Chapter One – Brooklyn

Slowly my eyes fluttered open before I cringed at the assaulting light. It was bright and penetrating as I attempted to focus my unwilling gaze on my surroundings. Instead of the fiery pits of hell I was staring at the cracked wood and metal of a warehouse ceiling, graciously equipped with the company of a few pigeons, who flew away in an array of feathers and noise at the creak of the door.

"Damn birds," the visitor growled as he moved toward the bed. Sighing loudly he dropped a metal box on the table beside me prior to turning his glare from the kit to my face. "Conlon, Spot Conlon." Was the first thing he said to me. Arching my eyebrows I licked my lips before responding.

"Brown, Sherry Brown." The raspy tone that accompanied my response hardly sounded like a woman, let alone me, and was followed by a series of gut wrenching coughs. Great I thought as I rubbed my sore throat tenderly. Taking a shaky breath I turned back to the blue eyes that were assessing me with an unnerving sense of understanding. His gaze was pungent making me feel as if I was transparent and quickly I looked away.

The silence was unbearable as he rummaged noisily through the box he had brought. My eyes shifted from the tear in the blanket to the environment before me. The room I was currently situated in was rather large with various objects scattered about the space. Concrete floors extended towards metal walls in which one oversized window was positioned. I could see the dark gray of the Hudson River and the vast groupings of buildings that was New York. My racing thoughts of the previous night's events and my choking fear lulled me into an unresponsive reverie. It was a gentle touch upon my arm that brought me back full speed releasing a shriek of terror.

"It's just me." Spot murmured his hands held up in surrender. I squeezed my eyes shut and collected my composure before turning to him.

"I'm sorry I –" he shook his head and pointed to the metal box which had been moved to the bed.

"You have a broken ankle," he explained slowly opening the lid of his possession. "I need to wrap it so it will heal, okay?" his hands were quick and precise as he pulled gauze and a few other items from the container. Then he shut it and placed it on the floor.

"Okay." I answered my voice small and my eyes wide in surprise.

"Can you pull the blanket back please?" I nodded and chucked the ratty material from my body. Before he could ask I hiked my twisted skirts up and attempted to move my ankle towards his waiting hands. I grimaced as a shooting pain surged through my veins and bit my lip to hold back a yelp. Despite his rough outward appearance his fingers were gentle as he prodded the swelling flesh. "I have to set your bones," his eyes flickered to my face and I caught his stern gaze. Licking my lips I took a quivering breath.

"It's going to hurt, right?" his grip tightened and my body tensed in anticipation.

"Yeah, it's going to hurt. But if we don't do this now it will heal incorrectly and you could walk with a limp for the rest of your life."

"I'm ready." My tone conveyed a bravery I did not feel as I watched him prepare for the ordeal. I grew impatient as I waited and slowly my muscles relaxed. It was the moment I was unsuspecting and about to inquire when he would follow through, that I heard the crack.

A scream ripped its way through my raw throat and tears blurred my vision. My knuckles were white against the mattress as I rode the waves of pain. Spot worked fast and by the time the throbbing had dulled to a bearable threshold the bandages were tightly secured.

He moved away from the bed and towards a shabby dresser. On top was a round bowl and a metal pitcher which he tilted over the porcelain. Once he finished filling the basin with water he stooped down and propped open a suitcase. I fidgeted nervously at the tense silence as I observed him sift through the clothes.

"Where am I?" I ventured receiving a glance over his shoulder as he removed an article of clothing.

"The Brooklyn Lodging House." His tone was matter of fact and the gentleness from earlier had dissipated. Silence descended and I struggled to find another conversation topic. My eyes settled on a gold tipped cane that protruded from his side.

"Why do you carry a cane around?" he sighed audibly as he stood and turned. It was obvious he was a street kid, yet he walked with a dignity and grace the wealthy often portrayed. He dropped a bundle of clothes on my lap and instinctively I reached forward to finger the rough material.

"It's to emphasize my authority." I swallowed at his statement and wondered vaguely if I had been found by another group of thugs. However, as he commanded I clean my cuts and change into the offered outfit I doubted that was the case. At least, not to the extent my former associates were. "These should help you walk." I studied the worn crutches he leaned against the brass bed frame.

