The room is dark, every voice hushed as a single boy stands. All lights have been extinguished but the window is drawn open, allowing gentle moonlight to enter the stale air. Their eyes adjust gradually, their breathing loud in the sudden silence. They all watch him. Their eyes are always on him.

The unlucky one closest to the front flinches away, realizing just how close he is to the standing boy. The boy takes no notice, of course. No one matters but him. No one.

"He spoke back to me," The brown-haired boy explains to the group. His voice is terribly soft, his earnest dim eyes fixed on the flinching newsie seated cross-legged on the floor. "Didn't you, Kid? Didn't you?"

"I...I didn't mean nothin'!" The newsie protests, glancing wildly around the room, trying to meet the eyes of his friends. They all look away. This has to be done. Every Manhattan newsie has to know their place. Crutchy learned his months ago, and he hasn't talked back to anyone since. Kid has watched him as he sells papes. Whenever Jack is close the cripple winces, laughing nervously and speaking in a nasal tone, holding his crutch like a sword to keep his leader at bay.

The boys had to carry Crutchy out of the Lodging House that night. Screaming, though he tried to bite it down. He had been acting up for several days. He had to learn where his place was. And the only way, Jack had found, to make a newsie learn was to show them so that they would never forget.

Jack's red, twisted handkerchief is knotted loosely around his neck. He rolls up his sleeves, slowly, taking painstaking time with the buttons. The blonde boy seated before him is shaking, trying desperately to find someone who will speak out for him.

No one does.

"It's too late for that, Kid," Jack says wearily. He has to do this, but he is so tired. He wishes he could use words to explain, but he cannot find them.

"Please, Jack!" The blonde boy begs, prostrated on the ground, his hands entwined beneath his chin in a prayer-like pose. He is praying for mercy, but will receive none. The floor of this Lodging House has run thick with blood many times before.

"If you keep on brayin', you'll wake up Kloppman an' then we'll have to gag you," Their leader reprimands him sternly, removing his cowboy hat and tossing it on a nearby bunk. He stares down into those frightened green eyes, a single rough finger pressed beneath Kid's chin. "Understand?"

"Y-yes," Kid stutters, pulling back as though his leader's touch has burned him. Suddenly he is hauled up by a rough fist, his arms pinned at his sides by two of his friends. Mush is there on his left. Kid is glad he will not have to suffer through this alone. Mush looks away, hiding his compassion, but Kid can see it and will not forget.

Neither will Jack.

"You asked me this mornin' if I would watch my step," Jack reminds him unnecessarily. Kid shudders. Their leader continues mockingly, each boy in the room hanging onto every word as though it is precious and not to be wasted. "How do you think I could've done that, and saved you the trouble of moving?"

"By...by lookin'?" Kid is appalled by the uncertainty in his voice. Jack hates uncertainty. It is weakness.

"With my...eyes," Jack drawls slowly, stepping away from the boy who is held before him like a sacrificial lamb. He looks at the group of gathered newsies, at each child, at each man. He likes what he sees. He lifts his chin, sighing to remind them how much he despises his duty.

Without any warning he swings a tan fist, colliding with the side of Kid's face. The boy cries out, then quickly stifles the sound. He struggles momentarily to break free of the hands that hold him steady, but the surge of newsies against his back will not give way. Every person in the room is standing to watch this justice be carried out. Kid collapses, willing his limbs to be loose. The blows will not hurt as much that way.

But hell, do they hurt. Each one stings, feeling like a thousand fire ants crawling over his skin. At least his flesh hasn't broken open yet. Kid saw a cat's gut broken open once, its innards spilling into the street in a sea of red. Don't think of the cat, he tells himself silently. He shuts his eyes, trying to bear the pain like a man. He does not scream, he does not cry. He presses his lips together and shouts inside of his own head.

Pain! He has never known so much pain in all his life. There has been a metal rod rammed through his flesh, into something that squishes unpleasantly. Hissing and sounds of approval resound around his ears. There is metal pressed through his eyelid! There is a whole through his eyelid! His thick lashes are smashed downwards, and his eye...his eye is a bloody pulp, and fuck, it hurts...pain, searing pain, red pain, blinding pain, blind, blind, blind...

He is dropped by the hands that support him as he sags, unconscious, against them. The boys watch solemnly as their leader surveys the bloody boy lying unmoving on the cold ground.

"Kid Blink," He decrees slowly. "Remember this, boys. This is a warning."

Down the stairs Jack goes, quietly so as not to awaken Kloppman. He leaves, and they can all hear the door slam behind him. The boys depart to their bunks, aside from a sole newsie who cradles his bloody friend's head in his arms.

"Kid," Mush begs, not knowing what to do to help save the eye of his friend, "please wake up. Come on, Kid, please...for me, Kid, wake up...see me, look at me..."

It is several days later when Kid Blink finally awakens. When he opens his eyes, he only sees out of one of them. The other is covered by a thick, scratchy patch. The boys do not speak of his eye.

He treads carefully around his leader, and watches his words around the other boys. No sense in risking the chance of having both eyes ruined. Sometimes, he sees Crutchy staring at him, and gives the cripple a condescending smile. At least Blink can walk.

But sometimes at night, he awakens to find Jack staring into his face. Sometimes he dreams that he can see out of both eyes again.

Sometimes he screams as he sleeps.

Sometimes.

When Les Jacobs joined the ranks of the Manhattan newsies, the boy asked if Kid's patch was real, or used to provoke pity in potential customers. The one-eyed boy just laughed.

That night, Kid cried. Tears do not come out of his bad eye.

He will never be the same.

Neither will Jack.

Justice, as always, is carried out for the Manhattan newsies.

One by one, they are punished. They are like marbles in a shooting game, each hitting the next and bumping it so that they scatter in different directions. The only thing linking them is the one who plays the game. The one that they all respect, and all fear.

Spot Conlon rules with his fists.

Jack Kelly rules by example.

It will always be this way.