jabbathehutt | Mist under the East River

Spot had read about the disaster in the papes. He'd heard about the missing kids near there, too, but since nobody knew what had happened the assumption was that they'd been caught up in the blast and nobody had bothered to report on it because what did anybody care about kids like them.

Spot had agreed with the grumbling at the time, let his boys get it out and then move on, because that was all they could really do when something like that happened. The problem was, of course, that when other newsies talked about 'kids like us', Spot felt somewhat awkward about it. He never let it show, of course he didn't, but inside he knew - he didn't count. If he went missing somebody would care, they'd care a lot.

Because Spot Conlon was a myth. Because he hadn't read the news after picking up his papes the same as all the other kids. He'd read it first thing in the morning at the breakfast table while trying to tune out his father's talk of duty or hard work or good manners or whatever that day's lecture had been about. Because his father was William Randolph Hearst.

It had begun when he was a child, tagging along with his father on a day off from school and seeing the newsies laughing and joking at the distribution gate, he'd been jealous. They seemed to have such freedom, such happiness, they didn't have the weight of responsibility and expectation pressing down on them all the time, they could go where they want, do what they wanted.

He knew, now, how naive he'd been, how many of their hardships and problems he'd never seen back then, but the envy had been enough. He'd stolen some clothes from one of the servant boys and snuck out one morning to join them - he'd chosen the boys selling the World, rather than the Journal, intending to avoid his father (and maybe, just a little, wanting to stick it to him by selling a rival paper) - he'd been innocent and naive and stupid, but they'd taken him under their wing and taught him how to sell and he'd fallen in love with that life, with the sense of family that had been so deeply lacking in his life.

It had started a day or two a week, but by now he'd worked out the right lies to tell at home and at school that he was there every day, sneaking out first thing after breakfast and returning at the end of the day. He'd worked his way up the ranks to be the leader in Brooklyn, the fearsome Spot Conlon (a nickname he'd earned on his first day, and the surname he'd borrowed from an old nanny he'd been particularly fond of) - a far cry from the polite, obedient Sean Patrick Hearst his father thought he was moulding.

He'd kept up his subterfuge for so long he thought he was practically untouchable - until one day he takes the wrong street.

He doesn't realise it's the wrong street, at first, he's just been paying a visit to some of the other leaders and he's strolling through the Lower East Side on his way back towards Brooklyn when a man who isn't watching where he's going nearly bumps into him.

The insult he's about to throw dies on his lips when he looks up and his eyes meet those of his father, and for a split second all he can think is fuck.

Then he's suddenly being yanked sideways into an alleyway, out of sight, and his father is yelling at him. Something about what the hell he thinks he's doing roaming the city dressed like some common street thug and why he's not in school. Spot isn't listening to the words, he's too busy trying to think of a way out of this, an explanation that might spare him a beating, an explanation that will somehow keep his secret.

Even alleyways aroudn here tend to have things in them. In this case, it was a stray cat, which screams and jolts out into the road when disturbed. And this gets the attention of a kid sitting on a stoop a few doors over, just counting out his day's takings.

Ezra hates bullies. He always has but he hates them even more now that he knows the terror they inspire in his victims, and he can feel it pulsing out of the alleyway now. So he hops down onto the street, grabs a choice stone from his pocket and loads up his beanshooter, ready.

He takes a second at the mouth of the alley, lines up his shot...

...and then he sees who it is being yelled at, and what the well dressed gentleman is saying.

"...the fuck?" he says out loud, dropping his stone to the floor.

Spot, in this moment, very much does not look like himself. His back is against the alley wall and he's watching his father with a wary tension born of familiarity, of fear - but he looks round at the boy's exclamation, and so does his father.

"Excuse me, young man?" Hearst looks down his nose at the newcomer "This is between me and my son, run along."

Well, there goes any of Spot's hope of anonymity, he's pretty sure the kid is a newsie and this? This is the kind of gossip that spreads like wildfire. He closes his eyes and drops his head back against the wall behind him, facing down the possibility that the entire house of cards he's built is about to come tumbling down.

Yeah, no, fuck that.

Ezra's plan had been to just distract the guy long enough to let the kid run off, but that wouldn't work this time. He does that and he just comes after (really? Spot Conlon?) again. And no one, even apparently a lying rich kid, deserves what this man seems willing to dish out.

"No," he says, stepping into the alleyway. "You run along."

