DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie Newsies belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe.

~*Where the River Flows Bright*~

            Dearest Brooklyn,

            Forgive me my meddling with affairs with which I've no business, but I couldn't help but feel moved by the words of your letter. You wrote with such passion and ardor that I almost came to believe I'd known you for years, and the connection between us nothing short of a bond between the best of friends. I know this must sound terribly ridiculous to you no doubt; especially seeing how the letter wasn't even addressed to me in the first place!

            I beg your pardon again for having read what was obviously meant to be a private correspondence and hope for your forgiveness. I was compelled, however, to write you back because I definitely can relate to your pains. I've recently lost both my parents, and not a day goes by that I don't think of the peace I might find in death…just to be reunited with them…

            But then I remember those who need me now, and that my time to leave this world isn't a date to be decided by my own foolishness. I know God is with us always, and that certainly is something well worth living for. So don't be discouraged, Brooklyn, when times get too rough, because you very well might mean the world to someone. If you ever need someone to speak with, I'm here always; I do hope to receive a return letter from you soon. Take care, and God bless.

            ~Yours

            Spot Conlon skimmed over the letter with raised eyebrows, having not the slightest clue as to how anyone could've ascertained the details of the letter he'd written weeks ago. He looked down at Cody with full expectations that the act was hardly something of serious nature and more surely a wretched little prank contrived by Runner and his roguish minions. But when he interrogated the boy and pressed the queries concerning who the author of the preposterous note had been, Cody would only hold to the simplest of answers: "just some girl", for Cody was holding to his allegiance to keep Dewey's identity masked; he didn't even have the slightest intention of spilling the secret to the others.

            Needless to say, Spot was dissatisfied with the lack of information and called for Runner to speak with him in his room. Yet the same confounded and clueless behaviour ensued. Runner knew nothing of the letter the Brooklyn leader had received. "Lemme read it," he offered, "and maybe I can figure out who the writer is." But Spot wouldn't grant him such rights; no one would digest a single word off the mint-scented paper. He thought the oblivious nature of his boys was the worst problem and was about to dismiss the whole matter with a simple hand swipe, but when he'd asked Runner to give him back his original letter into which he'd poured his soul, the younger Conlon's face became quite pale.

            He searched the entire bunkroom-including the pockets of all his pairs of breeches, under his mattress and pillow, and within the drawers of the nightstand beside his bed. He fulfilled the same duties for Spot's room as well, thinking perhaps he'd already returned his cousin's letter. But he had no such luck. Spot's written work, so laden with a personality he'd always hidden, was lost.

            This, naturally, drove the leader to become exasperated, a state he'd entertain for two days straight. He should've taken the letter from Runner that night they had been talking on the bridge! Now his secrets were an open trinket box filled with gems long buried at which anyone might jeer. And who was this young woman who so wanted to help him? What right did she have to even involve herself in his life? She knew nothing of his miseries…and he wasn't about to enlighten her.

            "Stupid girl," he nearly yelled, crumbling her letter into a tight ball of crinkled rubbish until his knuckles had turned white by the sheer force. At least he hadn't used his newsie name…that was his only assurance. Let 'Brooklyn' be her only clue to his life. He threw the crumpled paper across the room with a curse, turning around to leave without even caring where the damned thing fell. Slamming the door shut, he descended the stairs of the lodging house and decided he wouldn't return until early next morning.

~*~*~*~*~*~

            Not too long after Spot's fleeting maelstrom, Runner and his usual camaraderie of friends (minus Cody-who'd apparently found a girlfriend and thus presently indulged her with his time) had managed to steal Dewey's company upon crossing paths with the girl during a morning stroll, and now surrounded her with their banter and good fellowship while taking a brief repose from selling papers at the acclaimed Bistro Alley-known for its fresh pastries and delicious mixtures of coffee.

            Dewey was delighted by the offer of yet another invitation from the friends, and though she felt a minor obligation to fulfilling a promise given Aunt Bethany in which she assured the old woman she'd join her on a dally through Central Park, such commitments were becoming less and less pertinent and a desire to befriend the newsies more and more appealing. They lavished her with such attention she many times came close to being fooled into believing she was someone of great importance to whom all praise was owed; their appreciation of her presence was most blatant and immeasurable. It wasn't long before she came to attribute this to their natural cordiality and sociable personalities. They were prone to striking up a conversation with any who would oblige them!

            "So, Dewey-darling," said a bright spirited Mayfly, who obviously had a tendency to tag terms of endearment to others' names. She was no doubt an effervescent socialite and any who came into contact with the girl knew instantaneously her cheerfulness to be quite contagious. "How are ya likin' Brooklyn so far?"

