anything for them (any brooklynite)

[Spot]

The night was cold. Spot shifted in his jacket, moving his shoulders to the left, before moving them quickly to the right and sighing, watching the puff of breath that hung in the air. Nights had turned from something Spot craved for sleep, to something Spot dreaded, because now night meant work.

It was a long time ago that Spot figured out that if he sold late at night to those who worked the midnight shifts, then he wouldn't have any competition. He sold to the hard working men, the ones who came out of the factory with soot all over their faces, worn, tired and stiff, broken and exhausted. He always sold to them at a cheap price. He usually charged about two cents, but he could see these men didn't have the money to do they. No one works like that to give it away for some newspapers. It was for their families, for the people they went home to at night.

Spot admired their hard work, their dedication. It made him think, especially now that, Jesus, he had a baby on the way (again, but he tried not to think about it the first time) and a wife and a family. He had to keep them alive, and he couldn't sell papers forever.

So he started to work there. He was seventeen, and he was young, but so was everybody, and you had to make a living, and there was absolutely no way he could make a living off of selling papers for the rest of his life.

He stumbled slightly, walking among the group of men. He bumped into one of them, who grabbed his shoulder, stabling him. 'You alright little buddy?' he said, and Spot nodded to him, giving him an evil eye.

"I ain't little. I'm seventeen." He grumbled something about him being the King of New York, but the man obviously couldn't hear him.

'Seventeen? Why, what are you doing working like a dog?' He frowned. 'Don't tell me you've got some girl pregnant.' He looked at him with a disappointed look on his face.

Spot grumbled. He didn't know how he was allowing this guy to talk to him like that. Probably because he was too damn tired to argue. "Listen. I've been working my entire life." He shoved him gently. "I'm in charge of an entire borough. Plus that girl is my wife!"

The men around him laughed loudly, and he gave a little chuckle himself. He had a little bit of humor for being so damn exhausted right now.

'Fine. Calm down kid.' He gave him a clap on the back, almost knocking Spot over, who hit him back just as hard. The man laughed again. 'Alright. See you tomorrow night kid.' The group separated, the men moving in one direction while Spot moved down the road alone, after handing out a couple of papers and collecting the pennies from them.

These men were some of the few people he had respect for. They worked just as hard as him, but barely. He didn't know how long he'd do this. He hated the work on the line, the smell of smoke practically choked him the first day he went to work. The darkness was depressing, the boring and hard work drove him crazy. But what could he do.

He had to be a better father than his own. He needed to be able to take care of his child, treat them like they were worth something and not the way he was treated. A problem. A awful monster. Which he was... But that was beside the point. He had to stay focused on it. It was hard to call it a baby. So far now, it was it.

He had made a promise to himself that he'd take care of his family, no matter what happened. Nothing, nothing could make him break that promise.

Unless he died. That'd be a problem. He felt like he might as he stumbled down the road. His body was sore. Each move made it ache, and he'd be happy to just lay down on the road right now and go to sleep.

But he had to be home before Doll woke up, which could be any time these days, with her waking up for random reasons baby related. Which meant that he had to be home as soon as possible.

He took a deep breath of the frigid air, exhale, shoved away the thought of how nice it'd be to just go to O'Brady's and started walking. Slowly. But surely.

It was about twenty minutes later when he saw the lodging house, and he almost whispered a prayer of thanks. Every bone in his body was aching, every muscle sore to the touch, and the only thing his brain could think about was sleep.

He entered the door of his so called 'castle' and went headed and slid his and Doll's rent under the jar that Old Man kept the money in, where he always did, and moved up the stairs.

Spot could be light on his feet, but tonight he just didn't feel like it. He was tired as hell, and cranky. Furthermore, anyone who woke up would get back to sleep easily. It was well past midnight, more like four in the morning and no one wanted to get up anyway.