"I've never used crutches before."

"Then you better learn." Abruptly panic rose like bile in my throat as I watched him stride across the room to the door.

"Where are you going?!" I demanded throwing the clothes from my lap and maneuvering my legs to the side of the bed.

"Downstairs." He stepped past the threshold and I hurriedly snatched the crutches.

"Don't leave me!" I cried shoving the wood underneath my armpits and pulling myself up. I noticed immediately the ache in my bones, particularly my ribs, and tried to ignore the sharp pain radiating in every limb. The crutches wobbled against my weight and I fell miserably after a few steps. I moaned pathetically as I hit the pavement and curled against myself. "Don't leave me." I repeated. His fingers curled around my arms and with surprising strength he yanked me to my feet. Pulling my arm over his neck he led me towards the bed and I reluctantly released him. Sitting on the edge I watched as he grabbed the crutches and threw them haphazardly on the mattress.

"Clean yourself up. I'll be back later with food."

"But –"

"Don't disobey me."

"I –"

"As someone who saved your life I expect you can do me that one favor right?" I pressed my lips into a thin line and finally acquiesced. "Do as I said." And before I could say anything further Spot exited the room.

I launched myself backwards falling against the creaky frame. My body protested at the movement yet I ignored it. I must have looked pitiful. Crying, stumbling, hardly able to keep myself up. I couldn't understand why he had helped me, why he had taken me in. His demeanor had changed drastically from gentle care to stern orders and I felt as if there was a slight judgment that had already been passed against me.

My fingers brushed over the band aids and gauze and carefully I sat up. I stuffed the first aid supplies into my corset and reached for the crutches once more. My steps were slow and measured as I learned to lean my weight on the sticks and my right foot.

I hobbled along until I reached the water vessel. The cool liquid was welcome on my face as I wiped the dirt and dried blood away. After I had finished cleaning the gashes and bandaged what I could I attempted to maneuver out of my dress. It took several minutes before it was pooled at my feet. The shirt was a dark blue color and felt stiff as I punched my arms through the sleeves.

It was difficult to bend in the corset and my ribs screamed at every motion. Eventually I tugged the dark pants on and after they were buttoned I returned to the bed. The blankets were a welcome comfort and I burrowed happily underneath them. It didn't take long for the exhaustion to seep into my bones as relief flooded my mind. For the first time I could remember I felt…safe.

I could hear voices. They were faint but penetrating as my groggy mind attempted to register the intrusion. Slowly the darkness of sleep ebbed away and knowledge of my surroundings took hold.

"Are you kidding me?!" the sharp tone accosted my senses and instead of making myself known, I pretended to sleep.

"Striker," Spot's response was nearly a growl. "Think twice before you talk to me like that!"

"Think twice? Think twice?!" I heard the clatter of something against the floor and assumed someone had thrown an object. "Did you think twice before bringing some girl here?"

"When did I have to answer to you huh? Last I checked I was leader of Brooklyn."

"Yeah? Well last I checked I was second in command."

"I can make this a dictatorship real quick if you keep challenging me." Striker seemed to back down as silence stretched between them.

"All I'm saying is you have to be careful. One mistake Spot, one slip up, that's all it takes." I heard a defeated sigh and the shuffling of feet.

"I know. But she was dying Striker. What did you expect me to do? I couldn't just leave her there."

"What's your plan now?" Striker evaded the question. "I hope you're not planning on letting her stay here. She's a girl, and by her appearance I doubt she can handle herself." I could feel myself become increasingly aggravated by their assumptions of my character.

Deciding to cut the conversation short I shifted underneath the blankets. Abruptly Spot and Striker were quiet, no doubt waiting for me to wake up. I took my time rolling onto my back and scrubbing a hand down my face.

After several minutes I forced my eyes open and they immediately caught Spot's powerful gaze. He watched me as I sat up cringing at the throb in my ankle.

"Morning." I said hoping to quell the tension in the room.

