Disclaimer: I do not own the newsies or any characters from the newsies; I only own characters which you don't recognize from the movie.

A/N: It took almost four years, but it's finished. It's finally finished. It feels like such a huge accomplishment, for so long I didn't believe it would be ever be done. I apologize to everyone who read this story and had to wait four years for an ending. If you've reached this point in the story then I would like to thank you for reading. The greatest thing any writer can have is readers. I hope I didn't disappoint you.

And in conclusion, as always, I beg you to please review

Chapter 19 - The End

Awkwardness billowed in the air surrounding them, manifesting itself first in the shared glances and downward cast eyes of the Brooklyn newsies. The outside world didn't approve of this public display. The streets of Brooklyn had never taught its pedestrians to rely on others for strength. Brooklyn scoffed at these two physically holding onto each other as though their entire world would crumble around them if they loosened their grip. They were a disappointment to their borough, making a mockery of all it meant to be Brooklyn born and bred. The cement below them raged with betrayal and cursed the boy it had allowed to rise to leadership.

The adrenaline still swarmed through the newsies from the masculine display they had just witnessed. Ace's body still remained bleeding from his open wounds. The life poured from his opened veins darkening the rotted wood of the dock, and dripping between its segments into the cool water beneath them. Neither the newsies nor the dockworkers moved to help him. The laborers had continued working, coldly deciding that this was not their mess to clean. The newsies were too preoccupied with trying to avoid staring directly at their leader to pay any attention to the barely alive boy roasting beneath the unwavering sunlight.

Spot and Brooklyn had to be stopped. They were traitors to their home and a disgrace to the reputation it earned. A savior was needed to right the universe, a boy as unfeeling, and hard as the streets themselves. The boy that Spot was supposed to be. He made his presence known, climbing the columns of boxes to tower over the Brooklyn newsies below him.

"You didn't think you'd won, did you?" He called, his wit dulled by the increased adrenaline in him. He wished for cleverness as well as power, but was denied one with the prospect of being so close to the other. Although disappointed with the words that escaped from his lips, he was satisfied with the current physical state of his adversary. The plan was working.

Spot finally removed his face from Brooklyn's neck, his eyes widening and mouth hanging agape as he recognized the sight before him. It was the facial expression he had expected to receive from Ace upon his arrival, and he now understood that it had not been Ace's good training as a newsie that had prevented surprise from taking control of his features.

Pace stood above a stack of uncoordinated boxes, an army of ragged, hungry children standing behind him anger brimming in their eyes. They had slingshots, pipes, and garbage as their weapons, their clothes tattered from the weather they were forced to endure. Their strength was fueled by the anger their unsatisfying lives caused. They were children of those same cold streets and they stood facing Spot as an enemy. The hatred they felt at circumstances beyond their control had been collected and directed at a boy who was no better off than themselves. They did not combine against the harsh rule of the aristocracy and fight against the injustice of society. They had come to destroy each other in a hope to prove themselves the best of the worst off.

"Ace was only bait" He murmured, the broken skin of his lips cracking and causing him immense pain. The girl in his arms felt a renewed energy in her nerves. The feeling encompassed her entire body as she searched in her companion's eyes for something that could restore the security she had just felt. Being in his arms was giving her no sense of comfort. Only the most intense fear that can only be caused by the prospect of immediate physical danger was left. And the energy it took to support such a strong feeling was draining her frayed and worn body.

A silence had fallen over the entire dock as both sets of boys waited for an order they were sure would come. His four words traveled through the silence carried up to his adversary by air thick with the stench of bloodshed.

"Brooklyn belongs to me" His voice was thick with pride; the words were crafted to be a threat even in his physically weakened state. As his adrenaline restarted, the pain that coursed through his body was put at a distance. His brain was blocked from feeling the full effect of his altercation with Ace. For a moment the girl in his arms forgot herself and searing hot blood colored her cheeks as she pressed them further into his chest. He was not referring to her, she was aware of that as soon as her sage orbs met his. They were crystallized; the bright cerulean had been reduced to a mere tint of color. The ice surrounded his pupils, the coldness threatened death onto his enemies.

