Disclaimer: Dude. Nothing's changed. I still don't own them.
Alex's Note: So, I totally have to appologize on the New Money front. I am so sorry, but I think fate has something against me actually posting it. See, I wrote chapter four once, then my computer crashed before I could post it. Then I wrote it in a notebook but didn't have a chance to type it before I left for the summer. Now, I can't find the effin notebook. It may be out eventually- if you're lucky.
Next, this fic was written for the NJL's mystery contest… and I actually liked how it turned out. Enjoy, kids!
Glory Bound
It was cold out; really, really cold. The thin jacket Francis had stolen from some sleeping kid in Central Park did absolutely nothing to shield the boy from the bitter cold that gnawed viciously at his skin and bit hard right down to the bone. Really. Fucking. Cold.
Francis pulled the thin material tighter around his quivering body and decided right then that he really hated the east coast- especially New York City. To emphasize his hatred, he spit purposefully onto the cobblestones and was mildly surprised that it didn't turn to ice midair. Somehow this made him feel better. It was his first firm 'fuck you' to New York City- the first of many, he was sure. At least it would be if he survived long enough to have the city mistreat him any more than it already had.
He was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. Santa Fe may have been hell, but at least there the sun seemed to work properly. As he stood there shivering and unsure of where to go, he found himself reminiscing about a place he couldn't wait to leave only a few days earlier. He'd been hungry there, sure. The pain that settled comfortably in his empty stomach had, at times, been almost unbearable. Curled up on the softest piece of ground he could find, he'd dreamt of New York, thriving on the stories he'd heard of this haven, where street rats could rise to kings and kids were so tough they could make grown men shake in their expensive hoity-toity boots. It was all bullshit. Now he was hungry and cold. He desperately wanted to go back to Santa Fe. It had been hard enough finding someone to drive a nine year old hitchhiker cross country one time; Francis doubted he'd manage it again.
The wind was picking up and Francis was seriously beginning to fear for his health. That was the only thing he had in New York, and without it, he was as good as dead. He needed to find something warmer than this old piece of ragged cloth and he needed to find it fast.
The problem was obvious, however. While there were dozens of homeless kids lining each block of the city, they weren't as stupid as Francis wished. The street rats of the Big Apple slept with one eye open and little fingers clutched tightly around the frayed edges of whatever means of warmth they had managed to find. Francis was beginning to realize how lucky he was to even have snatched the jacket.
Salvation was a mere bridge away. After about an hour of aimless wandering, Francis had reached the Brooklyn Bridge, which looked tall and impressive in the dim mist that hung with the morning. He stared at it, awed, for a number of seconds before summoning up the courage to finally walk across it.
He marked the moment. It was something monumental, something huge, something to be remembered. It was the first time Francis Sullivan walked from Manhattan to Brooklyn- a feat that he knew would be achieved many times during his stay in New York City without a second thought, but the first time felt like something special. He knew nothing of what lay on the other side. Literally.
It seemed, at first, like a big pile of blankets heaped generously on the side of the road. Francis rubbed his eyes, sure that the cold was making him hallucinate and this was just some sort of fucked up mirage. The blankets were still there when he opened up his eyes again. And he could feel the heavy, soft fabric beneath his hands when he reached out to take one. And he could feel the strength in the small hand that gripped his wrist when he tried to break away with his newfound warmth.
And he could feel the fear that coursed through him when a pair of cold, impossibly blue eyes glared straight into his.
"What do you think you're doing?" The owner of the hand and the eyes hissed dangerously, never letting go of Francis' wrist. He was really strong- stronger than his small frame let on he'd be.
"I," Francis trembled. He cleared his throat and tried again, "I didn't know there was somebody in there."
The blue eyes stared harder. Francis would not let himself be intimidated.
"You ain't from around here." It wasn't a question.
"How could you tell?"
