One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter twelve: Explosion

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!

Dang. I wish this was the thirteenth chapter. That would have been interesting. -grin-

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"At least you've finally caught on."

Spot's head snapped up in shock, his eyes wide, voice a breathless whisper as he breathed the other's name. The one standing not ten feet away sounded like Red, talked like Red, but it certainly didn't look like Red.

The once vibrant crimson hair, his namesake...was ebony.

"I was testing a theory." The elder said with a slight smile, upon discovering what had horrified the other so.

"What...theory..?" He was in a state of shocked fascination. Of all the things that could have happened to him, the color change was not one he would have expected. And was that a mustache?!

"Whether or not you'd recognize me if I walked right in front of you like this."

Comprehension dawned. "That was you who stole the food!"

Red grinned, coming over to lean on the ledge. "You were watching me...but you didn't notice who it was. A lot on your mind, eh?"

Spot raised an eyebrow. Yes, that was a mustache...a few days stubble at most, but it looked good on Red, far better than it would on him, that was for sure. "I've been...busy."

"Ah, yes. Because kicking people out and isolating your territory is such hard work."

The leader of Brooklyn groaned, hiding his face with his hands. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it- ANY of it!"

Red had a proud smile on his face as he laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I know you didn't, kid. But im not the one who deserves the apology."

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No one knew how he did.

Even he didn't know.

But somehow, by some maniac twist of fate, Ace was out of his cage, and searching desperately up and around the area for his friend. Holding his arm close to his chest, he ducked and slid, hiding behind crates, barely breathing so he would be able to hear if anyone came near.

Luck was with him for once, and no one stopped him. Another point came when he found a small room, locked heavily from the outside, and through which he could hear Italian cursing.

Lets see.

Italian. Check.

Cursing. Check.

"Race." He hissed outside the door, pressing himself up as high as he could, to see through the tiny opening. "Race, ya knucklehead getc- Wait...Why do you want to broil Spot's ... package ... over a fire and make him eat it?" His eyebrows shot up.

Pausing at the voice, Race stared up at him, shocked. He had nearly managed to get a hand free, but the movements had tightened the other and he was resorting to twisting all around to just get in a position where he could work at it.

He had been cursing fluently until he got it. He hadn't expected anyone to hear though.

And certainly not Ace.

In a second, as he stared into the Bronx leader's face, Race knew what he had to do. It was going to hurt them both, but it had to be done. Steel ran through his veins and he stood tall, every inch the Brooklyn kid he really was.

Brooklyn was known not only for their fighting skills, but also for the fact they could make even the calmest person angry at them for the remainder of their lives. It was to this Race drew on, because he had to hurt Ace, to save him.

It wasn't ten minutes later, that Race sat back on the ground, covering his face with his hands. He would be amazed if Ace even SPOKE to him again, never mind look at him civilly. He had been cruel, he had been mean, and he had smiled the entire time.

What kind of monster was he?

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Race was forced into a chair by the two men on either side of him, his shoulder's aching from where their fingers had dug into his flesh. He was tied in the front, but the rope that bound his hands together had rubbed his wrists raw. No one seemed to care of course.

A ring of guards surrounded him, knives glinting within easy reach if he had any valiant plans to escape. Like that was going to happen. His eyes were full of fire as Mr. Owens came through a door, hands in the pockets of his expensive suit.

His head slammed around with the first blow, striking the back of the seat with enough force to make him see stars. The sharp taste of copper filled his mouth and he gagged automatically, a few flecks of blood coating his lips.

The first hit, and he was already bleeding? This was sure going to go well.

"Where is it, you street rat?!" He talked big, but Race did note that he stayed just out of reach. Wise man, yet foolish at the same time. "Where's that voucher?!"

'Ace has it, you idiot. I fooled you, fooled you all.' He couldn't keep the smirk off his face, and that earned him a few more punches that left his ears ringing. He blinked his eyes as Owens came forward a little more.

"Tell me where it is and we can let you go."

Race promptly spat blood on his designer suit.

This time, he saw more than just stars and heard more than just ringing. When he could see again, Owens had removed the spat-on jacket and, face livid, descended upon the other with a blade nearly the length of the newsie's forearm.

"I'll get it, boy. Ill get it- even if it means getting it over your dead body." He snarled, "Make no mistake, it will be mine...Every...last...cent..!"

Race's panicked mind shut down as the sharp edge glinted. He was going to die. Die here, with no one around to see. Would anyone know? Would anyone care? He didnt know.

However, he did know one thing. The one person he wanted to care, who he wanted to let know...was the one person who truly hated him.

"Spot..." He murmurred, eyes squeezing shut to block out death, block out everything.

And then the world exploded.

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"This isn't right." Ace's foot stopped before it could even hit the edge of the bridge. He turned slightly, the lightening twilight illuminating his face. His eyes glinted as they landed on the Sheepshead racetrack, and the small cargo trailer in the far back where they were keeping Race.

A lot had been said, but that was something to think about at another time.

All he could think about was the last thing Race had said to him, and the way all that anger had faded away -just for an instant- to reveal his real thoughts on the matter.

"Take this, Ace. Take it and run. Get into Manhattan as soon as you can, tell Jack what's goin on. He'll take care of it, im sure...Now go, and don't look back."

How could he not look back? How could he leave, run away and leave his friend there, in their clutches? Who knew what they would do to the poor kid? It was life and death here, money or an innocent. He knew what Race had tried to do. But how could he leave him there?

He couldn't.

'Sorry, Race. But you're more important then some stupid money.'

He turned on his heel, pulling the cap low over his eyes as he ran back through the streets, back past the lodging house where he guessed Spot was sleeping even now, ignorant and pig-headed. His fingers clenched around the voucher in his pocket as he sprinted, eyes on his goal.

On where he knew Race was.

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Dust was everywhere, clogging the air and making it hard to see, much less to breathe. Sharp pieces of wood and melted twisted pieces of metal rained down on the floor, all of them searing to the touch and sending even more heat to suffocate anyone still alive.

Race blinked his eyes open, moaning as his whole body ached. But he wasn't dead.

That was disappointing.

He had expected death, or at the very least serious harm. After all, the very last thing he had seen was half the wall come crashing towards him, and then nothing. Surely he would be more sore after that? He had expected all of that, blood, pain, broken bones.

He hadn't expected to open his eyes and come face to face with a chest.

A man's chest, to be exact. The firm muscles could be clearly seen through the half-open shirt, glinting and rippling in the dim lighting. At least whoever belonged to this chest was breathing, small intakes of pain-filled breaths. And it was then that the glint of something silver caught Race's eyes and he forgot how to think, how to breathe, his heart literally stopped cold.

He twisted his head upward in shock, half-registering that he was pinned on his back, half-registering that the person above him was apparently injured, half-registering that the fatal falling of the wall had landed upon his savior.

Half-registering that it was Spot.

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a little longer chapter, hehee...and for good reason.

Sorry it was a little choppy, and I know I skipped over what happened between Ace and Race. Use your imagination, people! Hah.

And...im sorry to say this story is almost over. -cry-

so, leave me a review and tell me whatcha think!