted, debating their impossible duo of options.
It is falling apart, and she glances nervously back at Jemma, sharing her desperate gaze and trying to ignore how the air seems to thin around her at the prospect of failure. Of giving in.
"Sounds like we got some bum information about a strike happening here today," calls one of the Delancey's in a sing-songy tone as they approach the gate from inside, jangling keys sounding somehow like mockery.
No one talks back.
"How unfortunate," says the other in the same showy tone as his brother, as he comes straight up to where Daisy stands alone against the gate, the others all backed up to make way for it to open. "I was looking forward to smashing some of your boys' heads today."
She shoves the locked gate inwards in a flare of frustration, but doesn't even draw comfort from the startled manner in which he jumps back from the clanging metal before scowling at her and moving to unlock it, slow and deliberate.
He doesn't bother to open it or fight with her about moving out of his way, instead stalking back towards the wagons with his brother and leaving them alone at the unlocked gate.
She hears the small group of boys shifting anxiously behind her but she doesn't move, staring after the Delancey's and searching for the smallest ounce of motivation, the tiniest spark she might be able to gather enough strength to fan into a flame.
She is tired.
"Daisy," Romeo says gently, "maybe we should just put this off'a few days."
She doesn't answer, but feels someone come up beside her – prodding her shoulder hard.
"You have to say something," Jemma hisses under her breath. "Daisy, they'll listen to what you tell them but you have to tell them something."
She shakes her head, staring out at where the wagons are just beginning to be filled with the papers that'll be circulated out to the rest of New York, regardless of what they do today.
"What the hell can I say?" She answers, only making a halfhearted attempt to match the lowered tone.
The boys anxious murmurs are heightening in volume.
"How about we jus' don't show up for work?" Fitz suggests, "That'd send th' message."
Daisy lets out a frustrated breath, turning away from the fence and the papers and Jemma to face the growing discourse.
"They'll just bring in scabs to replace us, Fitz," she says, voice snapping slightly beneath the weight of her words. "We have to stand our ground."
The words don't affect the changing temperament, and she feels herself giving up, giving into the pressure fighting against them.
She looks back at Jemma.
"Tell them," she says, voice breaking fully now as she steps back up to the gate, ignoring Jemma's noise of frustration.
There is a moment of hesitation, silence – and Daisy realizes with a bit of a start that the boys have quieted, waiting to hear what Jemma will say.
Jemma realizes it too, filling the silence with an uncomfortable clearing of her throat as she shifts back towards them, away from the gate.
"We're all scared," she says quietly. "But you boys are here. You came here to fight for yourselves, for your rights – yeah? And the rights of the boys all around town who aren't here, you're standing by them anyway. And… that is brave."
She pauses on the word – surely knowing the impact it will have on the assortment of street kids. Surely knowing how weighty it is, this application of the word to these boys who have so rarely been given affirmation by anyone in their lives.
But the use of the word isn't entirely what strikes Daisy.
It is the truth that it wields.
"Being brave isn't about not being scared," Jemma continues, voice still quiet but gaining a new sense of drive, a new purpose. "But it is about going through with what frightens you in spite of your fear. We're fighting for something and if we want to win, we have to carry through. We have to. And we have to do it today."
Another pause answered with still, stretching silence.
It is Fitz that breaks it.
"I made a banner, las' night," he says, voice only just louder than Jemma's – and Daisy finds herself glancing over her shoulder as he lifts his crutch to show off the tiny white flag he has secured to it made from a cloth from his bed – "STRIKE" sloppily written across it in a piece of her charcoal. He is smiling a little, shyly, eyes on Jemma.
It breaks the spell her words have cast over them, and when quiet murmurs fill their little circle again, the tone has changed entirely.
"That is pitiful," Hunter tells Fitz, who seems unphased by the blatant assertion.
"Don't be so quick to judge!" Les scolds, little voice standing out from the rest. "Maybe Pulitzer'll see it out his window and feel sorry for us!"
Daisy finally draws herself from the fence, stepping back up beside Jemma as she studies each of the boys faces in turn. They are still anxious, still jittery – but they are back with them.
She is careful to let the breath of relief out of her nose quietly, out of sight and sound.
"Everyone in?" She asks over their quiet noise, drawing their attention easily with the snap of two words.
They nod slowly.