"Try afternoon." Spot answered crossing his arms and leaning against the dresser. I turned towards Striker who was currently assessing me with narrowed eyes.

"And you are?" I detected the sneer in my tone as the words tumbled out. Striker moved with purpose as he crossed the space to stand by the bed. He leaned down placing two fists on either side of my body. His breath was hot on my face as his green orbs glinted with an unknown motive.

"I can be one of two things sweetheart," he murmured moving one hand from the bed to rest on my arm. His fingers slid upwards moving the loose sleeves so he could touch my skin. I attempted to push myself away from his onslaught but his reflexes were fast. His other hand clamped onto my face digging his fingers into my cheeks and forcing me to look at him. I whimpered involuntarily as his other hand continued to roam. "I can be your best friend, or your worst nightmare." As his fingers moved from my arm to the buttons on my shirt I turned my frightened gaze to Spot. He was still leaning against the dresser clearly observing the incident unfolding before him.

"Spot!" I cried out my expression pleading. "Help me, please!" My supposed rescuer merely shrugged in response.

"I can't help you all the time." He explained removing a gray cap to ruffle his brown hair.

Striker laughed joyfully as he finished with the buttons and was pushing the blue fabric from my shoulders. Tears stung my eyes as I shifted my stare to the assailant. The fear I felt was seemingly stronger than my will to fight. He still held my face, and his hand were tracing the curves of my corset until it came to rest on my thigh.

The familiarity of the situation was freezing my body in place, memories of another time this had happened flooding my brain. How could Spot allow this to transpire? How could he watch as his second in command leaned forward and pressed kisses along my throat?

"Sherry." My sobs pierced the air and I realized I had squeezed my eyes shut. "Sherry, look at me."

"Yeah, look at your savior Sherry. Take a good hard look at him." Striker whispered into my ear. "Tell me what you see." I obeyed focusing my gaze on Spot whose countenance was one of anger.

"Fight him Sherry." Spot's tone was authoritative his fingers were now curled into fists. "Fight him." I realized then that this occurrence had a purpose. It was a lesson, and I had to prove myself.

Striker pressed his lips to mine running his tongue along the seam to gain entrance. He dug his fingers into the hollow of my cheeks and I unwillingly opened my mouth. As his tongue began to explore I bit down as hard as I could while entangling my numb fingers in his curly hair.

A pained yelp echoed throughout the room and I yanked his head back. His eyes flared with fury and he dragged his arm back as if to hit me. Before he could follow through I gritted my teeth and swung my injured leg outward knocking him off his feet. Striker tumbled to the stone floor and as he laid flat on his back Spot finally pushed away from the dresser.

I was breathing hard my chest rising and falling rapidly. I could feel a warm trickle on my chin and I shakily swiped my hand across the blood. Striker extended his hand and Spot heaved him to his feet.

Striker and I stared at each other and I could tell he was passing judgment. My muscles were tense my eyes wide in anticipation. Finally the second in command's scowl transformed into a crooked smile. He raised his hand, palm up, spit in it and offered it to me. Biting my lip to prevent my face conveying how disgusted I was by the act, I timidly spat in my hand and our palms connected.

"Striker, I'm Brooklyn's second in command." He introduced obviously impressed by my willingness to spit shake.

"Sherry Brown." He cocked an eyebrow and I tilted my head in confusion. "What?"

"Ugly name." my eyes became slits at his admission.

"Oh gee, thanks." I spat glancing at Spot who was shaking his head.

"What do you think Spot? Think we can improve it?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Spot asked raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yep. Afraid so. I mean, I guess we should get with the times. Pretty sure Manhattan has one too." Spot rolled his eyes at the comparison.

"Has one what? What are you improving?" I inquired looking between them both as they quietly shared a conversation.

"Manhattan has a girl," Striker explained. "I'm thinking Vaudeville." Spot's laugh came out as a bark and soon Striker joined him in the mirth.

"Good one – Vaudeville it is."

"What!?" I exclaimed infuriated by their puzzling exchange. Spot turned to me, spit in his hand, and mimicked Striker's earlier action.

