Newsies Imagines

No Charity (Albert DaSilva)

Based on a request by AbbyBrenton05, thank you so much for all of your kind comments!!

You aren't entirely sure how you know it, but you swear someone is following you.

Perhaps it's the strange feeling scraping at the back of your neck, the odd sensation that someone is watching you even when you duck in and out in the crowd. Or, it could be the shadow that persistently dogs your heels; it isn't yours, but it could be, what from the way it never seems to leave your side.

Regardless, you're not alone. You've spent enough time in this godless city, scratching and stealing to make a living, to know that when someone pays attention to you, it's no good at all. The only thing you can think of to do is to shake your stalker before it's too late, or before thoughts of what 'too late' could mean rise to your mind.

You take a few hurried turns, backtrack your steps a few times, but nothing works. As time passes and you swear your follower is getting closer, you start to panic. You've been pacing through a crowded market square for the past half hour or so, but all of a sudden the throngs of people feel less like shields and more like fences designed to hem you in.

You manage to find a way out of their stifling eyes, but you know from the second you flee the madding crowd that you've made a mistake. A hand latches onto your arm, pulling you into an alley before you can think to scream. It wouldn't matter if you did, anyway- street rats don't get saved. No one would listen to the cries of a malnourished, lonely kid, they'd just pull their expensive clothes closer about them and hope that you shut up quickly.

Your feet slow from where they're being dragged behind you, and you realize that your kidnapper has stopped moving. You wrest your arm from his grasp, but it's too late. The mouth of the alleyway is much too far to risk a sprint for safety, and besides, someone's blocking the way out just in case.

You realize now that you haven't been followed by one boy, but two. You've seen these gangly thugs around the Manhattan streets before, and know them by name: Oscar and Morris Delancey. They'd beat up strikers as soon as street kids such as yourself if it gave them an extra dime. Right now, they're eyeing you like you're their ticket to an evening meal.

You keep your voice level. They've never troubled you before, other than a few leering glances directed where you'd rather not mention, so you harbor the admittedly foolhardy hope that they've got the wrong person.

"What do you want?" You ask, and they laugh. Their voices sound like a sharp grating of rocks, the crush of cobblestone beneath a horse's hoof.

"Word on the street has it that you were stealing pennies out of a banker's pocket. He's funding us to stop you before you try it again."

Your brow furrows. This isn't entirely wrong, but the banker deserved it. He wouldn't miss a dollar or two from his pocket, not when it could buy you weeks of food.

"Alright, then. I'll leave him alone. Now let me go."

Morris scoffs. "You think we're idiots?"

He continues on quickly before you can say yes. "The only way scum like you learn your place is when you're in enough pain to remember who you are."

He and Oscar brandish their fists at you, and you realize that you won't be getting out of this without a few bruises.

Despite the worsening odds, you still feel your lips curl. "And how do scum like you two learn your place? By getting your asses kicked time and time again?"

Oscar glares at you, lunging forward. You manage to duck his first punch, but you can't fight two boys, not forever. Your fighting style up until this point has consisted of two steps: one, don't get caught, and two, run whenever possible.