The anxiety tangling and knotting in the pit of her stomach is worse than ever before, every eye watching her expectantly for their next move. She can't shake the feeling that she is still leading them into failure. A chill that has nothing to do with the cold air hurries down her spine and through her arms, and she has to clench her teeth to keep it from showing.
Jemma is right. She is terrified.
"Then let's go stop some wagons."
xx
The scabs push through them to get to the gate when they arrive, and Daisy has to physically hold back Romeo and Albert when the three replacements drop their coins in Weasel's waiting hand and grab their papers – most of the other boys are joining the growling anger at the intruders as well.
"We stand together or we don't stand at all," Jemma reminds Daisy anxiously over the ruckus, nervousness clear in the wringing of her hands.
Fitz catches on as quickly as Daisy does, placing himself pointedly between the strikers and the scabs who have cowered away in fright from their angry advances.
"I hear you," Daisy assures Jemma snappily, shoving her boys back again, hard, staring at them threateningly until she is convinced they won't go at the scabs, the other kids, again – and waiting for them to return to their stakes waiting for the wagons before she turns 'round to face the frightened expressions of the scabs.
"Listen, fellas, I know someone put you up to this, yeah?"
She is surprised when the smallest responds to her, nodding once uneasily. His knuckles are white around his papers, clothes just as ratty and torn as the boys behind her.
She makes a point of ignoring the hard scowl Wiesel fixes her with from behind the boys.
"Pulitzer thinks we're nothing," she says heatedly, fed by the unexpected response. "He thinks we're nothing more than gutter rats who'll crawl over anything to get to a penny – even each other. But we aren't. We can't stab each other in the back, that's not who we are. There are kids like us, all over this town – and you don't hear us complaining that we'd rather be in school, or playing games in the streets – than selling papes and working in sweatshops and factories and slaughterhouses, doing the hard work we do all day long. All we all want is a fair deal."
The first of the boys is caving, the hand holding his papers quivering – and Daisy's pulse stutters a little when the tiniest spark of hope burns back up against her chest.
"We stand together," Fitz says, repeating Jemma's words as he limps up beside Daisy, "tha's th' only way we'll get heard. If you join our union, you' stand with us, an' with all the kids."
The boy takes a small, sharply impulsive step closer – letting out a shaking breath before he drops his papers, shaking his head as if he knows just as well as the rest of them that he is making a mistake.
"I'm with you," he mutters, head still shaking, before glancing back at his companions. "At the end'a the day, who are you gonna trust?" He asks, voice sharp. "These guys –" he nods towards Fitz and Daisy, then disgustedly back at Wiesel and the Delancey's, "or them?"
The second boy lets out a similar caving sigh, letting his own papers plop to the hard ground before stepping weakly up even with the first boy.
Daisy hardly dares to breathe as she and everyone else's eyes fall to the final boy, who still clenches his papers tightly in his hand, face gone as pale as his knuckles.
The papers hit the ground.
The smirk melts right off of Wiesel's face.
The boys fall into line with the rest of the boys behind her, but a new buzz, a second wave of energy has finally settled fully into the formerly disenchanted union – the first demonstration of the power they wield together giving them a new life that nearly sets Daisy guard down.
"That was incredible."
She doesn't feel him come up beside her – somehow hasn't even noticed his presence – but even as she whirls to face the voice, she knows exactly who it is, if only by the accompanying noise of pencil scraping paper.
"So you did show," she says, even though she hadn't actually expected him not to. Her stomach flips into its usual traitorous turmoil when her eyes settle on him – he is wearing a tie in a deep shade of blue, slightly crooked on his neck – that does things to his light eyes that probably shouldn't be legal.
His pencil lifts as he stares down at her, eyebrows furrowing.
"I said I would, didn't I?" His expression lightens a bit, then, and he motions over his shoulder at some movement happening behind him, "brought a camera, too. Can't make front page without a nice shiny picture."
Her eyes go wide as she looks back at the excited pulse of the boys behind him, realizing that they are moving around a photographer and his bulky camera, who is barking orders down at the eager kids. When she glances back at Lincoln, he is biting back a smile. While she knows he is purposely playing down the full extent of what he has done, knows he is purposely acting casual for whatever godforsaken reason he might have – it still drives her mad.
"You want to make us a headline," she says in awe instead of snapping at him - and he just shrugs, still biting his lip – but a smile is clear and full in the light dancing in his eyes.
