Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed herein are those of the individual speakers read: Skittery, and on a bad day to boot, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author read: me. Furthermore, I don't own Newsies or the characters with names – some guy named Walt does.

Some days, Skittery woke up angry.

Most days, Skittery was a decent seller, a better listener than a speaker, and a friend to most. Most days, he joked around with Specs and Dutchy, played a few hands with Racetrack, and acted the big brother to the likes of Snipeshooter and Tumbler. Most days, in comparison to how it could have been, it was a fine life.

But every so often, on days like these, that side of Skittery sank deep within himself. The part of him that was worth knowing became lost and murky, and was replaced with something close to disgust. Disgust for himself, for the others, for his work and his surroundings. It was enough to make him sick.

Kloppman was the start of his troubles. He'd jar Skittery out of sleep with a smack and a holler, disorienting him before Skittery could even respond. Annoyed, and because it was easy, Skittery would unleash it elsewhere, and smack Racetrack when he was blindly stumbling around for a towel. Later, Racetrack would eagerly take the opportunity to smack Skittery back extra hard for being the voice of dissent, much to the approval of the others. And all because of that damned Kloppman.

This day began in the same fashion. He rolled out of bed and went to the toilet, and before even leaving the stall, he knew: it was to be that kind of day. He let out a long sigh, ran a hand through his unruly mop of hair and opened the door.

"Hey, why the long face, Skitts?" He gritted his teeth and turned around. That lop-sided grin and grating voice could only belong to one person.

"I'm not in the mood, Crutchy," was all he could muster, moving past the cripple and bending over the sink. He hoped that if he washed his face long enough Crutchy would catch on. Unfortunately this was not the case, and Crutchy's high-pitched talking continued.

"Whaddya mean, 'Not in the mood'? All's I asked is why you're feelin' down… I mean the day hasn't even started yet, how can ya already be so glum?"

Skittery grimaced. Pulling his head sharply upwards and spraying the mirror with water, he spat, "Why dontcha go bug someone else, alright? Ya voice is drivin' me crazy."

Crutchy frowned, but complied. In a few moments he was kidding around with Jack and the situation seemed to be forgotten. Skittery still felt a pang of guilt, but suppressed it and went to bathe. His head was itching.

After a quick scrub in bitingly cold water, Skittery got dressed, his salmon long johns sticking to his body. He cringed at the texture, heavy and damp from a lack of thorough washing. He pulled up his slacks, the material thinning and threatening to tear around the knees, and attached his suspenders, muttering a cussword for each movement.

"The old pink shirt again, eh, Skitts?" Kid Blink laughed, slapping him on the back as he walked by.

Blink smiled way too much. God was it irritating. He smiled at Jack's urging messages; he smiled at Racetrack's jokes… he'd smiled buying papes from Weasel for God's sake! It was just too much. Skittery grunted in reply, his frown deepening, but Blink didn't notice because he had gotten into a towel fight with Mush.

Mush was nice. He was so nice, in fact, that it was impossible to dislike him – which was precisely what Skittery couldn't stand about him. And when he and Blink were together… Christ, it was high time the two solidified their relationship, so maybe Snitch and Itey could get beds of their own.

Skittery glanced down at his shirt in apprehension and grabbed his cap from the bedpost, wearing it like some sort of ridiculing crown. Yanking on his boots and giving his head a final scratch, he left the lodging house sullenly behind the others.

The sun was rising and already making the cobblestones hot beneath his feet. They stopped for bread and coffee, removing their caps and smiling up at the nuns. Skittery was appreciative of their generosity – he wasn't dumb enough to turn down a free handout, even if he resented needing it – but something about nuns made him feel guilty, like they were taking advantage of their charity. He hadn't even been to church since his father's funeral… God, how long had it been?

Skittery walked through the mob of boys rather than with them. He had brought his walking stick to have something to grasp and relieve the tension knotting in his hands. Eager yells from the newsboys and the sounds of horse-drawn carriages filled the September air. A few friendly slaps on the back went unnoticed and were not reciprocated. What were they so damned excited about anyway?

"Hey, Skittery," Dutchy said, materializing beside him. He rustled around in his pocket and handed him some change. "Here's the two bits I owe ya from last Tuesday. Thanks again for spottin' me that time." With a smile he ran ahead, picking up Tumbler and carrying the little one on his shoulders.

Because Dutchy always repaid Skittery within a week when he borrowed money, he was one of the few guys that Skittery had no problems with even when he was in a bad mood. He was kind of a goofball, but in a good way, and made Skittery laugh frequently. He didn't often sell with Dutchy because their methods differed, but aside from that he had nothing to complain about regarding his blonde and bespectacled friend.

The only person he could stand to sell papes with was Specs. Specs was smart, and if there was one thing Skittery could respect, it was brains. He was also a great seller. On more than one occasion, when Specs was making more money, he'd treated Skittery to lunch for no ulterior motives that he could see – simply because they were friends, and that's what friends do for each other. But there was something more to Specs that Skittery quietly admired, and he couldn't quite put a word to it. It was just a feeling he got whenever he looked at him.

