Hey all! This is my first Newsies fanfic. I will try to keep writing and uploading the chapters. This revolves around Crutchie being in the Refuge after the big brawl, but it switches between Crutchie's POV and Jack's POV. Pretty much all of my Newsies fanfics will be based off of the Broadway version... even though I haven't seen it yet... *cries*

There is some violence, since this first chapter is about the brawl. I'm not sure what to rate it, but I guess I'll rate it T just in case. There won't be anything inappropriate, and there won't be any cursing, as I don't believe in either of those things.

Anyways, please R&R and enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Newsies!

God bless,

Elizabeth Shoal

(No, that is not my real name, but I am not comfortable revealing my real name online for obvious safety reasons. So please call me Elizabeth or Lizzie!)

Crutchie's POV

"Hey, Jack, look what I made! Watch- Strike!"

I help up my crutch, waving it high in the air. I'd painted a banner with a piece of cloth and some of Jack's art supplies. It was simple - all it said was "STRIKE" - but it was a way for me to show that I was part of the union too. Even if I was disabled.

I thought a saw a glimmer of something strange in Jack's hazel-green eyes. I couldn't place it exactly… but was that…

Pity?

Jack opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Race - throwing me a grin, his cigar hanging from his teeth - spoke up.

"That's great!" He exclaimed. His tone did not match his smile. It was laced with false enthusiasm. He gave a halting, sarcastic laugh. "Heh-heh. Heh. Heh." His smile fell, and mine did too. "That's pitiful." Race looked like he was beginning to have doubts again. Jack was glaring at the back of his blonde head.

Is it that bad? I thought it was pretty clever…

Les strayed from his brother's side, pape in hand. He stood before Race, legs spread in an accusing, I'm-just-as-big-as-you sort of way. "Don't be so quick to judge!" The nearly-ten-year-old said indignantly. "Maybe Pulitzer will see it from his window and feel sorry for us.

A few guys chuckled, but my spirits soared once more as Les turned toward me with an encouraging beam. The kid didn't know how much his support meant to me.

Les spread his pape on the ground, and motioned for me to come closer. As he placed a foot on one half, I placed my foot (the good one of course) on the other.

"See this Mr. Pulitzer!?" I shouted defiantly, jabbing my finger at the pape and aiming my words at the large brick building above me - the World's headquarters. Pulitzer was gonna see that we weren't nothin' after all.

With a tug, Les and I pulled the paper apart. It made an oddly satisfying sound as it ripped; I could almost hear it yelling 'Strike!' right along with my banner. Les and I glided through the crowd on our halves of the pape. The whole lot of us burst back into a final chorus of Davey's tune.

"Now is the time to seize the day!"

The hope, practically palpable in the sun-heated air, made my limbs tingle with excitement.

"One for all and all… for one!" We all shouted those words: at the brick building; at the World; at the actual world; at Pulitzer; at each other. We were gonna fight together, and we were letting Pulitzer know what was coming.

As if on cue, hoofbeats sounded from down the street. We turned to see a horde of angry coppers, three or four of whom sat atop proud, chestnut-colored horses.

"It's the Bulls!" Les exclaimed.

"And the Delancey brothers!" I put in because, sure enough, there they were at the front of the crowd, tapping their homemade billy clubs threateningly against their palms.

"Hey!" Jack climbed onto the steps of the World and shouted over the muttering newsies. "Come on boys, we ain't givin' up now, are we? It's like Davey said: seize the day! Strike!"

"Strike!" The whole lot of us chorused. A few boys charged and the square echoed with a menagerie of shouts and curses. The Bull interspersed with the newsies, and the result was one disoriented, tussling mass. I raised my crutch just slightly, tripping the nearest Bull before he could get to Les. Les dodged yet another Bull and dove head first into a barrel.

Mush and Sniper, the twins, were back to back, throwing punches this and that. Race was holding his own against three men, all much taller than he. A Bull came at me, fist raised, but I ducked. Popping back up, I used my good leg to kick him in a not-so-comfortable spot, which sent him, howling, to the ground.

Another glance around showed Romeo, Davey, Boots and Finch shoving a mob of Bulls back. I managed a glimpse of Jack, who was locked arm to arm with a buff, black-shirted strikebreaker.

