(no subject)
It always seemed to be raining in Brooklyn when Spot was in a bad mood, and tonight was no exception. Thunder was crashing all around and the world would light up for few seconds while lightning flashed overhead. Little streams of water were trickling down the glass of his window, racing each other to reach the bottom. Spot didn’t really notice them though; he was sitting in the dark staring right past them, lost in thought. His cane was slowly rotating counter-clockwise as he stared into the blackened abyss. A flash of light lit the room once again, but Spot didn’t even blink.
Leadership always has its privileges, and in Brooklyn that means a private room while everyone else sleeps two or three to a bed. Brooklyn newsies knew that when his door was closed they better not disturb him unless it was something immediate and life threatening, or they were liable to get their skulls bashed in. Complete privacy. It was nice because it gave him a chance to think, to reflect. He could never do that if there was any chance anyone was watching. Brooklyn didn’t get their reputation by being nice, and being at the top put him in constant danger of being overturned. The thing about turning your mind inward is that you couldn’t watch your back anymore and Spot could never risk that with his boys.
Jack had come to him for help today - Typical Jack with his starry-eyed, head in the clouds ideas. All morning, messengers had been making their way to Brooklyn, all with the essentially the same message.
“Blink came by and said Manhattan is going on strike, and Nickels wants to know what you’re gonna do.”
“It was the weirdest thing Spot: we ain’t seen Crutchy since he left three years ago, then he showed up and said Cowboy was calling a strike and wants us to join. Ruddy wants to know what you’re gonna do.”
All variations, with one single point: ‘what are you going to do?’ Truthfully, Spot had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. As the morning wore on, it became apparent that he was going to be the last borough visited. Bumlets had been sent to Queens, Snoddy had gone to the East side, and still messengers came asking what Spot would do. As the day carried on, Spot felt unease turn to something approaching fear. He was pushed further and further on edge as each messenger was granted an audience. When Ghost’s messenger from Midtown arrived, Spot relaxed for the first time all day. Race had gone to midtown, Spot could breathe again.
His relief was still tangible when Jack arrived. So much so, that he all but welcomed Jack with open arms. Despite all that had passed between them, Jack had sent Race to midtown and so all was forgiven for the moment.
Jack was asking for help. In typical Jack fashion, he wanted to make the world a beautiful and fair place. It was that attitude that got him banished from Brooklyn in the first place. He didn’t like how Brooklyn leaders held power and he certainly didn’t like the methods Spot was using to make his way up the ranks. Brooklyn as a whole banished him, and not suddenly, he was back. He was asking for help, asking Spot to trust him, just because he said so. Then Jack looked at Spot, as though his word should have been enough. Once it would have been.
Spot turned abruptly away from the window. “Not anymore,” he whispered into the empty room, into the darkness.
He had too much to lose now; too much was riding on his every decision. There were way too many people looking for any sign of weakness, any sign that he was letting his personal feelings interfere with how he ran Brooklyn. Spot just couldn’t risk following Jack to hell and back anymore, regardless of how much fun they could have along the way.
A knock on the window startled Spot out of his reverie; he spun around with his cane in the air ready to strike out at any threat. Through the glass was a distorted face with a twisted but nonetheless familiar grin.
Spot slid the window up, splashing water onto his floor. “Did you climb the wall?” He demanded, surprise momentarily overtaking any discomfort he should have felt.
Racetrack grinned. “One of my many talents.”
Spot stared at him. Racetrack looked exactly the same. Maybe a little paler, hair a little longer, but in all the ways that mattered he hadn’t changed at all. Spot just stared, drinking in the image. Race was soaked to the bone. Drips of water were making their journey down the plains of his face, and his smile was slowly melting away the longer Spot stared.
Without the humour to mask it, uncertainty bordering on fear was apparent in his eyes. He glanced at the room and quickly back at Spot, forcing the smile back on his face. “Hey, you gonna let me in? I can’t hang around out here all night.” He asked nonchalantly. It was his worst bluff ever.
