Please review! I love hearing from you guys. I am transferring these from my one shot book to make it it's own story! There's just too many parts I wanna make to just keep it it's own. Enjoy!

Spot Conlon walked through the streets of Manhattan, feeling as if he was out of his way. Manhattan didn't intimidate him, nor did the Manhattan newsies, but something didn't feel right. There was a chill in the air, his hairs standing up on the back of his neck in anticipation. The streets were bare for the time of day, the sun was only beginning to set, the crimson colors lighting the sigh.

"Oh ho! You think you can fight back, kid?" A voice broke, the sounds of a fight echoing the streets. Spot heard a boy yell in pain, the sound of a body colliding with a wall filling the air. Looking around, Spot tried to find the source, listening intently to the yelling.

"Please, please!" Someone begged, Spot turning to run to the location of the brawl. He stopped at the edge of a back ally, peering in to see what was happening. It was best to try and strategize his move to help, rather than just run in.

He recognized the boy being beat up, it was Race Higgins, one of the Manhattan newsies. "No, please, I," Race began, being cut off by a sharp fist to the stomach. Morris Delancey stepped back, blood coating his hands.

Race's face twisted with pain, sharp gasps escaping his lips. Mutters of words came out of his mouth, his hands pressed to his side. Spot froze where he was, shock settling in to his body. He didn't expect there to be so much blood, he didn't expect Race to be stabbed.

Stabbed.

"I," Race muttered out, collapsing to the ground. A scream in pain erupted from deep in his throat to move out of his lips, agony consuming his body. Spot tried to move, but found his feet didn't want to work.

After a few more agonizing screams, Spot snapped out of his trance. The Delancey brothers had ran the other way, not wanting to be connected to a possible murder. "Race!" Spot yelled, finally running over to the fallen boy. Blood sputtered out of Race's lips, his hands still pressed to his side. "I knew I shouldn'ta come to Manhattan."

Race screamed as Spot put pressure on the wound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The Manhattan newsie lost consciousness, his body relaxing. Panicking, Spot kneeled on the bleeding stab wound, using his slippery fingers to unhook his own suspenders. Working as fast as he could, he tied the straps around the wound, wishing and hoping Race didn't wake back up.

"Thank god." Spot muttered, assessing his handiwork. The stab wound in Race's side was still gushing blood, but the flow had slowed down. Taking a few moments to think, Spot breathed. He took a long breath, in and out, feeling the air fill his lungs.

Shaking himself out of it, he picked up Race. There was no way pulling him over his shoulder would work, blood would only pour out of the stab wound faster. So, he picked him up bridal style, holding him close to his body to maintain some extra pressure on the injury. Race was still unconscious, a sheet of sweat covering his body. His curly hair clung to his forehead, the short curls bouncing with each step Spot took.

Spot's eyes glanced around the streets, searching for any sign of a fellow newsie. Going to the cops or the hospital would be useless, although, Race may need a doctor. Finally, Spot spotted a Manhattan newsie, limping his way home, wherever that was.

"Hey! Crutch guy!" Spot yelled, adjusting Race in his arms. The guy had sandy blond hair, he was even shorter than Spot was. The other guy, Crutchie, Spot now remember, limped over fast as he could, his eyes widening.

"What'd ya do ta him?" Crutchie gasped, taking note of all the blood. Race's entire shirt was soaked, one of his arms hanging off the side of his body. Blood covered Spot's hands, his red shirt even darker than usual.

"I did nothin to 'im." Spot defended, tightening his grip on the injured boy in his arms. "He's one 'a you's, right?"

"Yeah, 'is names Race. Follow me." Crutchie nodded, getting the hint that Race needed to go home. Spot sighed with relief, following the somehow smaller boy home to a large building. "Dis is da Lodging House. Set 'im on the couch."

Crutchie opened the front door, several boys appearing. They all yelled and cheered, but silence fell over them when they saw Spot. "Hey, hey! What's the long faces!" Jack cheered, stopping as well once he saw Spot.

"Conlon! You son of a-!" Jack started to scream, pushing his way through his friends. Crutchie held a hand up to stop him, the oldest boy only pausing for him.

"I don't think he did it." Crutchie whispered, glancing back at Spot in the doorway. He was awkwardly holding Race, no one seeming to acknowledge that their friend was severely injured, possibly dying.

"I should get goin, but I think ya guys want dis." Spot butted in, adjusting Race again in his arms. Blood spurted from the stab wound as the suspenders slipped, the other boys jumping into action. Albert took Race from Spot's arms, everyone's shock and confusion fading.

Once Race was inside and on the couch, Spot turned around to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie's hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, for bringin 'im home. We'se'll take care of him."

Spot nodded, turning back around to face the shorter boy. He spit in his hand, extending it. Crutchie returned the favor, his hair bobbing as he nodded. "You'se better."

Spot walked down the streets of New York, making his way back to Brooklyn. His mind was plagued with images of the bloody body of Race, his screams embedded into his brain. Spot's pants slipped as he walked, the missing suspenders really showing.

Race would be okay, hopefully.