"Because you stole it from me!" An outraged cry fell from the mountain of boxes onto the ears of newsboys prepared to die to protect their wounded leader. His lips trembled and fists clenched, the veins in his neck and arms protruded showing themselves to inspire fear. His momentary lack of control was sickening, and he focused his grey orbs on the ground beneath him as he recovered his cool demeanor. "And now I'm taking it back" a smile began to spread across his lips, as he stood perfectly still above the chaos, waiting for the moment he was ready to become a part of it.

Marbles were the first thing that Brooklyn could understand to be happening. Ornately colored balls of glass were raining down upon them taking vengeance for the years they had been mistreated. They flew around her, welting coarse skin, entrenching themselves into eye sockets, drawing blood from broken teeth, leaving no remorse in their wake. She was aware that the pain she felt was caused by marbles, but she could not see or escape from them.

Brooklyn could not remember the moment Spot released her, she only knew that he had gone and she could not see where. She could see nothing but a sea of limbs viciously aiming themselves at one another. The dock workers stood on the outside of this commotion, refusing to get involved in a battle that was not their own. Not one of them moved to stop the feuding children; no officers were called to save these boys, by doing nothing they helped the war rage on.

Brooklyn was dizzy and could see no sight outside the violence; desperately she attempted to find Spot. The only view that she had was of the shoulder pressed against her face. She landed hard against the unforgiving wood below, and gasped for the air that had been knocked from her small frame. She inhaled hard for the heated air to fill her lungs, but the mass above her would not let her breathe. He crushed her chest as the battle that pushed him onto her did not cease. She pushed and struggled against his back, trying to make him aware of the presence beneath him before she suffocated. Fear of immediate death gave her strength and she reached for anything to help her. The broken bottle she found in her grip was a life float, and she stabbed and twisted it into the body above her. Warm blood poured over her skin and clothes, but she did not notice as the relief at air filling her lungs seared through her body. Shouts of "yea Brooklyn" could be heard from those who had witnessed it. She was high on her own power, refusing to set the bottle down, and thrusting it into those who stood in her way to finding Spot.

The crowd thrust back and forth, impossible to escape once trapped inside this mob of violence. The smell of blood and sweat was unavoidable, as was constant pain. These boys were brothers of the same fate, and they took their anger out on one another with a closed fist. There was nothing more important than returning the pain they had endured exponentially. The American dream is to claw one's way to the top and the dead weight that slows one's progress must be kicked down. The only piece of the country they would ever presume to own were the territories they took by force. These children risked their lives to claim they owned a street.

The blood baked into her clothing, preparing itself for a permanent home in the folds of fabric that clung to her body beneath the scorching sun. It was impossible to recognize the sweat and blood that covered her own body while trapped inside the mob on the dock. The crowd was tightening; she wedged herself between broad shoulders and forearms covered in open wounds, propelling herself forward. The bottle had become useless and her forward motion waned as it became near impossible to slip her small frame between the boys. She could not see her destination but continued to squeeze her way deeper into the throng of boys, convinced that this tightening could mean only one thing.

She was right. At first she was still blinded by the mob she had emerged from, her sight consisted only of swinging limbs, and spattered blood that seemed to belong collectively to all of them. The boys were unidentifiable; the differences between them were lost in the sea of blood, limbs, screams and marbles. Every fight within this war could not be distinguished from the next, it was becoming more difficult to separate friend from enemy. Each boy fighting as if the battle he was engaged in was the defining moment in his life, yet the flying fists, spilled blood, and stifled screams all blended together until the individuals were lost. All except one.

The herd tightened around their leaders, watching intently to the progression of violence before them. All had been too wrapped up in their own selfish display of masculinity to notice when the two had begun this dance. The grace he possessed in his movements separated him from the others; even in his weakened state his charisma remained unharmed. He was bleeding from wounds that had not begun to heal, but his face was held together with pride. He did not whimper or falter, refusing to allow his enemy to know his plan had been a successful one. With each blow he received his followers could not tell the pain it caused. He was a hero to them all.