He's never ever done this with humans before. He's experimented on rats before, even pigeons, but never even thought about trying it on the stray cats around the neighbourhood. He may have managed to sell a pape or two where the buyer wasn't sure if he wanted one, but nothing this big and nothing this deliberate.

But he can't see that he's got another choice.

He squares off against the man and then - then his glare softens and he holds out a hand and reaches further with his mind.

"This ain't your son," he says.

Hearst looks away from him and stares at Spot in confusion. "What?"

"You ain't seen your son today."

"I haven't seen my son today," Hearst tells him defensively.

"You're gonna go home."

"I'm going home," he announces like it's his idea, and marches out of the alleyway.

Ezra breathes out heavily and slumps against the wall. That was tiring.

Spot opens his eyes in surprise, head jerking up to look at the kid as he tells his father that Spot isn't his son. What is he playing at? What does he think that's going to-

And then his father agrees. He hasn't seen his son today, he's going home. He just repeats the words as if he means them and then he's actually doing it, he's leaving with barely a backwards glance.

Spot turns to stare at him with almost horrified fascination.

"What the fuck was that?"

He's freaked out, sure, and he sounds it, but it's less fear or anger or negativity that colours his words most strongly, it's something closer to amazement.

Ezra has his head in his hands, trying to figrure out if he's tired from the effort or scared that Spot is going to turn on him for a freak, or just ashamed that he couldn't keep his secret anymore.

The amazement in Spot's words are helpful with that terror, at least. He drops his hands and looks up, smiling sheepishly.

"I guess he remembered he had somewhere else to be?"

Spot gives him an unimpressed look, but bites back something sarcastic - his usual attitude might work to keep the kid quiet, or it might send him running to tell the world what he's seen.

"...how?" he says eventually, because the curiosity is overwhelming, and he doesn't believe for a second that the kid wasn't responsible for what just happened.

It doesn't occur to him, yet, that there might be a level of mutually assured destruction here - they've both got secrets they want to keep.

Ezra just keeps up that nervous smile until Spot actually asks, and then it collapses. He bites his lip and just says:

"...please don't tell anyone?"

He doesn't even consider doing the same thing to Spot. He doesn't deserve it, and honestly Ezra's a little scared of him. But in a way that wants the Brooklyn leader to respect him.

And that's when it hit him, the risk he took doing that in front of Spot, to save Spot. He knows he should just be grateful, but he's also acutely aware of the knowledge the other kid now possesses and how it could destroy him.

So he takes the slightly more selfish option. Rather than assuring him he won't say a word, instead he nods and straightens up.

"I won't tell anyone if you won't." he says simply, spitting in his palm and holding it out to the other boy.

Ezra's immediate reaction is pure gratitude - sure, it's an exchange, but it doesn't feel it's an equitable one. Spot's got a rich dad. Ezra's a fucking freak or nature.

"Deal."

He straightens up, spits in his palm and presses it to Spot's.

"So..."

He doesn't even know where to begin. "What happens now?"

Spot shakes his hand once and then tucks his hand in his pocket. Honestly he's still a little shaken from the encounter with his father and whatever the hell the kid managed to do to him, but he can feel the persona he's adopted as Spot settle around him like armour.

"We could start with your name, kid." he says amused (kid is probably not all that accurate - sure, he is one, but he doesn't look that much younger than Spot).

"Secrets aside, I owe you one. I ain't about to let that kind of debt slide."

"Ezra," says he. "Bridger. And you're Spot Conlon."

In case that needed to be said - everyone knows Spot Conlon, even the Manhattan kids.

"You don't have to owe me anything."

Ezra would have done it for anyone, and the idea of being owed a favour by the leader of the Brooklyn newsies feels wrong. Especially for something like this.

"That's right," Spot agrees, and his tone is easy but there's a surety to it - maybe it's to reassure himself, or maybe it's to remind Ezra that he's just Spot Conlon, and any other name he might assume is attached to him, he should probably forget.

"But I do," he says "You ever need anything, you know where to find me."

If he doesn't want to call it in, that's up to him, but Spot wouldn't feel right without making the offer.

"Okay," Ezra concedes, but he immediately sees a problem with that.

And he wants to drop it, but he can't stop himself.

"Which mansion is it?"

Spot gives him a flat look.

"In Brooklyn. You know where to find me in Brooklyn."

He knows that's not the most help, Ezra can come to Brooklyn any day and ask for Spot and someone will point him in the right direction, but after he's gone home for the night? No chance. Favour or not, Spot's not about to encourage any newsie to come to the Hearst mansion, even one with whatever the hell powers Ezra's got going for him.