Spot stepped back to let him in. If Race wanted to play the casual visitor, Spot was going to indulge him. He walked purposefully across the room and started to shuffle the knick-knacks on his shelf, making sure to shove an old deck of cards under some papers.
Race slipped through the window and stood awkwardly near it. Rain was still pelting his back but he refused to come any further into Spot’s domain.
When the silence became too much, Spot turned and looked at Racetrack, leader mask firmly in place. “So, I heard you went to midtown.”
“Little Boidies tell you that?” The grin was back on Race’s face, but it was definitely strained.
“Of course,” Spot quipped back, a slight tremor in his voice. They were both shit at pretending nothing was wrong when there wasn’t an audience to play to. The air was felt like it was buzzing with tension that neither wanted to acknowledge.
“I figured it would be better to let Jack come talk to you,” Race babbled. He was never one for silence either. “I didn’t want anyone to....I didn’t want you to think you had to do it just....just because I was asking you to,” Race swallowed and looked away.
Spot eyes flickered away from Race’s face for a moment, fixating on a stain on the wall - elephant shaped. That was why he had been so scared all morning. The thought of Race coming to see him in front of all of his boys to ask for help made him want to vomit. The fact that he would have said no on principle made him feel even worse. “So why’re you here now?”
If it was possible Race looked even more uncomfortable. His fingers were fidgeting with the dripping hem of his vest. “Jack’s still going ahead with the strike....and the Manhattan boys are all on side, but we’re standing alone, Spot. Queens, Midtown, East side, Bronx, everyone said they would only join if you would. So it’s just Manhattan alone against Pulitzer and Hearst. We’re taking on the world, Spot.” Race had never begged for anything in his life, but there was nonetheless a note of pleading in his voice.
“And?” Spot asked, feeling more in control in the face of Racetrack’s unease.
For the first time, Racetrack’s eyes met Spot’s. “And I want you to join us. I want you to do it because I’m asking you to.”
Spot’s lip twisted in a bitter-half smile. “Well-played, I like the genuine emotion you put forward there. Tell me something Race: are you here because Jacky-boy sent you?”
Racetrack looked away. That was all the answer Spot needed, and while it wasn’t a surprise, it still felt like a knife twisting in his gut
Spot’s mask was cracking and bitterness was seeping out. “Were you gonna to whore yourself out for good old Jack as well?”
Racetrack’s eyes flashed with genuine spite, but his voice was controlled. “I told Jack this was a stupid idea. That if you were too bull-headed and selfish to listen to him - your best friend for years - then you certainly ain’t gonna to listen to me.”
“Maybe if the first time you showed your face around here in over a year wasn’t just because dear old Jack asked a favour...” Spot spat. “I woulda been more inclined to listen.”
Racetrack snapped. “You told me to leave!” he yelled. “You were standing right there, I was right here. Hell, I was even congratulating you on becoming leader and you pushed me away and told me to go. So don’t you dare try to play the martyr now, and don’t you dare bring Jack into this. What or who I do ain’t your concern anymore. You got everything you wanted and didn’t care who you hurt along the way. So don’t go acting all sore that I settled in Manhattan when you kicked me out of my home, and I stuck with Jack when you took all my other friends away, because you ain’t got the right!” Racetrack’s words were drowning in bitterness and anger.
Spot closed his eyes, all his righteous anger abandoning him, leaving only misery and loss. “I thought you would come back.” His voice was cracking, just above a whisper. “You and he both, I thought once I got settled in as leader and things were more stable, you would come back.”
Racetrack just stared for a moment, then two. Tears were welling in his eyes, but fury kept them from falling. Racetrack was breaking in half right in front of him. “You are such a selfish bastard.” He snarled in a low tone, before turning and making his way back through the window.
The anger was back tightening itself around Spot’s throat. “So that’s it then? You’re going back to him?
Race glared over his shoulder. “No, I’m going back to Manhattan - where I sleep alone, but at least I don’t have the words ‘No one can ever find out’ whispered in my ear every fucking night.” He escaped into the darkness, leaving only a curtain of rain falling onto the window sill.