            Dewey's heart skipped a beat, for she had momentarily believed Mayfly to be speaking of Brooklyn-the author of the mysterious letter she'd found days ago! And under this flawed perception, she blushed profusely out of embarrassment and tried to fabricate a worthy reply. Was this all a scheme of their doing? She wondered. Or had Cody simply related the clandestine correspondence between Dewey and Brooklyn to his companions? She wished the would-be messenger boy was present, that she might validate the delivery and receipt of her letter. She wanted to know what Brooklyn's reaction had been, and whether he'd intentions of writing back. She grinned bashfully at the possibilities and quite forgot she wasn't alone until noticing Runner wave a hand before her face, a laughable attempt to wrench her from the gossamer confines of a dream world. The others were sent into a guffaw of mirth.

            "Don't think we'll be offended if ya don't like the city," Mayfly assured her with an enchanted laugh.

            "Oh!" Dewey felt even more embarrassed than before! The city! She joined their laughter hesitantly and wondered upon her ridiculous musings. Of course they had meant the city, what reasons had she to believe otherwise! She'd never mentioned Brooklyn, the newsie, to either of them and so how could they possibly be referring to that circumstance, lest Cody's swear to secrecy had been nothing more than shallow words. She shook her head, thinking this to be false, and returned her gaze to Mayfly to answer the question, but the newsgirl apparently had shelved away her desire to know of a response for she was currently looking at Runner with a sly smirk as her fingers trailed down the front of the boy's shirt. Runner showed no indication of acknowledging his female companion's flirtations, other than a lopsided grin, and continued pampering Dewey with proper attention, if only for politeness' sake.

            "To be sincere, I'd have to say I by far prefer the country." She fidgeted with much nervousness upon the booth where she sat between Cyanne and Mouse, praying she wouldn't affront her newfound friends with her partiality toward her home back in New Jersey. "Back on the farm, there wasn't smog polluting the air or concrete upon concrete to rival the greenery. It was peaceful…" She looked up finally and was relieved to see the girls on either side of her smile warmly.

            As for Mayfly, Dewey noticed the social butterfly's hand had disappeared under the table, and that Runner impatiently tapped his fingertips upon a half-empty plate in what seemed to be an attempt at restraining himself. His grin had been replaced with a flustered countenance, cheeks turned red and eyes filled with a certain yearning.

            "I wanted a horse when I was younger, but me pa didn't think it'd work out too good since we was only livin' in an apartment at the time." The first words Mouse had spoken all day! She was opening up now as she began to see no threat in their new companion, and wanting to befriend the girl to the best of her ability, she'd decided it time to simply be herself. She usually shied away from others, yet if Dewey was going to be included in their cliché from now on, there was no point in acting reserved.

            "My father use to breed horses on our farm. We had Arabians, Pinto's, Quarter horses…"

            Suddenly, Runner jumped from his seat with the utmost urgency, knocking down a glass of water that spewed its icy liquid across the table, blocks of ice slipping this way and that and the girls across the table backing away as to not have their clothing soaked. In an abnormally high-pitched voice, Runner let out a "We'll be right back!" while grabbing Mayfly's hand and dragging her out the restaurant in hurried and anxious steps, his girlfriend grinning innocently as she was led away.

            Cyanne shook her head at this with a light smile. "Those two are goin' to get in trouble one a' these days. How many times do I suggest they act in a modest way, Mouse? And 'ow many times do they listen?"

            "I don't know, Mother," came the playful reply. And the youngest would've gone on to say more but the mockery was interrupted upon the arrival of two from the headline-hawking class, a tanned brunette with bright honey eyes who gave off an ambitious air and a tall curly-haired boy donning the biggest of smiles. The couple neared their counterparts with purpose, obviously intending to partake of the fellowship briefly before relating a message and then taking their leave.

            "Well, well," greeted Cyanne with a nod, "if it isn't Rouge Jazz and 'er slave." She and Mouse burst into giggles while Dewey waited for a sign of Jazz's not taking the joke seriously before joining the laughter as well.

            But Jazz only crossed her arms and smiled back with a feigned wryness. "And if it isn't the wise Cyanne with her lil' ducklings to mother. Or should I say smother?" Pleased with the retort, she grabbed a nearby chair and with admirable grace, slid it to the table and fell upon its seat rather cat-like. Her movements were smooth, and having the body of a dancer made every last one seem effortless. "Itey," said she to her male comrade standing behind her, "would ya mind fetchin' us some soda pop?" When he excused himself, she turned back to her friends.

            "So what's a Manhattan newsie doin' in these parts, huh?"