He opened his door gently, walking in as quietly as he could manage before closing it. It gave a squeak, but he didn't think Doll would wake up. He took off his work boots and working uniform. Taking his time so he wouldn't make to much noise, he slid the box that he kept his work things in, dropped what he'd made in there and closed the box, moving onto the bed.

He glanced at Doll, who looked asleep to him, and pulled off his shirt, before hanging his hat, and closing his eyes. Sleep began to over take him easily, and he wasn't going to fight it.

[The Pied Piper]

Piper had never meant to return to the Brooklyn Lodging House, but after meeting Doll on the docks, he had changed his mind. He walked along the street, dragging on his cigarette and suffering from his latest attack of insomnia (or hypochondria). His footsteps were lost in the ringing of bells that announced that night's shift was over. He was taking a roundabout route to the LH, trying to avoid stepping foot inside. Piper flicked his cigarette away and let it go out of its own accord. He looked up just in time to avoid running into a very large man who came tumbling out of the factory only to walk into some kid.

Piper cocked an eyebrow as the kid answered. Interesting. Deeper voice, taller (if only slightly, Piper had issues with height), but the same cocky and self confident attitude he would know anywhere. Spot Conlon. So, this is what happened to the twelve year old boy he knew over five years... A leader who was pulling late nights to make ends meet. Piper smirked and lit up another cigarette as the kid began to walk away.

Piper trailed him, using his former skills as a Rat. Sure, his leg was killing him and he limped more then usual, but hey, who cares? Not one of the rich hoity toities in their silk sheets. None of these working class slobs who spent all of their money in the bar. No, no one cared. Hell, he didn't even care anymore.

Ah, the Brooklyn Lodging House for Wayward and Homeless Children. If he recalled correctly, that was its official title, the one that made all the rich people donate a little bit of guilt money every year. Brooklyn let Spot go first into the LH and then followed a few minutes later. Immediately, the memories came flooding back to him. It even smelled the same. Piper almost ran out the door, but steeled himself and crinkled his nose and started to climb up the same creaky stairs he remembered.

As he climbed higher, he saw the long main hallway of the building. Spot went into one of the doors. It used to be Trash's room, didn't it? That made him wonder who was sleeping in his bed. He remembered how to get there, and all the cash he'd left stashed under the floorboards when he'd left on his little 'vacation'. He had thought he'd return in a few days, weeks maybe, month at the most, but he'd been gone five years. Did anyone besides Doll even remember the kind Pied Piper of Brooklyn? The one that took care of the little kids and watched out for the bigger ones? Dammit, he'd helped raised half these brats.

Now Piper was angry. They'd all forgotten him, no one mourned him. No one wondered what had happened to Piper. Not even Trash! he'd left the LH with lady without even leaving a message for Piper. How dare he? How dare them all?! Piper took a deep breath and then let his cigarette fall to the floorboards where he ground it out with his heel. He groped in the darkness of the hall and came up with piece of a board. Probably off the wall, maybe the floor. He began pounding on the doors, running up and down the hall, laughing gleefully and screaming, "Wake up! WAKE UP YOU BLOODY IDIOTS!"

He would find out if they remembered him or not. Piper could not be forgotten. It was impossible!

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[Spot]

Spot had just began to feel the layers of sleep that he welcomed with open arms when he heard a loud voice that jarred him out of his sleep. He sat up, eyes wide and frenzied, and grabbed his cane, slipping the bottom off quickly. Jumping from the bed, he gave a quick glance back to Doll to make sure she was breathing and all that important stuff that pregnant people were supposed to do. "Stay," he mumbled, even if she couldn't hear him, and slipped out int he hall, welding his sword in front of him wildly, which was probably because he felt like he was dying and exhausted, and definitely pissed.

There he found the tall frame of a man swinging around a board on the walls. He was wild, and everyone would clearly be awoken by his loud voice and disrupting actions. He moved as quickly and stably as he could, moving to point a sword at his face. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Does this look like a place where you can just go around and make a whole freaking orchestra with a board on my walls, in my borough, with my newsies trying to sleep?" He shook his head. "With ME trying to sleep!"