Spot walked over and pulled the window shut, watching Race’s back as he retreated through the night towards the bridge. His face was impassive, once again that of the leader.
‘So, he sleeps alone...’ Spot mused.....Maybe Brooklyn would join the Newsie strike after all.
Leadership always has its privileges, and in Brooklyn that means a private room while everyone else sleeps two or three to a bed. Brooklyn newsies knew that when his door was closed they better not disturb him unless it was something immediate and life threatening, or they were liable to get their skulls bashed in. Complete privacy. It was nice because it gave him a chance to think, to reflect. He could never do that if there was any chance anyone was watching. Brooklyn didn’t get their reputation by being nice, and being at the top put him in constant danger of being overturned. The thing about turning your mind inward is that you couldn’t watch your back anymore and Spot could never risk that with his boys.
Jack had come to him for help today - Typical Jack with his starry-eyed, head in the clouds ideas. All morning, messengers had been making their way to Brooklyn, all with the essentially the same message.
“Blink came by and said Manhattan is going on strike, and Nickels wants to know what you’re gonna do.”
“It was the weirdest thing Spot: we ain’t seen Crutchy since he left three years ago, then he showed up and said Cowboy was calling a strike and wants us to join. Ruddy wants to know what you’re gonna do.”
All variations, with one single point: ‘what are you going to do?’ Truthfully, Spot had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. As the morning wore on, it became apparent that he was going to be the last borough visited. Bumlets had been sent to Queens, Snoddy had gone to the East side, and still messengers came asking what Spot would do. As the day carried on, Spot felt unease turn to something approaching fear. He was pushed further and further on edge as each messenger was granted an audience. When Ghost’s messenger from Midtown arrived, Spot relaxed for the first time all day. Race had gone to midtown, Spot could breathe again.
His relief was still tangible when Jack arrived. So much so, that he all but welcomed Jack with open arms. Despite all that had passed between them, Jack had sent Race to midtown and so all was forgiven for the moment.
Jack was asking for help. In typical Jack fashion, he wanted to make the world a beautiful and fair place. It was that attitude that got him banished from Brooklyn in the first place. He didn’t like how Brooklyn leaders held power and he certainly didn’t like the methods Spot was using to make his way up the ranks. Brooklyn as a whole banished him, and not suddenly, he was back. He was asking for help, asking Spot to trust him, just because he said so. Then Jack looked at Spot, as though his word should have been enough. Once it would have been.
Spot turned abruptly away from the window. “Not anymore,” he whispered into the empty room, into the darkness.
He had too much to lose now; too much was riding on his every decision. There were way too many people looking for any sign of weakness, any sign that he was letting his personal feelings interfere with how he ran Brooklyn. Spot just couldn’t risk following Jack to hell and back anymore, regardless of how much fun they could have along the way.
A knock on the window startled Spot out of his reverie; he spun around with his cane in the air ready to strike out at any threat. Through the glass was a distorted face with a twisted but nonetheless familiar grin.
Spot slid the window up, splashing water onto his floor. “Did you climb the wall?” He demanded, surprise momentarily overtaking any discomfort he should have felt.
Racetrack grinned. “One of my many talents.”
Spot stared at him. Racetrack looked exactly the same. Maybe a little paler, hair a little longer, but in all the ways that mattered he hadn’t changed at all. Spot just stared, drinking in the image. Race was soaked to the bone. Drips of water were making their journey down the plains of his face, and his smile was slowly melting away the longer Spot stared.
Without the humour to mask it, uncertainty bordering on fear was apparent in his eyes. He glanced at the room and quickly back at Spot, forcing the smile back on his face. “Hey, you gonna let me in? I can’t hang around out here all night.” He asked nonchalantly. It was his worst bluff ever.
Spot stepped back to let him in. If Race wanted to play the casual visitor, Spot was going to indulge him. He walked purposefully across the room and started to shuffle the knick-knacks on his shelf, making sure to shove an old deck of cards under some papers.
Race slipped through the window and stood awkwardly near it. Rain was still pelting his back but he refused to come any further into Spot’s domain.