"Alright." Ezra drops his head, grinning guiltily. It had been worth a try, right?

"If I need a favour I'll come find you."

But he doesn't really intend on ever calling that in. What kind of favour could Spot help with? And there's that knowledge that Ezra's friends - well, there's a reason he doesn't make them anymore.

"Alright." Spot nods.

"I better get going..." he's got to drop by Brooklyn, but then he better hightail it back home so his father doesn't get suspicious. He doesn't know exactly how long whatever happened will last, so he'd rather find out and do damage control as quickly as possible.

Edited (Lawd wtf was that ) 2021-05-17 16:55 (UTC)

Ezra nods. "Okay," he says, and walks with Spot to the mouth of the allyway where he picks up his stone (it's a good one).

He turns quickly back to Spot, burning with curiosity, but of course he's not going to ask. Not least because Spot probably has more questions and harder ones to answer, because Ezra has no answer.

"Watch your back, okay?"

Well, his front. Just - stay safe.

Spot can see the curiosity there, and maybe if he asked he might be willing to answer, if only because this was a secret he'd kept for years and nobody ever had asked... but he was just as likely to tell him to get lost, even Spot didn't really know exactly what he'd do if those questions spilled out.

But they don't, and Spot nods.

"You too."

Ezra shrugs, in a way that suggests I can look after myself because he can, in a way, and turns back towards his stoop. He'll go try and get some food shortly and find somewhere to sleep.

He doesn't think about how Spot Conlon apparently has a bed, because he's used to making the decision not to sleep in the lodging houses, and doesn't really wonder that Spot's bed is any different from that.

But he is going to worry just how risky that was. Not that he doesn't trust Spot, but he's got to face up to what he just did, and what it means.

Spot watches him for a moment and then heads off.

He drops by Brooklyn just to check on his boys and then it's back home, swapping into his fancy clothes and walking in like he's just back from school. He's wary, though, trying to simultaneously act normal and figure out what his father recalls.

The evening goes remarkably well, it's almost as though his father's completely forgotten what happened, and eventually Spot starts to relax.

Mr Hearst hasn't forgotten though. He doesn't remember Sean being there, but he remembers enough to know that there was a boy who did something, said something, and made him go home, when he hadn't been heading that way in the first place. On its own he might, eventually, have dismissed it, but he's heard rumours about people with strange abilities, and now it's just a loose thread that he can't help but want to pull - and it begins with the little punk who'd messed with his mind.

That punk is trying to get on with his life, selling papes, keeping his head down, not even trying to do anything other than getting cats to let him pet them and trying to make sense of all the emotions in the city. When no one comes looking for a kid who can control people in the Lower East Side, he starts to relax again and to hang out with the other newsies some more.

Which includes when the summer starts to heat up and they get together to have a dip in the river. And on one particularly social day, a handful of Manhattan newsies cross over the Brooklyn bridge to share in the fun there.

Ezra, out of curiosity, tags along with them.

His father is out of town on business - it's a rare occurrence and Spot has learned to take advantage of those times, especially when they fall on such a warm summer's day.

So he doesn't have any need to rush off once the day's selling is done, he can lounge on the docks with the others and enjoy the sunshine. He's not swimming himself - there'll be too many questions if he comes home with wet hair, even with his father away - but plenty of his boys are.

When the Manhattan boys come to join them, they're met with cheerful shouts and already the first challenges for diving or races are being called out, but Spot's eyes are on Ezra. He wondered how long it would be before he saw him - though it's clear he's not here for his favour. Still, Spot gives him a nod of greeting.

Ezra was looking forward to swimming - it's a hot day and he's been selling hard and he's growing more experimental with his powers again and wants to try fish - but he's more interested in talking to Spot, so lifts his head in greeting and makes his way over.

"Hey, Spot, how's it going?"

He's here, which means he hasn't been prevented from coming down, and Ezra would have heard if he had gone missing, but he's still curious - did it work?

The greeting earns him a couple of looks - most of the Manhattan boys know how Ezra usually keeps to himself, so the fact he's apparently on friendly terms with Spot is a surprise, and a lot of the Brooklyn boys are interested because they don't know who he is. There's definitely some speculation that maybe he's just stupid - until Spot gives him an easy nod.

"Ezra," he greets casually "Going good. You?"

Translation: It worked, and did you need something.

Umm...it got a bit long I'm sorry XD lmk if you need anything changed/added

This is amazing <3

Re: This is amazing <3

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you don't want to sell me any death sticks

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ahahaha Ezra

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