"Get over there, Johnson. It isn't a union without its brave leader."
She starts towards the camera, without needing too much further prompting, more enthusiastic than she would care to admit about the photograph – but then she hesitates, turning back to the reporter and staring up at him.
"Thank you," she says earnestly, careful to hold his gaze. She can't think of a joke to make, a way to lighten the strong pulse of emotion in her veins. She reaches out to him instead, touching his wrist gently.
She expects him to blush, but he just shakes his head, staring back at her with a soft, relaxed expression she has yet to see on him – something like focus, she thinks, but less searching. Less intrusive.
"This is all you," he says. "I'm just along for the ride, I guess."
She feels an unconscious pull nearer to him and almost gives in to it, but then a voice yells over, breaking her from the moment.
"Hey, kid – just waiting on your okay," the photographer calls to Lincoln, followed by the whine of a dozen boys for Daisy to get her ass over to them.
She drops his wrist.
"Go get in your picture," he says, nodding again at the rest of the boys.
This time she listens, smiling crookedly as she pushes easily through a few bodies to situate herself between Jemma and Fitz.
The camera flash flames bright and startling, burning against her eyes – and she has to blink hard for a moment after before she can see anything without a flare down the middle of it. If the boys had energy before – it was nothing compared to the frenzy that is overcoming them now, putting a new life into them that Daisy has never seen.
She feels it, too – the energy running through the moment, through the entire group of them. The excitement, the hopeful unexpectedness for tomorrow that has never quite been a part of their predetermined rituals. She can't quite assign it a label in her head, the intrepidation that burns in her veins.
And then the carts begin to roll out from behind the circulation window and everything happens too quickly for her to assign a label to it, either.
Les takes the first brave step to block a wagon, innocent confidence feeding his movements and inspiring the rest of the group to follow in turn. But single steps is about all they get before there are suddenly men pressing in on them from all directions.
Lincoln is back at her side, and as the hired fists press in around the boys she turns frantically to him.
"Get out of here," she tells him breathlessly, desperately, and when he opens his mouth to protest she presses on forcefully, "you aren't doing us any good here, I doubt you can throw a punch, and they'll never run the damn story if you get caught up in this."
He wastes a moment she could be back protecting the yelling boys behind her by pausing.
"Be careful, Daisy," he finally says reluctantly, taking a half a step away from her, towards the gate. "I – we all need you."
She nods, if only to appease him – waiting until he finally turns before she herself whirls around, trying frantically to take in everything happening at once. The dark-clothed men seem to be led by the Delancey brothers and are certainly the backup-plan to the hired scabs – a special kind of discouragement led by fists.
It is this type of hired muscle that landed half of the Trolley strikers in the hospitals.
She ducks into the fight when Les is thrown over the shoulder of one of the Delancey's, familiar rage billowing in her chest as she charges in, forgetting any sort of reasonable move she may have been able to play from outside the group.
It is how everything falls apart.
She hears the whistle of an officer just as she sinks a fist into the man's stomach, ducking nimbly away from the bat he swings one handed as she seeks out the police, temporary relief filling the pit of her stomach.
They're there to stop the hired muscle – to protect the kids getting their asses handed to them and let them settle back into their peaceful strike. They are going to help them.
Daisy catches a glimpse of Romeo out of the corner of her eye, near the group of approaching officers – throwing up an arm to defend his face from the bat one of the men swings at him.
She ducks another blow from Delancey, using the way the movement of his weight off-sets him to her advantage by grabbing Les and optimizing on the swing of the man's upper body to pull the little boy into her arms instead – half an eye on Romeo and his attacker, waiting for the cops to grab the weapon and arrest the man for attacking the kid.
Except, they don't.
They join in with the muscle, without hesitation – coming at Romeo from all directions – and a breath catches in Daisy's throat as she feels that little glimmer of hope now smothered icily in her chest.
She shakily puts Les back on his feet, kneeling down on the hard ground and holding tight to his shoulders a moment – half of her attention on the men around them, watching her back.
"Run, kid," she tells him sharply, "run and get home fast as you can, don't stop for anyone, I don't care what they say."
He either understands the gravity of the situation more fully or trusts Daisy more unquestioningly than Lincoln, because he is off bolting for the World gates as soon as she says the word – along with a few of the other boys.