His muscles screamed to neutralize the battery acid that pumped through them. Fire coursed through his veins bringing him the little adrenaline that was left in its body. His blood tried to desperately to supply him with the sustenance he needed to continue, but it found its way instead into the cold, harsh view of reality. Bright red, it entered the sunlit world and came face to face with the realization that it's master was losing life with every step. He was functioning on sheer determination; his body had no fuel left to enable him with. The punches he threw were fewer and farther between. He was no longer aware of the blows he was receiving, only the pain that followed him no matter which direction he turned trying to release himself from it.

Nerves closed in tightly around her stomach, spiraling themselves deeper inside her trying to protect themselves from the sights before her. Once registered, her frayed mind could not focus on anything else. He would lose. This she knew for certain with one look at his disfigured face. He did not seem to notice that his bones were broken, and leaking the life from him. She watched him waver in his stance, looking nearly unsteady on his feet. He was going to lose, and she feared that the price of this loss would rank higher than a street corner to sell a newspaper on. It had to be stopped. She was suddenly so tired, emotionally and physically drained, reduced to a shrivel of the person she had been. She wished for the voice she had known earlier but it escaped her now when she needed it most.

She caught his eye. He stumbled backward and turned his head to meet her gaze. The crystal was softened, beautiful and dancing with the sunlight that shown through. The icicles were melting into a pool of crystal blue water, warm and inviting. A hint of the smirk she'd grown to hate pulled at his swollen lips. It must've been painful but that did not register on his features. He must've kept that separated from his outward appearance, somewhere else deep inside, where her nerves were trying to bury themselves.

He did not catch himself. He faltered, stunning the boys surrounding him into an immovable trance. She alone retained the ability to move. With the broken bottle still clutched in her hand she ran to his falling frame and used her body to cushion his collision with the unforgiving concrete below them. Somehow his collapse was as graceful as his exertion of testosterone. The dock had become silent, her gaze stretched out from the pile of bones crushing her following the lines between the boards of wood that made up the dock. It finally met with the bare feet of the boys encircling her, their toes burned by the heated wood of dock. Their skin stained as the blood dripped from their open wounds attempting to blanket them with the life that escaped from their punctured veins.

A sharp intake of breath called her attention back to the boy who lay upon her. Was he trying to speak? She hadn't realized he could be this defeated, that he was human and could be destroyed. It never seemed that he had the ability to display weakness, especially in the presence of others. How could he have trouble speaking? How could his abundance of physical strength be beaten from him, stolen by the hard fists of an unwavering adversary? Her shock turned to fear as the reality of his situation became clearer to her. He tried to speak again this time blood tumbled out from between his lips as he mumbled two words through a throat choked with blood.

"I'm Sorry" She could no longer avoid his eyes; the water in them had turned into something even softer. The bright cerulean was a soft fabric that she wanted to sink into. The kind of luxurious silk she believed were on the bed sheets of those who could afford to buy her papers each day. Those who didn't have to worry about the threat of hunger, unpredictable weather or an army of angry boys after your selling spot. She was distracted by a soft hand on her face; he stroked her cheek with his thumb, holding her gaze. The warmth that spread through her body at the touch of his palm to her cheek battled against the ball of nerves raging at the center of body, and spiraling outward attempting to overtake her whole being with its force. His words pushed themselves past her ears and into her brain where she struggled to make sense of them. Her mind searched for their meaning but nothing was found.

"You're sorry? What are you sorry for?" Her voice rose to an almost shrill level as desperation snaked its way around her mind and body. She could no longer stand to sit beneath the blazing sun, with a throng of boys watching her every move with her leader apologizing for something she could not grasp. She was desperate for his words to make sense, anxious to learn the answer and be at peace. She raged internally unable to find any comfort for her overactive nerves. The energy demanded to be released physically and she shook him repeatedly waiting for an answer, he had to make sense of it she knew that he would. He was being stubborn and unresponsive, refusing to answer her only because he knew how desperately she needed it. His rebellion angered her, and she shook him harder determined to get a response from him. It was not enough to engage her arms in this physical outburst, tears cascaded from the inner corner of her eyes as if a dam had burst. All the tears her body was capable of producing were forced out to endure the harsh glare of the sun on her burned cheeks.

