𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄 | ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴʟᴏɴ

𝐓𝐖𝐎

"WE'RE NO CHARITY CASE. WE DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU."

Ethel rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, her energy depleting because working so hard and long was not something she had gotten used to yet. Around them, a city yelled and shouted, asking to be seen. The sidewalks around it were dusted with snow, but the city itself glowed warmly in the winter sunset.

Buildings crowded together inside high walls like a medieval town, way older than any place Ethel had seen before. In the center was an actual castle—at least Ethel assumed it was a castle—with massive red brick walls and a square tower with a peaked, green gabled roof. Despite the lovely town, Francis just couldn't seem to get along with the newsboys.

"His name is switchblade!" a younger boy said.

"Yeah, this here is the famous Switchblade Collins!" another one confirmed. "He went to the refuge for pulling a knife on a police officer four years ago! Made all the papes!"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "There's no way you were stupid enough to do that."

"Tell that to the pape headlines for three weeks after!" they all laughed.

"How old are you, girl?" the Switchblade boy asked Ethel.

"I'm fifteen... almost!" Ethel said, looking over at them.

"Well, if anybody asks, you're eleven." he nodded his head and looked at the ceiling. "Younger sells more papes, and if we're gonna be partners—"

Francis said, "Who said we want a partner?"

"Selling with switchblade is the chance of a lifetime. You learn from him, you learn from the best!" another boy added.

Francis laughed. "If he's the best, then what does he need with me?"

"Cause you got a little sistah and I don't!" Switchblade said. "With her puss, we could easy sell a thousand papes a week."

     "I just don't see why—"

"What do they call you wherever you're from?" Switchblade interrupted. "Broken Hands and Green Fingers?"

Ethel looked at her hands and saw what Switchblade meant. Showing from the corner of her fingernails were green from working the night before. She wasn't sure why they stained her hands, but she also wasn't willing to figure that out.

Francis didn't like the newsboys. He stood still in his place, jaw clenched and fists bared, and made a rumbling sound in his throat.

"Steady, boy," Switchblade muttered. Something told Ethel that Francis would not take kindly to getting into a fight with this guy.

"I don't like you," Francis said. "You guys are bad news."

At first Ethel thought he was right and began to have second thoughts, but as the day got shorter she could see they were much more aware of themselves than anyone else in New York. They looked like regular teenagers except for their ink-stained fingernails and freakishly large biceps.

Their hair was jagged, like icicles. Their faces looked similar enough that they might've been related, but they definitely weren't siblings.

Some were the size of an ox, with bright red hair, baggy clothes, and black boots. They had all clearly had been in too many fights, because everyone's eyes were black, and when they bared their teeth, several of them were missing.

Maybe they thought they looked like handsome love gods, but they couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and they all had a bad case of sweat.