When the silence became too much, Spot turned and looked at Racetrack, leader mask firmly in place. “So, I heard you went to midtown.”
“Little Boidies tell you that?” The grin was back on Race’s face, but it was definitely strained.
“Of course,” Spot quipped back, a slight tremor in his voice. They were both shit at pretending nothing was wrong when there wasn’t an audience to play to. The air was felt like it was buzzing with tension that neither wanted to acknowledge.
“I figured it would be better to let Jack come talk to you,” Race babbled. He was never one for silence either. “I didn’t want anyone to....I didn’t want you to think you had to do it just....just because I was asking you to,” Race swallowed and looked away.
Spot eyes flickered away from Race’s face for a moment, fixating on a stain on the wall - elephant shaped. That was why he had been so scared all morning. The thought of Race coming to see him in front of all of his boys to ask for help made him want to vomit. The fact that he would have said no on principle made him feel even worse. “So why’re you here now?”
If it was possible Race looked even more uncomfortable. His fingers were fidgeting with the dripping hem of his vest. “Jack’s still going ahead with the strike....and the Manhattan boys are all on side, but we’re standing alone, Spot. Queens, Midtown, East side, Bronx, everyone said they would only join if you would. So it’s just Manhattan alone against Pulitzer and Hearst. We’re taking on the world, Spot.” Race had never begged for anything in his life, but there was nonetheless a note of pleading in his voice.
“And?” Spot asked, feeling more in control in the face of Racetrack’s unease.
For the first time, Racetrack’s eyes met Spot’s. “And I want you to join us. I want you to do it because I’m asking you to.”
Spot’s lip twisted in a bitter-half smile. “Well-played, I like the genuine emotion you put forward there. Tell me something Race: are you here because Jacky-boy sent you?”
Racetrack looked away. That was all the answer Spot needed, and while it wasn’t a surprise, it still felt like a knife twisting in his gut
Spot’s mask was cracking and bitterness was seeping out. “Were you gonna to whore yourself out for good old Jack as well?”
Racetrack’s eyes flashed with genuine spite, but his voice was controlled. “I told Jack this was a stupid idea. That if you were too bull-headed and selfish to listen to him - your best friend for years - then you certainly ain’t gonna to listen to me.”
“Maybe if the first time you showed your face around here in over a year wasn’t just because dear old Jack asked a favour...” Spot spat. “I woulda been more inclined to listen.”
Racetrack snapped. “You told me to leave!” he yelled. “You were standing right there, I was right here. Hell, I was even congratulating you on becoming leader and you pushed me away and told me to go. So don’t you dare try to play the martyr now, and don’t you dare bring Jack into this. What or who I do ain’t your concern anymore. You got everything you wanted and didn’t care who you hurt along the way. So don’t go acting all sore that I settled in Manhattan when you kicked me out of my home, and I stuck with Jack when you took all my other friends away, because you ain’t got the right!” Racetrack’s words were drowning in bitterness and anger.
Spot closed his eyes, all his righteous anger abandoning him, leaving only misery and loss. “I thought you would come back.” His voice was cracking, just above a whisper. “You and he both, I thought once I got settled in as leader and things were more stable, you would come back.”
Racetrack just stared for a moment, then two. Tears were welling in his eyes, but fury kept them from falling. Racetrack was breaking in half right in front of him. “You are such a selfish bastard.” He snarled in a low tone, before turning and making his way back through the window.
The anger was back tightening itself around Spot’s throat. “So that’s it then? You’re going back to him?
Race glared over his shoulder. “No, I’m going back to Manhattan - where I sleep alone, but at least I don’t have the words ‘No one can ever find out’ whispered in my ear every fucking night.” He escaped into the darkness, leaving only a curtain of rain falling onto the window sill.
Spot walked over and pulled the window shut, watching Race’s back as he retreated through the night towards the bridge. His face was impassive, once again that of the leader.
‘So, he sleeps alone...’ Spot mused.....Maybe Brooklyn would join the Newsie strike after all.