Spot was on the dock with Spark. He was laying down looking at the stars. Currently, there was silence. But it wasn't an awkward silence. And Spot like that. They had some time to think.

When he heard footsteps and voices approaching, Spot stood up. Living on the streets of Brooklyn as long as Spot had, he'd learned to be prepared for anything. He relaxed when he saw it was just Chase and Mush coming back from Manhattan.

"Did you have a good time with the Manhattan boys?" Spark asked, sitting up leisurely, not phased after getting startled.

"Yeah," said Chase.

"I hope you won't up and leave Brooklyn to live there." Spot said teasing her, even though he was joking, he really meant it.

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"Yeah," their eyes locked for a second, both of them smiling.

Mush looked at Spark, laughing a little.

"So how was your night with your brother?" Spot asked Chase as they walked home.

"Oh, Spot, it was wonderful!" she said, a pretty smile on her face.

Spot smiled back in response. Spark and Story and a few other newsies, who were walking in front of them, whispered to each other rapidly and occasionally looked back at Chase and Spot and giggled. Spot glared at the boys, which shut them up. But Story and Spark weren't intimidated by it, just like Chase. "I was afraid you didn't like Nick, the way you were staring him down."

"Oh- nah. I just didn't know what he was doin' here. Talkin' to you when I know there's anotha' girl who has her sights on him."

"So you weren't jealous of him taking up some of my time?"

"Me? Jealous? Never." said Spot. But Chase knew that wasn't true. "Plus, now I know you guys is family. I couldn't take that away from you."

Chase smiled at him gratefully. But Spot didn't notice, he was distracted by his own memories.

Spot had a family, once. It wasn't perfect, but it was still family. He grew up in Brooklyn, an only child, to parents who loved him very much.

Before Spot was old enough to go to school, his father took him to work with him most mornings. Spot's father printed papers for "The World" in Manhattan. They crossed the Brooklyn bridge every day.

Most of Spot's childhood friends were newsies who would come to buy the papers. They taught him their games and songs, how to "improve the truth", and he even picked up some of their slang (much to his mother's chagrin; she still wanted to raise him properly even though they weren't part of the rich upper-class anymore). One of Spot's closest friends at the time was a boy who called himself Jack Kelly.

His mother's family hadn't approved her marrying a lower-class newspaper printer, but that didn't stop her from marrying Spot's father. She truly loved him. It seemed as if she was always smiling, always humming, and always laughing. And Spot's father was too. Spot loved to watch his parents talk to each other. It seemed like such a simple, meaningless thing, but Spot was fascinated with their love. It was so perfect that it seemed they were all destined to be together forever. Until one night that all changed.

Spot wasn't supposed to be awake, but he couldn't sleep. Something didn't seem right. He had gone into his parents' room, they were downstairs, to listen to his mother's music box. The tune calmed him down.

Suddenly, he heard shouts and doors slamming downstairs. Spot listened at the bedroom door.

"You owe us, Conlon" a man said.

"I don't know what you're talking about." his father answered.

"Don't make us ask again, Conlon." Said another man. "We'll kill you right here if we have to."

"What's this all about?" Spot heard panic rising in his mother's voice.

"Nothing, honey. Go upstairs, now." Spot's father said, he seemed to keep his cool.

"Ah, ah," Said the first man, Spot heard him cross the room. "A little leverage." There was a click sound, like someone cocking a pistol. Spot didn't know what to do.

"Calm down, dear." Spot could barely hear his father talking. He stopped the music box from playing, but he knocked over a lamp in the process.

"What was that?" said another man.

"You got some backup upstairs, Conlon?"

"Run Spot!" his father exclaimed.

BANG!

There was the sound of a woman screaming, followed by another gunshot.

BANG!

And then the sound of people running up the stairs. Spot grabbed the music box and ran to the window. He'd tried climbing the drainpipe before, but not using one hand. He couldn't let go of the music box, though. He had to try.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he slid down the drain pipe. Spot took off running. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't stop until he reached the Brooklyn Bridge. He ran up the first tower, threw himself on the ground, and cried. He was only 10 years old and both his parents were dead.

