The little girl watched, peering out from behind the grime-streaked dumpster as chaos erupted in the alley.
She was used to the noise—the loud yells and louder bang bang bang of gunfire were the lullaby that soothed her to sleep every night. But in this narrow space, this thin strip of territory wedged between walls that towered like disapproving grown-ups, the cacophony seemed like it was happening under a magnifying glass.
A screech of pain filled up the whole alley, loud enough to rattle her eardrums, and she ducked behind the dumpster. The scream descended to a liquid gurgle and the little girl waited, counting to five before she caught the scent of blood, tangy and acrid and fresh.
Another barrage of sound distracted her from the familiar smell, and she peeked out onto the battlefield again, dirty fingers scraping on the dumpster's hard plastic edge. Two young men—one she recognized, one she didn't—were locked in a brawl not far from her vantage point, struggling over a pistol. She spied the flash of silver, the pollution-dulled sunlight managing to gleam on the surface of the weapon, and her eyelashes stuck together as she blinked the reflected light away.
She didn't see what happened, only that suddenly the gun was in nobody's hands, and it was skidding along the uneven pavement towards her. It came to a stop a few feet from her hand and gleamed invitingly, a trophy just waiting to be claimed. Stringy hair whipped into her face as she looked back and forth between the weapon and the fight, the combatants now resorting to fists and teeth and elbows.
She scooted forward on her hands and knees, wrapped her fingers around the barrel and lifted it up. It was warm and heavy against her tiny palm.
In the alley, the man she didn't recognize (the enemy, she instinctively knew) scrambled backwards, his bravery having fled with the gun. He glanced from right to left, saw his allies fallen around him, and pivoted to make his escape.
In the little girl's hand, the gun made the loudest bang she'd ever heard, and the enemy fell down in a heap of limbs and dust.
The other man whirled around, eyes widening in surprise when he saw her, but then his mouth split in a yellow-toothed grin.
"Nice shot," he said approvingly, and strode forward to pry the gun from her fingers. She hadn't moved from the spot, her wide, solemn eyes trained on the dead enemy and her mouth stretched in a tight line.
"Don't worry," he said with a smirk, one hand casually mussing her hair. "It gets easier."
She tilted her head to look up at him, and her expression changed for the first time, her little forehead furrowing slightly.
"But it wasn't hard."
He stopped, looked down on her with one eyebrow raised. Then he began to laugh, a sound harsher and more grating than the gunfire.
"Shepard, we just might make something out of you yet."