She could not remember the exact moment she realized he was dead. The boys that surrounded her turned their heads out of shame at the emotional display before them. She looked up as they turned their backs to her, watching them disown her for her humanity. She returned her gaze to what had been Spot Conlon. She could no longer be a blemish to his reputation. Without thinking she leaned down and pressed her lips to his as if this would keep the life from spilling out of him. His blood covered her lips and as she pulled away she became aware that she had kissed a corpse. It disgusted them to see such an outpouring of feeling; they had to distract themselves from the sight of it. Spot's boys had shattered the silence with threats towards the murderer of their beloved leader. She watched these boys who believed they were tough throw words out as weapons, afraid to pick up a fist and finish what He couldn't have. She did not consider the violence she had just witnessed, but labeled them all cowards. The time for words had passed. It would get them nowhere now, the intense desire for an answer rerouted it's aggression in the desire to do something.

When she rose it seemed that no one even noticed. Who pays attention to the small framed girl crying over Spot's lifeless corpse? No one cared about her; they were too wrapped up in themselves and their own selfish display of loyalty to their respective leaders. Let them throw their empty threats at each other, it was the perfect distraction. She walked calmly and slowly, her tear ducts dried as she now had a sense of purpose. Her inner core was at peace, as she calmly sauntered over to Pace with no fear left to control her. Not a soul on that dock paid enough attention to try and stop her. She was ignored or mocked with every step she took. No one made a motion toward her until after she'd shoved the broken bottle into his neck. She thought it would be harder to take a life. The sharp edges of the bottle sunk into the soft skin of his neck so easily, it took such little force to drive it deeper and deeper into the arteries that are essential for life. The hot blood flooded from his open vessels, streaming down his body, the bottle and Brooklyn's arm. The feeling of victory overtook her small frame and she felt she could have defeated the world. It was so satisfying to watch as he struggled desperately for his last breaths, writhing in pain and agony as he lost the precious life he had fought to keep all his days. It was over for him now. Nothing mattered. Not the territory of Brooklyn, not his revenge on Spot, not his success, only obtaining one more gasp of air. Just one more would save him. She watched as fear took hold of his features as he realized he would be dead in mere seconds, endorphins pumped through her body making her feel alive.

The Brooklyn boys claimed her again as they engulfed her in a circle of praise and cheers and ushered her away from the vengeful Queen's newsies worrying over their leader on the dock. The sun beat down on them all unforgiving of all sins. It did not choose sides between them, only against them. Perhaps if they were wealthy the weather could have been convinced to reflect their emotions, and pour thick drops of rain from the sky to blend with their silent tears. The sun did not care to ease its glare, and burned them with its optimistic rays. The heated blood, and sweat and tears produced an odor that surrounded the group protectively as they retreated home. No civilian on the street would have stopped to help or hinder them in their trek home, but for once they could not avoid noticing them.

Epilogue

Weeks had passed since his death, and the hole that had been gashed in her stomach from it had not yet closed. It seemed that it was only widening and that eventually despair would become her whole world. She could not shake the emotion from her, even using every technique she had learned to release her body of the intense feeling. It became a part of her; she could no longer remember what it was like to function without it.

Late into the night when sleep avoided her she stared at the bottom of the bunk above her pretending he still lay there. She would long to hear the breathing that would signify she was not alone, but she could not pretend for long the sounds she heard were not her own. The wound she felt was a collective one she shared with the boys who slept in the room below her. At least they had each other; she was constantly alone in her superiority.

"Time to sell the papes" Floated through her closed door, supposedly waking her from a much needed sleep. It was not a wake up call as much as her excuse to finally rise from bed. She flew down the stairs past the newsies who all greeted her with as much respect as they could muster. They called her the reason they got to keep their territory. They called her Brooklyn. They called her a leader. She put Spot's hat upon her head as she entered that unforgiving sunlight, unwilling to face the world without it.