            Jazz cracked a smile void of its earlier scorn, but also lacking in any strain of friendliness. Her manners toward the others was refined but almost business-like, as if she were an attorney plainly meeting with her clients. She showed nothing of harmony between them; if anything, her tough persona did more to separate herself from those with whom she spoke. But this wasn't rare. Though allies of the closest breed, Manhattan and Brooklyn had an ongoing rivalry in which the former borough acknowledged their complement's severity, but thought themselves ten times more sensible than all the Brooky's put together. Naturally, such assumptions didn't sit too well with those under Spot Conlon's reign, and thus a minor flaunt of hostility always played out when Manhattan and Brooklyn met, and it wouldn't be dismissed until a resolution was created.

            "Me and Itey was just swingin' by to tell y'all 'bout the dance at Irvin' Hall this week. It's some kinda fundraisin' hoopla this time 'round…for the benefit of orphans if I aint mistaken. So Medda's invited the upper class, the middle class, and a' course the street rats of society." Only then did Jazz take note of an unfamiliar face at the table. Spitting into her hand and then extending it toward the obvious newcomer, she said, "I'd be Jazz. My boyfriend over there's name's Itey. And youse is…?"

            "Dewey," replied the one in question, hesitating for only a moment in taking the saliva-marred palm of the girl. She was conditioned to accepting country manners even more bizarre than the one now in practice, and feeling the upside of her enthusiasm this particular day, she mirrored Jazz's actions before they shook firmly on the matter.  

            The Manhattan brunette considered the name, her lips nearly frowning as she pondered deeply. "Cute," she at last decided, nodding her approval and then turning her golden eyes back to Cyanne and Mouse. "So don't forget chickadees, this weekend: Medda's place. Spread the word and make sure everyone from Brooky is comin'." She knocked on the table to add melody to the announcement as she rose to her feet and started for the exit where Itey awaited her, soda pop in hand. "Carryin' the banner," she added, half in duty and half in an effort to bridge the gap between herself and the girls from Spot's territory.

            The bell above the door to Bistro Alley tinkled a few notes, signaling the exit of the couple, and Dewey found her mind to be housing countless questions ranging from the whereabouts of Irving Hall to whether the invitation to the dance was extended to her as well. Cyanne laughed at her obvious curiosity. "Get ready for one hell of a weekend, Dewey."

~*~*~*~*~

            "A dance? Where?"

            "At Irvin' Hall, lad. Me sources tell me we've every right to be there. Why shouldn't ye go, ay?"

            "Cause the damn newsies is goin', Maverick!" Ditch exclaimed, extremely disturbed that he'd been forced to simply mention their cursed name. How he despised those flea-infested, rabid little pieces of excrement. He passed a hand through his shaggy locks of raven black hair and glared across the table at a somewhat tall girl going on about how the presence of the newsies should give them all the more reason to attend, for if a brawl unleashed between the enemies they'd be entertained with the thrill of a fight, and such conflicts were subject to be adored by her.

            "Need I remind ye, Rebel," Maverick spoke up again, in between taking sips of mead from the decanter he tightly clutched, his Irish brogue lightly slurred from the consumption of alcohol, "that the last time ye were in fight with a newsie, it left quite the tok'n on your body." He motioned to an area between her wrist and elbow where several scars blemished her otherwise perfect skin.

            Patron silently observed as the girl immediately quieted out of embarrassment and consciously crossed her arms to hide any signs of her weakness, for never had it been in her nature to stand before the boys like a prim doll to which they might point and make evident all her flaws. He pitied her dampened spirits and wished there were words he might use to assuage her humiliation, but he concluded that had such bewitched limericks been in his possession, Rebel would only abuse her sarcasm and ridicule him. During his ventures with the factory workers from both Cole's Oil Refining and the textile industry across the street, he had done very well in acknowledging the fierce temperament with which these youth cloaked themselves, and he'd never make it sport to provoke anyone's wrath.

            Then again, there was Kaya Williams-or Ershey, as she liked to be called-in whom Patron still had hopes of befriending a convivial young woman. She sat beside him at the table the companions occupied, humming with a pleasant smile and reveling in every minute spent not under the watchful eyes of her prudish employer. Were there a means to, she'd rid herself of her job within two snap's from Ditch's impatient fingers, but unfortunately much rode upon her occupation and the obligations weighed more heavily upon her heart than any wishful thinking. She tied her wavy black hair back into a ponytail with help from a raggedy piece of cloth, and sighed heavily while Maverick and Ditch verbally lashed at each other.

            Would there ever be a day in which a repartee didn't engulf the two? It wasn't terribly long, though, until the topic of conversation turned back to the commonly shared hatred for life's drudgeries and the anxious desires to become adults already and move out penniless into a new world. Maverick, green serpentine eyes at their palest, downed the rest of his beverage and then sat for a time motionless in his chair. He was still dazed by his readiness in having taken Ditch up on an offer to flee from the factory and salvage whatever remnants of peace and rest they could grasp with their greedy hands, even though they hadn't been relieved from their work! He wouldn't hear the end of this from their boss for sure, seeing as he was supposed to be the more mature among his peers.