"Every street rat knows that Spot Conlon, future king of Brooklyn, New York, and the rest of the world, always sleeps here to guard who goes in an' out of Brooklyn," Spot said proudly. "Besides, you got an accent that ain't from New York."
"I'm from Santa Fe, New Mexico," Francis offered helpfully.
"I didn't ask for your life story, kid," Spot said haughtily. He was no older than Francis was. "So you're some sorta cowboy?"
Francis shook his head, "Nah, kids like me ain't cowboys. We just wander around selling whatever crap we can get our hands on and hope we make enough to get ourselves a decent meal."
Francis felt small and vulnerable as Spot considered him deeply with his rather frightening eyes. "S'what we do here. Only, we sell newspapers." Spot gave him a small smile, or at least it looked something like a smile in the pale glow of the streetlamps. "Here," he said, handing Francis the blanket he'd tried to pick up before, "what kind of king would I be if I let someone freeze to death his first night in town?"
Graciously, Francis accepted the offering and curled up next to Spot. He didn't protest.
"So what's your name, kid?"
"Francis. Francis Sullivan."
Spot snorted, "What kinda name is 'Francis?' You won't survive a minute here once the guys find out your name is Francis."
"Then what should I do?"
"Don't worry. I like you, kid, so I'm gonna help you out. I'm gonna give you a new name- one you can be proud of." Spot said. "You ain't Francis Sullivan no more, got it, kid? You're new name is…ah, "He paused and his brow furrowed in concentration. "Your new name is… uh… Jack. You like Jack?" Spot asked almost eagerly, "It's short and tough. Nobody fucks with a Jack."
Jack grinned, he liked it. He also liked that he'd made a friend- one who seemed to know what he was doing, at that. "Jack what?"
"Jack…ah…Oh, I dunno. You figure it out."
"Jack Kelly," he said instantly. He hadn't even had to think about it, the name had just come spilling out.
"Kelly, eh? Why Kelly?"
Jack took a deep breath and felt familiar tears sting his eyes, the way they always did when he thought of her. Quickly, he blinked them back, hoping Spot hadn't seen them. It was stupid and childish and he knew Spot would laugh in his face. "Kelly was my mother's name. She used to live in Manhattan." He stared at Spot, daring him to laugh.
But there was no sign of condescending laughter on Spot's face. Instead, he wore a look that was unmistakably one of understanding. "Where is she now?" he asked, even though it was obvious he knew what Jack was going to say.
"Dead."
Gently, Spot patted his back. Jack realized that he wasn't alone here. Spot was living on the streets too, just like him. Things weren't going to be the same as they were in Santa Fe, where he was The Kid With No Family, no. Spot knew what he was going through, because he'd been there before. He had his own story, and that made Jack feel ultimately better.
"Go to sleep, Jack," Spot whispered. "We'll get you some papes tomorrow."
Jack fell asleep almost instantly with Spot curled protectively around him. Maybe New York wouldn't be so bad after all.
Two years later, Spot Conlon officially took over the Brooklyn Lodging House.
Jack couldn't say that this surprised him in the least. Spot was barely eleven and he was short and puny for his age, but he packed as much punch in his small, eighty pound body as some of the boxers Jack had seen when they'd sold at the matches.
Jack couldn't have been prouder of Spot. He was moving up in the world at a constant pace, just like he'd always planned on doing.
"Today Brooklyn, tomorrow all of New York," Spot said, leaning back in the makeshift throne of crates he'd inherited, "Next week the world."
Jack couldn't help but believe him; Spot had an uncanny way of making things happen the way he wanted them to, at least if the way that he'd overthrown Jaws, the previous leader, who was a big, brawny seventeen year old was any indication.
"And you," Spot continued, throwing a brotherly arm around Jack's shoulders, "will be right there beside me the entire time. Jack n' Spot, best friends forever, ruling the world together."
Jack shifted uncomfortably in Spot's embrace, "Actually, Spot, there's something I gotta tell you."