"Welcome to Brooklyn, Vaudeville." I stared at the outstretched hand as my mind processed the information. Spot sighed angrily and he enunciated each syllable of his next statement. "You're a newsie now, get it?" I decided it would be best to shake hands with the leader before I questioned him further on what that meant.

He nodded in approval once we were finished and Striker winked at me when I looked at him.

"I'll see you later. Gotta go spread the news." Striker purred before patting Spot on the shoulder and exiting the bedroom.

"So, you're a – "

"Newsie, yeah." Spot interrupted pushing his knotted hair underneath the cap.

"That incident with Striker, was it – "

"Yes." My eyes narrowed in frustration as I watched him gather a few things and stuff them in his pockets.

"How do you know what I'm going to say if you keep cutting me off?" He turned assessing me with that blue gaze. I wanted to shrink away from him but instead I held my composure.

"You're easy to read, Vaudeville."

"I would appreciate it if you would stop." He forced a laugh as he neared the bed.

"You're in my house, under my rules, you don't get to appreciate nothing."

"Incorporating me into your pathetic street rat society then?" The bitterness in my tone filled the space between us causing an unrelenting pressure. Spot's temper lit his eyes up like blue fire as he leaned forward grabbing a fistful of the shirt I had situated back on my shoulders. He yanked me toward his face his jaw clenched.

I knew I had crossed a line, I knew I had said the wrong thing, and while past experiences had fueled my desire to say it, I regretted it immediately.

"I would soak you for what you said," he breathed captivating me easily. "But you're wearing my favorite shirt, and I don't want to get blood on it."

"You hit girls?" I murmured merely asking a question, but knowing he would take it as an insult.

"Haven't yet – wanna be the first?" I shook my head vigorously and he released me. "Thought so." I could tell my mishap had been forgiven when he checked the bandages on my ankle and cuts.

"What happens next?" I finally inquired growing restless at the silence.

"You heal." He smirked. "Honestly, I didn't expect Striker to accept you as a newsie so easily. In fact, it had never been my idea to let you in."

"Why not?" I was mildly offended by his assumption I could not hawk a headline. Of course, I did not want to be a newsie, what I wanted was to disappear, but Spot had a way of bringing life to my weary bones.

"You wouldn't be able to handle it." His tone carried a light hearted banter, but I had remained offended and scowled at his humorous appearance.

"You don't think I can sell newspapers?" I seethed crossing my arms across my chest. His smirk easily slid into a grin.

"Sweetheart, there's more to being a newsie than selling the papes."

"Like what?" As quickly as his humor appeared it dissipated as he studied me for several minutes. My arms loosened from their defensive stance as I stared back wondering what it was he was thinking as his eyes darkened.

"Survival." It was one word, but it carried a tremendous weight, and I swallowed hard. "And by what I saw the other night, you can't even handle that." I couldn't answer. There was no way I could tell him that my purpose was not to survive. Unbeknownst to Spot Conlon, I was very good at survival – it was dying I could not handle. "Do you want to be a newsie?" he pressed noticing that I had grown silent.

"I…I don't know." I murmured deciding it best not to be truthful. At this point, the warehouse was shelter, and shelter I needed.

"Got anything else you can do?" I shrugged nonchalantly and he narrowed his eyes. "Got a home to go back too?"

"Not anymore." His face sobered at my admission and understanding flitted across his features.

"Well then, seems like newsie fits you real good huh?" He turned at that and made his way across the space, his heavy footfalls echoing behind him.

"I thought I couldn't handle it!" I called after him receiving a glance over his shoulder as he stood in the threshold.

"You can't, but I'm in the mood for some entertainment." And with that he exited.

A/N: Yep - definitely enjoying the improvements. I feel like I'm hitting writer's block, even though all the chapters have been laid out for me haha. Ugh. I don't know how I feel about Sherry...I don't like her as much as I liked Shaun (my character in Self Conclusion). She kind of annoys me...hmm. Maybe as it goes on I'll get used to writing in her voice again. I do like Striker though! I made him a mean person when I first wrote this with no significant part in the story - but I like when Spot has a second/friend. And Striker's interesting.