            His dark orange hair was pulled away from his face with a piece of string, the jaw line of his face more pronounced when fine tresses didn't overhang before it. His features were those of a dedicated laborer, skin tanned from all his hours under the sun and his shoulders broad from working his body to its extremes. After a minute-long nap, which only consisted of a fleeting shut-eye, he brought up a hand to cover his yawn and then regarded the others.

            "If we do end up gracin' the newsies with our presence this weekend," he began, lips upturned in a leer, "then we'd best decide on one thing. I'll downright clobber any a' ye who decide on provokin' 'em into a fight. We won't be stoopin' to their damned level, ye hear me? I don't care if Spot Conlon 'imself challenges ye!"

            His followers were disgusted by the spoken name, as was manifest in their groans, mumbled curses, and pouts. Ditch was the most exasperated, for the reference to his long time nemesis awakened in him so great a revulsion that he speedily demanded no one utter the name ever again, not even in jest. "Who's Spot Conlon?" asked Patron, afterward belatedly realizing he'd broken the promise just seconds ago made; he blushed at the mistake and hoped Ditch wouldn't result to physical aggression against him.

            Linx, luckily, stepped into the conversation before any damage was done, knowing Patron would have to be enlightened were he to socialize with them from the day onward. "Spot Conlon's the bastard in charge a' leadin' the Brooklyn newsies. He and Ditch, here, use to be the best a' friends. Would 'ave a different girl a day, they would. They even competed to see who was the better womanizer; practically inseparable, though. 'Til one day a girl came 'tween 'em and the realization that Brooklyn weren't big enough for two man whores tagged along.

            "It weren't long 'til they came to hate each other, and the competitions turned from friendly battles to all out street fights. One night, it was Spot and Ditch alone in an alley, grapplin' to the death. Weapons were decided against to begin with, but the lil' cheat pulled out 'is slingshot last minute and flung a piece a' glass at Ditch's face, which explains the scar ya see."

            Ditch nodded gravely, his irises like dark pools into which he'd drained all of his hatred for the past, his fingers subconsciously stroking the scar on his left cheek. "Spot's the worst of all of 'em," he said slowly, venom dripping from each word. "If a fight does break out, he's mine." The last word came out in a low growl as he squeezed his glass of ale until the object shattered into jagged shards; he was oblivious to the specks of blood on his fingers and the pain he would've otherwise felt.

            "And only if the newsies are in the mood for startin' somethin'. Other than that, I expect ye all to act maturely. So long as they respect our borders, we respect theirs, ay?" He received replies all in the positive, but not a single word came from Patron's lips and Maverick wasn't pleased with such indecisiveness. "Did ye not hear the query, Patron?" he asked, folding his arms onto the table and boring his gaze through the boy's guards.

            "Actually, I highly doubt my sister would be interested in going, and I don't favor leaving her alone in our apartment at night. I'm afraid I'll have to decline the invitation." Patron didn't know whether to smile or simply uphold a serious expression; the outbursts of the others made him tremendously fearful of saying the wrong thing.

            Ditch broke free from his inner turmoil at the mention of a sister and smirked wickedly. "Youse didn't tell me ya had a female sibling in ya household, Patron! I'd surely like to meet 'er, ya know. Maybe show 'er a few ropes…and a few bedroom games," he added under his breath, not wanting any to hear but knowing they had in any case. Patron was obviously alarmed and offended, and with good reason, but before he assumed his brotherly duties, Ditch assured him he hadn't meant any harm.

            "So are ye comin', Patron-lad? Ya sister is welcome as well, and don't worry, we'll make sure Ditch keeps 'is hands to 'imself." He grinned with rugged merriment and draped an arm over Rebel's shoulders, trying to warm up to her after having embarrassed her so. She rolled her eyes but he wasn't aware of the rejection, nor did he seem to care. Without waiting for Patron's reply he raised up a mug of refilled mead and congratulated them on their forthcoming victory over the newsies whom they so loved to despise.

~*~*~*~*~

A.N: Bleh! I'm not too sure this chapter was all that good. . Yes, I'm highly critical of my own work, lol. In any case, I want to get this chapter out now so I'll have to postpone shout-out's until next chapter. Thanks for all the reviews, though! It's great to get so much feedback. I usually try to give bigger parts to those who faithfully review. Next chapter is Irving Hall! W00t w00t! More of you will make an appearance and the newsies and factory boys have their first clash of the story! Anyways, until next time, PLEASE REVIEW!