I brought my crutch down on the shoulders of a blonde man who had gotten ahold of Specs. He let out a string of unpleasant words and turned towards me. The Bull grabbed my crutch and soon enough we were playing tug-o'-war. Another nasty strikebreaker got a punch to the side of my head from behind, and one to my ribs as well, but Specs shoved him away, hitting him over the head with a cane. Where he got it? I had no idea.

I kicked the other copper - who was still pulling at my crutch (and gaining ground, mind you) in the shins. He faltered, giving me time to pull my crutch away and kick him again. I raised my crutch threateningly. The lousy Bull turned tail and fled.

"Nice one Crutchie!" This came from Albert, who was sporting a busted lip and yet grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Thanks Al!"

Together we converged on a Bull before he could drag Race away. Race muttered a begrudging 'thanks' before disappearing into the throng. I tried to see over the crowd, standing on tip-toe, but to no avail.

Stupid short legs… I was fairly certain that the polio I'd caught as a child had not only crippled my leg, but stunted my growth as well.

I shuffled onto a step, and then another, and saw Oscar and Morris Delancey making their way towards Jack, who was just pushing off a Bull. Jack turned and saw the Delanceys too.

"JACK KELLY!" I recognized that voice. Behind Jack, Snyder sat on one of the big-boned horses. Jack spun in a circle. He must've been thinking the same thing I was: Cornered.

Suddenly, though, he made a move, diving forward… and scrambling through the space between the horse's two sets of legs. Just like that, he was off, pushing through the fray.

"JACK KELLY!" I'd never seen Snyder so angry in my life. I found myself cheering, waving my banner triumphantly at the clear, blue sky. My happiness, however, was short lived because the coppers on the horses had dismounted and were now joining the tussle. There was only a few of them, but it was amazing the difference they made. I stepped down to help JoJo out, but a Bull managed to wing me right in the eye. I knew I'd be getting a nasty bruise. I hit the man with my crutch, and was, admittedly, grateful when JoJo took over.

Around me, the cries of the newsies escalated. Pain, frustration and panic radiated in the air. Every one of us was bloody and sweating. The Bulls were winning.

I roused myself from my stupor, and smacked the nearest copper over the head. I raised my crutch to do the same to another strikebreaker but, all at once, the crowd lurched. It lurched again, and started to move, carrying me along with it. It took me a moment to realize what was happening: The Newsies were fleeing. We were defeated. The plaid-shirted, capped boys were running, and the Bulls were giving chase.

I was at the back of the group, being jostled about and trying not to lose my footing. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to stay and keep trying. I wanted to win. There were a few boys throwing a few final punches… but overall the effort was done for.

Maybe I'm stubborn, but I was smart enough to know that I couldn't hold my own against a bunch of Bulls.

The other newsies quickly got ahead of me… as did the strikebreakers. I still tried to follow, but I was suddenly cut off by two looming figured.

The Delancey brothers.

"H-Hey fellas…" I stuttered. "Oscar… Morris…" I really wasn't doing very well with the whole 'brave-act' thing. It was as if all the courage had drained out of me. I think it was because I knew I was alone. The newsies and Bulls were out of sight. All the civilians had cleared the street.

It was just me and the Delanceys.

"Where's your Jack now?" Oscar, the slightly taller of the two brothers, sneered. He bent so he was eye level with me.

I curled my lip and punched him in the nose.

Obviously surprised, Oscar stood up straighter and stumbled back. His hand - which I'm telling you was the size of a dinner plate - flew to his heavily-bleeding nose.

My knuckles smarted, but I kept as straight a face as I could muster. Morris, however looked furious; furious that I had dared to do such a thing. But there was also a hint of amusement in his eyes at his brother's plight. Morris retaliated by throwing a punch that hit me square in the jaw.

Pain flared throughout my cheek, and - I'm telling you - my teeth rattled. I staggered to the side, and Morris snatched away my crutch. With one hard shove he sent me to the cobblestone street. I put my hands up to catch myself, earning myself a pair of gravel-studded palms and jolted wrists.