Spot's face became concerned- a look that Jack knew only he would ever receive. Spot Conlon was above feeling for others. "What's wrong, Jacky-boy?"
"I can't stay in Brooklyn anymore, Spot. It's your home, not mine. I'm moving to Manhattan."
"Why?" Spot bit his lower lip, "What's in 'Hattan that ain't here?"
"I can't explain it, Spot, and I don't expect you to understand-"
"Your dead mom, right? It's got to do with that."
"She's why I came to New York."
Spot laughed hollowly and shook his head, "You're not gonna find her in Manhattan. She's dead, Jack, she's not on the other side of the bridge waiting for you. You know what you'll have over there? You'll have nothing, because you won't have me." He squared his jaw and stared angrily past him.
"I know," Jack said softly, "But you'll only be a bridge away…"
There was a long silence. Jack wanted to break it a number of times, but everything he could think of to say sounded stupid.
"When are you leaving?" Spot finally asked.
"Tonight. I wanted to tell you sooner but…" He trailed off.
"You know there's always a place for you in Brooklyn if you want to come back, Jack."
He knew.
There were many times that Jack was tempted to take Spot up on his offer. There were nights so cold that Jack would wake up in the morning without being able to feel any of his limbs. Every Lodging House in Manhattan was filled to capacity with older, tougher newsies, so he'd taken to sleeping on the statue of Horace Greely right outside the distribution center. As a result, he was always one of the first to get his papers every morning. It was nothing to brag to Spot about.
The Manhattan newsies all knew of Spot Conlon, he was proving to be a fantastic leader and Brooklyn was nearly unbeatable. Jack knew that he could gain recognition by using Spot, but he wanted to do this on his own.
The borough war of 1895 ended with Brooklyn as the victor and Manhattan with a death count of six. Jack managed to snag one of the deceased's beds in the Duane Street Lodging House, finally getting himself off the streets.
"You're gonna be Manhattan's leader one day," Spot told him on one of his frequent trips to Brooklyn.
Jack laughed, "Me? I ain't leader material. I wouldn't know what to do."
"You'd make a damn good leader," Spot took a drag on his cigarette and handed it to Jack. "
"Nah, you're the leader type, not me," he said, sucking on the end of the cigarette and watching the smoke travel skyward.
"Think about it, Jacky-boy. I wouldn't waste my time caring about someone who wasn't my equal. If I'm leader type, you sure as hell are."
Spot was always frustratingly right.
When Bluff was offered a real job, the newsies looked to Jack as their new leader. They never voted on it and he was never officially appointed. It was something that was just understood. The older newsies respected Jack, he was intelligent and fair and a friend to almost all of them. The younger ones looked up to him as a role model.
Spot was proud of him, and let him know. They toasted Brooklyn and Manhattan's permanent alliance with a stolen bottle of forty dollar champagne.
"Jacky-boy, you get some pretty crazy ideas sometimes," Spot told him, shaking his head and laughing.
Jack shrugged and puffed on his cigarette, "it's important to me, Spot, and it's important to my boys."
"Yeah, but Jack, this ain't just a game. A strike…if you lose, things'll change. You'll lose everything." Spot kicked off his shoes and moved to the edge of the docks, dipping his feet in the cool water.
Jack did the same. "Yeah, and if we win we'll gain everything. We'll get respect, the world will know that we're not just a group of lousy street rats, they'll know that we'll fight!"
"You're brave, Jack, I'll give you that, and charismatic. I told you you'd be a great leader." Spot said, smiling at him.
"Does that mean you'll help us?"
"I'll think about it, Jacky-boy. I don't want to get my boys involved in a losing battle. If you fall, I don't want you taking us down with you."
Jack took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop pounding so quickly. The summer night air blew softly around him but did nothing to stop the anger that was building up inside him. He couldn't believe that Spot was being so difficult.
"But you said that-"
"And I meant it, Jack. I won't let you down."
Jack couldn't help but believe him.