He held the sword a little bit closer to him, focusing on his face. He was slightly shorter than him, and of decent appearance. He didn't look too wild, but only a little civil at the same time. He was also... familiar. In that haunting way.

The first thing he did was think of all the Conlons and his fathers coworkers, but he didn't match. He was lost until he noticed the way his face moved, it reminded him of... a rat.

"Piper?" He smirked. "Pied Piper? Where the hell did you go? You've been gone... 4. 5. 6? how many years?" He was almost smiling for a moment, before looking at him with fury. "What the hell are you doing?"

[The Pied Piper]

Piper continued his gleeful sprint up and down the halls until Spot Conlon himself came rushing out of Trash's bedroom (in Piper's mind, it was not Spot's) and began to wave a sword in his face. Piper held his hands up and dropped the board, where it clattered to the floor. "Relax!" He told Spot. He sneered at Spot and said evenly, "If I recall correctly, you inherited this borough and those newsies from Trash. Correct? And I can do what I like with a board on the walls. I didn't hurt no one, did I?" He smirked and took a step back, intending to get out of range of the sword.

Then Spot recognized him. Piper blinked stupidly. "Wait... You know who I am?" Maybe he was wrong, but no! Piper was never wrong. So what if two out of, what, a million? recognized him? No big deal. He was sure that no one else would recognize him. "I've been gone five years, I believe." He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "It ain't any of your business where I have or have not been. I don't even know half the time." He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. He looked up and down the hall, wondering who else would appear. Maybe Skidz or one of the others? But no. Trash was long gone, and if Spot Conlon was leader then none of the others had stuck around either.

He was almost sad to see his old Lodging House handed 'unto babes' as the preacher he knew would say. Almost. Mostly he felt a deep resounding loss. Where did he fit in any more? They clearly didn't need him as he thought, which is one of the reasons he had returned. But maybe, he had really returned because he needed them. He pushed this thought away and scoffed at it. Piper didn't need anyone. and he certainly didn't need these pipsqueaks.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I came back, and for a good reason." Piper looked at spot evenly, without fear. In his mind, he still had power over the boy. He didn't know how wrong he was. "I came back to warn you."

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[Bear]

Bear's nightly snoring came to an abrupt stop as the second in command awoke, staring sleepily into the darkness of the bunkroom, listening to the loud noises from the hallway, as if something was being banged off the wall repeatedly, and then he heard Spot yelling, followed by another voice, a stranger's voice. Despite the time of night as well as the warmth of his bed, he knew he couldn't just stay in it and go back to sleep like his lodge-mates were trying to do. He pushed the light blanket away and climbed out of his bunk (not very gracefully) and moved for the hallway, pulling one suspender over his bare shoulder but forgetting the other, too busy trying to figure out what was going on in his newly awakened state.

He entered the hallway, appearing slightly like a bear just coming out of a winter's worth of hibernation, staring from the young man, older than them but still young with dark messy hair standing before them, to Spot and then sweeping over the whole hallway, before returning to his leader. "Where's Doll? Is she..."

He paused when he heard what the figure was saying. He came back? Warn? What was there to warn them about? He stared hard at the man, trying to figure out what he meant, and racking his brain as to why he seemed strangely familiar.

[Singer]

Now Singer may not have been the average twelve year old, but he did one thing that all twelve year olds did: sleep. And generally, once he was sleeping, you generally couldn’t wake him up. Why? Well he’s a twelve year old boy, there is no reason. But on this particular night, he wasn’t that tired. Nope. He tossed and turned and tossed and turned and tossed and turned some more until finally, he couldn’t take it. He needed something to entertain him. So, out of the bunk he went, and into the kitchen.

Now, all he had to do was his thing. Sandwich making.