But on days like this, even Specs couldn't lighten his spirits, so when he came bounding up to Skittery as they headed to buy their papes, Skittery just shook his head slowly in want of a greeting. Specs knitted his brows in concern and searched his friend's face, as if the cause of his problems was written on his forehead. After a moment he nodded knowingly, gave him a thump on the shoulder and went to join Dutchy, glancing back a few times to be sure. That was Specs, all right; a word didn't need to be exchanged for him to understand. Skittery's pace faltered a little as he watched his comrade go. Something hurt, but it was ignored.

The group reached the distribution center and formed a line. It had been back to business as usual once the strike had ended last month. One by one the newsies chatted up the new employee, cracking jokes and slapping down change. Skittery leaned against his walking stick in boredom. The new guy was nice and an honest worker and all, but he admittedly missed having Weasel around.

Weasel was one of the few people he should have hated, but didn't. The man was overweight, ugly, and altogether unpleasant. He didn't make much money and was a whipping boy for the World, desperately grasping at what little power he had over the newsboys. There was nothing Skittery could wish against Weasel that wasn't already there, so he had always settled with indifference and some mocking resentment towards him as he bought his papes. Now he was gone and had taken that bit of amusement with him.

"Fifty papes," Skittery said dully.

Skittery hated the people in the papers. He hated the people who got killed because they were weak. He hated the people who did the killing for playing God. He hated the politicians and big shots for being liars and, worst of all, rich. He hated the people who had good news bestowed upon them, because Skittery had no good news.

The headline was terrible. Alfred Dreyfus Pardoned from Devil's Island Prison. Who the hell wrote that and thought it would sell? None of the newsies had any idea who Alfred Dreyfus was or why this was significant. Skittery thought he might have heard the name years ago in an equally uninteresting headline. Dutchy attempted to read the article aloud to the group so they could expand upon this, but quickly abandoned that tactic when most got too bored to listen. There was a general consensus that the headline would have to be fabricated in the hopes of making a cent.

"Murderers break outta prison!" yelled Specs. "Believed to be residin' in Midtown!"

"Hey, there's a maniac on the loose," Race announced to a couple. "Details inside dis issue – a penny to save ya life."

"Extry, extry! People's getting possessed by devils on Long Island!" Boots said with a shout and a smile. Snipeshooter sold beside him, holding back a laugh and continuing the thought.

"Learn how you can protect ya'selves from dis horrible fate!"

Skittery rolled his eyes, where on a typical day he would have congratulated the boys on their creativity. He scratched his head and smoothed his hair, making his way through the streets. He wasn't sure where to go, as Specs and Dutchy were probably headed to his usual selling spot. He was sick of the same old places anyway.

Walking in a funk and grumbling inwardly for what seemed like ages, he eventually found himself by the harbor. Shirtless men were tying up boats, diving in and climbing out of the water. Skittery wrinkled his nose; it smelled like Brooklyn.

Ugh. Brooklyn. Brooklyn always stank heavily of fish. The place was crawling with overly proud Irishmen trying to show how tough they were, breaking bottles with slingshots and swimming in dirty, seaweed-infested water. Yeah, that sure was intimidating. And Spot, don't get him started on Spot. Self-proclaimed King of Fish Central - what an achievement. Skittery had licked punks twice his size for smirks half as cocky. One of these days he'd take that key around his neck and choke him until he coughed up marbles…

Skittery realized he had been standing there, staring at the water vacantly for a solid few minutes. He scratched the back of his head and surveyed the area for possible buyers. After all, the newsies had a motto: Kill the competition, sell the next edition. Even on his worst days, Skittery could find no fault in that logic. If there were two things he hated, it was a) losing money, and b) losing, period.

Two men in suits, smoking cigars beside a carriage nearby. Three young men on bicycles, making their way to work. A woman with a lacy dress, walking past fishermen who excitedly tipped their hats. He was sure of it: these were the buyers.

"Extry, extry!" he yelled halfheartedly. "Famed outlaw flees from prison! Crime rate soars!" Sure enough, they came over one by one and placed pennies in his palm. Skittery decided it was best to move along before they realized the truth behind the headline, and casually went in a different direction.

He took a turn down an alleyway. Skittery hated confined spaces like this; they always made him nervous. The sun never shone here. Stepping over crates and shattered glass, boot-deep in crumpled papers, he concentrated on the light of the bustling street ahead. In the distance he could see a young girl, maybe five years old, skipping along beside her father. She looked happy and safe. Skittery smiled to himself; there was nothing in this world more immaculate than a little girl. Even thinking about them eased his mind.

Suddenly an arm jutted out of a trash heap and grabbed him by the ankle, yanking him roughly.

"Jesus!" was all that escaped his throat as he fell down sideways, banging his elbow on the brick wall. He cursed in pain and scrambled to sit up, but the hand on his ankle held tight. His panicked thoughts managed to notice that the left knee of his pants was officially torn now. He squinted, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

A toothless grin stared back.

Also, the headline about Alfred Dreyfus is an actual even that happened in September of 1899. You can look it up on Wikipedia if you're interested.

One last thing: I've seen some stories write his nickname as "Skits" and others that write it as "Skitts." I chose the two T's, because I don't think there's a right or wrong with that one. R&R, if you please!