Spot fell asleep within a few hours. Thankfully it was a warm spring night or he would have frozen to death. He was shaken awake by someone. Someone who looked a lot older than him.

"W-who are you?" Spot asked, putting up his fists, ready to take a swing.

"Calm down," The person put their hands up as if surrendering. It was a newsboy with a bag full of papers; Spot thought he recognized him, but he wasn't a Manhattan newsie. "I'm not gonna hurt ya."

Spot stood down but he kept an eye on the newsie. "What's your name, little fella?"

"Spot Conlon." He answered haughtily, he was very proud of his nickname.

"You an orphan?"

Spot almost shook his head but he stopped himself. He was an orphan now. Both of his parents were dead.

"Yes."

"How do you feel about being a newsie?"

It just so happened that the newsie that picked up Spot was the 16 year old leader of the Brooklyn newsies. They all called him Brooks, short for Brooklyn, since he ran almost everything in the city. He had all the connections. Brooks took Spot under his wing right away and made him second in command over the Brooklyn newsies. He taught him how to sell papes (Spot really didn't need help in this category, he'd gotten practice helping his Manhattan friends), he how to fight, how to treat ladies, and how to be intimidating. Brooks really was a nice guy but everyone in Brooklyn, at least all of the newsies, feared him. He got respect that he deserved. Spot learned from the best. Just when Spot was getting the hang of things, the winds changed again.

It was two years later, Spot was out selling papers in the park when he heard the sound of a brawl. Of course, he had to go check it out. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Brooks was being beaten with a gold-handled cane by a newsie. Other newsboys stood around the two, encouraging them. They were from a rival gang that had sprung up recently. Their leader had it out for Brooks; he wanted a chance to run Brooklyn.

Brooks was on the ground, his face and his clothes were covered in blood, bruises were starting to show on his arms. The harder he tried to get up, the harder it got. Spot snapped out of his trance. He ran toward the rival and snatched the cane out of his hands in one movement. The other newsie had no idea what had just happened.

"Wrong move, Dot." Said the rival. Spot's anger flared. As the newsie came at him, he assessed his position and hit him right in the middle of the chest. His weakest point. The newsboy went down, hitting his head on the curb. He was knocked unconscious. The crowd around him went silent. Spot knelt down by Brooks.

"Thanks, Spot." Brooks said, weakly. In a few minutes, the two newsies, Brooks and his rival, were picked up by an ambulance.

Spot slipped the cane in his belt loop and followed the carriage to the hospital. A kind nurse let him in through the back door to see Brooks.

The leader of the Brooklyn newsies wasn't doing too well.

"Spot, is that you?" Brooks said when he saw Spot come in the room. Brooks was covered in dark purple bruises. His nose was badly broken and he had stitches all through his forehead. His hair was matted with blood.

"Yeah,"

"Nice job out there, you made me proud."

"Um, you're welcome." Spot didn't know what else to say. "What did the doctors say?" Brooks looked uncomfortable with the question.

"They said I have internal bleeding and sixteen broken ribs. They—they don't think I'm gonna make it through the night."

"Oh."

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I have a little time left. Which reminds me. I have something I need to tell ya." Spot stood up straighter. "I'm gonna need you to take care of my city while I'm gone."

"But Brooks, you're gonna get better. Ya have to." Spot wasn't ready to take on the whole city of Brooklyn.

"I think it's my time to go. It's been a fine life. And now I'll get to see my Mom and Pop, tell 'em I'm sorry for leaving home."

Spot didn't want to cry in front of his friend. He couldn't imagine Brooklyn without him though. "You're gonna be a great leader, Spot. I know ya will. The boys will respect you if ya do exactly what I've taught you."

"Ok," Spot said.

"You'll do great."

"Brooks—"

"Tell the boys I'm gonna miss them. Bye Spot." And with that, Brooks, the heart of Brooklyn himself, took his final breath.

The story was all over the newspapers in the morning. The whole city mourned Brooks. Spot's reputation as the fearsome Spot Conlon bloomed overnight. His push had killed the other newsie, rumors spread and were embellished. Soon everyone knew his name.