It takes her a precious moment too long to realize why the boys- the never shy-away-from-a-fight stupid mess of a family she has - are scattering.
Then she hears Fitz's warning over the noises of fists and taunts and breaking skin.
"It's Snyder!"
The words distract her, though, and someone she doesn't see makes square contact to her stomach with a bat – knocking all the breath out of her and landing her hard on the ground, knuckles and knees scraping. Her vision is blurred, like from the camera flash but far darker – but she forces herself to focus on the sharp pain to keep herself from blacking out, weakly avoiding another strike from the bat by rolling onto her side and then forcing herself swaying and dizzy to her feet.
She clenches her fists, searching out the man who holds the offending bat and clumsily ducking beneath it, landing a few sharp hits before someone else comes at her from behind – loud enough to give her enough warning that their fist only glances her still-aching side.
She hears distant familiar yelling, desperate and scared, but she has three guys on her now and can't spare the extra attention as she ducks and jumps and punches and scrapes, still fighting with consciousness.
When her legs give out beneath her, two arms capture her from behind and she writhes frantically against them until she hears Hunter's voice in her ear as he drags her backwards.
"Bloody hell, it's me, stoppit," he whines, and she gets her footing as he half carries her through the gates, shoving them both into the first alley he finds. "Can you climb?"
She isn't sure if they've been followed out, but shouting is still echoing in her ears.
"Who's still back there?" She asks frantically as he gently guides her to a ladder of a fire escape, waiting not particularly patiently for her to climb up it.
"It's not important. Everyone who could get away did."
The words aren't at all what she wants to hear, and she pulls sharply back from the escape and him, pushing his steadying arm off of her – thinking of Jemma and her family, of Romeo surrounded by the men she expected to save them – any of her friends, captured by Snyder and shoved away into the dark orphanage forever.
"Who is still back there, Hunter?!" She repeats sharply as she sways unevenly on her feet, taking another sharp step back when he reaches out for her again.
"I could get you or him, Daisy, not both," he snaps defensively, and her heart thuds, remembering the distinct cries that had echoed against her, pleading as she fought off three men.
Fitz.
She stumbles from the alley, leaving Hunter to get himself out alone – racing fast as she can back towards the World, throwing her weight against the locked silver fence and straining to see back to the circulation window where the battle they had never stood a chance of winning had gone down.
The courtyard is empty.
Her best friend is gone.
xx
She doesn't know how much a ticket for the train costs but she knows that she doesn't have enough even before she scrambles blindly up the ladder to her little penthouse, trying to ignore Fitz's small pile of possessions abandoned now permanently at the other end of the metal structure. She digs beneath her bed, pulling the carefully arranged pieces apart as she grabs her little bag of saved coins from their hiding place beneath it, tearing it open and shaking the icy metal into her shaking palm.
There is blood staining her knuckles, and she is too numb to be entirely aware of whether it is hers or someone else's.
The coins barely cover her skin, and she shakes harder as she shoves them all in her pocket anyway.
She can't just stand by and watch her boys, her family, beaten and kidnapped and hurt because of a decision she made, a decision they supported because they trusted her.
She doesn't even know that Fitz will make it – not with a bum leg like his in a place like the Refuge all on his own.
A sudden burst of frustrated rage overwhelms her, and she throws it all at the shaky railing of the escape in an uncoordinated sharp movement, cold skin splitting on harsh contact with the rusted metal – the structure whining out in harmony with the angry noise that roars past her lips.
She has got her goddamn headline alright – Newsies slaughtered, their pitiful strike stampeded into the grey cracking streets alongside the rats where they belong.
She can't stay, can't stick around when she knows as long as she does the boys will keep fighting and bleeding for her impulsive, stupid, reckless, selfish choice.
She takes a ragged breath, only realizing when the air catches icily in her throat that she has been crying. Her gaze reaches up beyond the city, catching the last glimpses of dusky gold in the sky as the sun disappears behind the suffocating black skyline.
She has to get out.
xx
NEWSIES STOP THE WORLD
story by: Lincoln Campbell
With all eyes fixed on the Trolley Strike, there's another battle brewing in the city. A modern day
David is poised to take on the rich and powerful Goliath. With the swagger of one twice her age,
armed with nothing more than a few nuggets of truth, Daisy Johnson stands ready to face the
behemoth Pulitzer…