Generally, if someone in the Brooklyn lodging preferred sandwich making over anything else, they’d be considered odd. But the fact that most of the other kids thought Singer was dropped on his head as a kid made him slightly more excusable. Well that and the fact that he didn’t really belong anywhere else. Sure, he came off as that hyperactive kid who Spot probably should’ve dumped in Queens a long time ago, but hey, he was useful, and not that bad a fighter. And he was the only one who could make a good sandwich.

Then he heard all the commotion. Grabbing the first thing he could, he ran through the doors, seeing the older guy, Spot, and Bear. He looked from them all, then looked down at what he was holding as his ‘weapon’. It was the sandwich he was going to eat. That… was a pathetic weapon. Well at least Spot had his cane. It was three against one now. Slowly taking a bite of his sandwich, he asked, “Whose the old guy?”

Singer wasn’t exactly around when the older kids were. He came to the lodging house when Spot had just come to power, so he didn’t know how the hell Spot recognized him. Oh well. Wasn’t his problem unless that guy tried to hurt him.

[Spot]

Spot was starting to feel the effects of five hours of sleep consistently, after working half the night. He was achy, and sure he was going to pass out. And yet there was still an intruder in his borough, and so Spot had to pretend he wasn't tired.
"This is my borough," he grumbled, moving a bit toward him, feeling the urge to hit him over and over in the head. "And you'll do what I say with it. And I saw, stop banging on my damn walls." He was waiting for some recognition with him.

Finally, Piper calmed a bit. Spot took he moment to remember that he had never liked Piper. He was cocky, and full of himself (characteristics that Spot had himself, but he didn't like to bring that to his attention right now, because he was tired as hell and barely able to focus.) He was talking down to him, acting like he was a little kid. It was annoying, the way Piper still was living in the days when Spot was a scared little flinching kid.

It was kind of ticking him off. It was more than kind of ticking him off.

"Listen," he said, walking forward, glaring at him with a time of anger that was not only caused by his attitude, but the fact that he was exhausted. "I know you use to be in charge of me, but times have changed. If you know what's best for you, you'll give me some respect. Got it?"

He mumbled, glaring down Piper. "What do you mean warn me? You've dropped off the face of the newsie earth."

Spot heard a voice and looked to the side. "Doll's fine. She's still asleep. Everything," Spot emphasized the fact that they weren't mentioning that Doll was pregnant. It seemed Piper had gone crazy, and that was the last thing he needed to know. "Is fine." He finished, before hearing Singer. Did he wake the whole borough?

"He's not old Singer. He use to be a newsie."

[Wires]

Nobody, not even the most evil of people, should be forced to wake up from the middle of one of their only good nights of sleep by a hundred pound man thundering through their place of residence.

Underneath her thin blanket, she growled, threw it off, and climbed down her bunk, landing swiftly on the floor, trying to make sure she didn't disturb the few of her roommates who were still sleeping. Scratching her blonde mane of hair, she slid out the door, dashing into the main hallway quickly to see the scene. Course, there was Spot, which was expected. Second, there was Singer- also expected. And then, there was a not-so-familiar figure in the middle of all of it. He was short- shorter than Singer and Spot, and probably shorter than her- with scruffy brown hair and a startlingly nostalgic appearance. Listening in on the conversation for a few minutes, she recognized the face- Piper. The Pied Piper, if you wanted to be formal, perhaps.

He was old now- judging by the fact that he'd been one of Trash's exclusive Rats. Raising her eyebrows that framed her violet eyes, she spoke, "Jeez, Piper...". Really, it was too early in the morning to be shouting about the ridiculousness of the situation, but it wasn't too unreasonable to ask a question. "There are more silent approaches. Knocking on a door. Bursting through a window, maybe?", she smirked, "though, your grandeur take on things is exciting." Flicking her eyes toward Singer, she eyed the object in his hand. A sandwhich. Singer was prepared to fight off a possible burglar- and or murderer/criminal to the unknown eye- with a goddamn sandwhich. Brooklynites.

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