Oscar, regaining his senses, he forward, a scowl plastered on his face. He kicked me in the ribs… hard. I automatically curled into a ball, groaning as my innards lurched. Oscar kicked me again. And again.

I couldn't refrain from calling out.

"Jack!"

I was panicking. If no one came, I was done for. And my first instinct was to call for Jack. Jack always seemed to know when I was getting beat up. He'd saved my sorry butt too many times to count.

Oscar kicked me again, causing me to throw my arms up in defense. Morris' foot found my hand and pushed down, crushing it to the cobblestones. A scream tore from my throat. I could feel my fingers being ground into the rough, unforgiving stone. I could hear them cracking.

"Jack, help!"

"Shut up you stupid crip!" Morris growled. But he removed his foot from my bloodied hand. And Oscar didn't kick me again. I risked a tentative glance upward - Why've they stopped? - and saw another figure, silhouetted against the glaring sun.

Apparently Snyder had stayed behind too. Seeing him up close allowed me to survey him. The middle aged, greying man was dressed in a suit and a bowler hat - not exactly the standard attire for a brawl. He wasn't particularly tall, and his stomach had grown to be rather round from years of eating well, but he was still just as threatening as the Delanceys, if not more so. He always stood up straight and tall, and his gaze was cold and calculating. A cruel smile - if it could even be called that - stretched his pale features. His steel-grey eyes seemed to say for him: 'Well, look what we have here.'

Without a word, he took my crutch from Morris' hands. For one shocking moment, I thought he was going to give it back to me.

I was wrong.

Apparently he just didn't think his cronies were doing their job well enough, because the crutch rose above his head before sailing towards me. For a moment, the world slowed down enough for me to see the irony of it all: I was about to get beat up with my own crutch. I was about to be soaked with the thing that was supposed to help me walk. Of course, a moment later, irony was the last thing I cared about. My crutch hit me in the upper arm. It stung with a fiery heat. It hurt more than anything I'd ever felt.

Then again I was getting soaked with a thin rod of solid wood.

The crutch came flying again and made contact with my exposed side. I yelped, curling up once more, clutching my stomach. I quickly moved my arms above my head, however, after Snyder brought the wood down across my temple. The world spun. Three pairs of legs became six pairs. The sun zipped around in a twirling sky.

The blow elicited a scream. This situation was much worse than I had originally thought it to be.

"Jack!" I cried, but I was quickly cut off by the raining blows. Down the crutch fell, delivering one clout after another.

And suddenly Snyder stopped.

A sob escaped my dry lips; a sob of both agony and relief. My tough-and-stubborn attitude was gone. It had disappeared more and more with every blow and every cruel word. My pride was being worn down as well.

Snyder bent over me, grabbing my wrists away from my head.

"It's off to the Refuge with you, little man." He practically whispered in his cold, unsettling tone. No matter how soft he spoke, Snyder could always be heard over every other voice in a room.

The Refuge? No, no, please no...

Snyder secured wintry, metal cuffs tightly (too tightly I might add) around my thin wrists.

"Take him away." He addressed the Delancey brothers as he stood.

Not the Refuge, please. Please don't take me there. I'd only ever heard horrible things about that place. I'd seen the scars - both physical and mental - that Jack had sustained from that terrible institution. The place that was supposed to 'reform young men into better citizens'.

"JACK!" I tried again, even though (thinking about it now) I would have blamed myself if Jack had gotten arrested while trying to save me. Oscar grabbed me by my bad ankle, spinning me about. At this point, I didn't really expect a reply. I figured Jack must've been long gone by now…

"CRUTCHIE!" The cry split the still, muggy air. I rolled onto my stomach, trying to see the source of that familiar voice as Oscar began to drag me over the uneven cobblestones. Every inch of my beaten body protested, but I needed to see Jack.

I caught a glimpse of him, far down the road, half-hidden in an alleyway. Snyder was looking too.

My head banged against the ground. By now, I was desperate.

"JACK, HELP!" The shriek was a final plea for help. I was begging. And yet I knew that it was hopeless. Jack couldn't help me, I was too far away. He'd get caught.

"Jack…" I sobbed.

If there was a reply, I was too far away to hear it.