One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter eight: Nightmare

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

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Spot ran through Brooklyn as fast as his legs would carry him. Eyes wide in fear he sprinted toward the end of the street, skidding around the corner so fast his feet nearly came flying out from under him.

Something hit the back of his head and he stumbled, coming to one knee for about two seconds before he was up again, never once taking a look behind to see how close his attackers were. He didn't need to.

They were so close he could practically hear them breathing.

A hand grabbed his upper arm and on instinct he twisted, kicking out in the hand's owner's general direction. Not even waiting to hear the cursing, he bolted, feet pounding the concrete.

He was at the opposite end of Brooklyn, far from the lodging house and the help he desperately needed. If only Red was with him- he never got picked on with Red around. Being so small, being so different, wasn't always easy.

And he was the leader's favorite.

Without even realizing it, the kid had boxed himself into a dead end street with no way to go and no save haven in sight. Up ahead there was a small and narrow alley between two buildings, with what looked like a chain link fence at the end.

If he hurried...

Literally diving down the alley, he scrambled for a handhold on the fence as he jumped, clinging like a cat. One hand after the other, he scurried up, his hand grasping the top lip just as a hand grabbed a hold of his leg, jerking him hard.

A yelp forced it way from his throat as he tried to lash out at the hand, but another jerk tore his hand free and he fell. He hit the ground with a cry, little body trembling as the three boys surrounded him, their mouths turned up into sneers.

"So, little runt...Thought you could get away, didn't you?"

Spot glared up at them, his silver-blue eyes narrowed in rage. "Don't call me dat!"

"Oh, does dat hoit ya feelings?" They laughed, as if he had no feelings to hurt. Like he was their play thing, their toy, and nothing more. "We're so SORRY!" The last word was emphasized with a brutal kid to his chest, that sent him rolling along the ground.

They closed in on him and he panicked, jumping to his feet and backing up to the wall. Red...Where was he? He had always shown up before when Spot needed him...Why was now any different?

"Red..." He murmurred, horrified now. "Red...!"

"Stop dat." They growled, circling him like sharks , "He cant heah ya, and he aint gonna come and save ya. Not dis time."

Wasn't coming? Red wasn't coming? But why? He let out a shriek when the first fist closed in, and then another and another. His whimpers for Red grew to yells, cries of fear. And then they changed, to another name, another friend.

Another hope that would never come.

"RACE!"

Sweat beading his brow, Spot bolted up in the bed, chest heaving and silver-blue eyes wide in shock. His hands trembled as he held them up to his face, washed in the moonlight. A nightmare. Something he hadn't had in a long time.

Running a hand through his hair, he pushed the tangled blanket off of him and moved to the window, hands braced lightly on the sill. He pushed it open and let the gentle wind of the night wash over him.

He remembered that day. It had started off as just another day, sell some papers in the morning, get some training in before lunch, and then he would have some time to himself before dinner and the late night edition, that Red sometimes would let him sell.

And to think, all that trouble had started with just one question.

"What are you doin?"

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"So I see." Jack nodded, sighing. "What a mess this all is."

Red hummed his agreement, collapsed in a chair with a glass of whiskey in one hand. He was about to say more when the door to the room opened and someone poked their head in.

"You haven't heard the half of it, Jack." It was Dutchy, his face scrunched up in some unreadable expression. "Guess who is waiting in the main room for ya?"

Something told him the answer was not 'Spot.' "Who?"

"Munch, co-leadah of da Bronx."

Jack's eyebrows flew up in surprise, and even Red sat up straight in his chair. "Munch?"

He nodded, "Says he needs to speak to ya, right this minute. Its important."

Of course it was. Munch usually stayed in the Bronx, unless it was something life-shattering, and then you might get him to leave his precious hometown. Usually Ace did the running around, he was the leader in any case.

They got to their feet and Dutchy vanished from the doorway. Exchanging shocked glances, they walked out of the side room and down the hall, pushing the door to the main downstairs with a few clues as to what would expect.

A fuming and worried Bronx newsie was not on that list.

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"Race?" Ace shook the other newsie, alarmed when he didn't get an answer. "Race?" He tried, a little louder, a little more force to his shaking, "Racetrack, answer me!"

He didn't get one. Race was slumped against the wall, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. His face was pale white, his cheeks flushed slightly. Hand trembling, Ace laid his hand on the other's forehead, and immediately started to curse in Italian.

Race was sick. Really sick.

Pulling him into his arms as much as he could, Ace got to his feet, biting his lip as he tried to balance the newsie's weight. He had to get him to a doctor, but where could he go in Brooklyn without Spot finding out about it? He had no idea, and that only made the situation worse. He wasn't a stranger to Brooklyn, but he didn't know everything.

"What a great time for you to be unconscious, Race." He snarled, biting his lip and looked toward the dark sky. "God...I need some help here...anyone would do!"

Footsteps.

Spinning, Ace's heart leapt. Maybe it was some newsie who would know where he could get help, maybe it was Red. Yeah, that would be really good. Red could help them out, he could-

"What do we have here?"

It wasn't Red.

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"WHAT is going on!" Munch nearly exploded the minute Jack was in view, his hands clenched at his sides.

Cowboy blinked, "Uh, what...?" He wasn't stupid, but he had no idea what the other was referring to. "Munch, what are you talking about?"

"Ace left foah Brooklyn dis mornin- and he hasn't come back!" He exclaimed, "Not a message, not anything!"

Red and Jack exchanged worried glances, feeling as if the world had just shattered around them. Another missing person, in Brooklyn. And with Spot having closed his territory, there was no way to get information.

No way, that is. But one.

"Ya know what." Red snarled, eyes flashing. "Dat's it. Enough is enough." He stomped toward the door, mind a jumbled mass of anger.

Jack looked at him, eyebrow raised, "Where are you goin?"

"Im gettin back in ta Brooklyn."

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ok! Maybe not as good as the previous ones, I wrote this when I wasn't feeling my best. The beginning turned out great, and kind of tapered off toward the end. -grin- oh well.

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