The sirens blared in my ears, even though most of the sound was blocked out by my sobs. I felt hot tears streak down my cheeks as I closed my eyes tightly.

I was in a police car. It would have seemed strange to anyone that a little ten year old kid was sitting in a police car that was being stubbornly watched, like I was a criminal. And that was exactly what I was. At least, that was what everyone thought I was.

Ever since the freak fire that had killed my mother, I had nothing to do but run. It was either that, or sit in my room all day while I sobbed until I had drained every last bit of moister in my body. There shouldn't be much left now. Not only have I been crying my eyes out for the last two years, but I have been dehydrated. I should really pack more water next time...

I had run away five times by now. That was the reason I was in a police car right now, instead of at the orphanage where I "belonged", as everyone told me. But I knew that was not where I belonged. I belonged at home, with my mom. But that was not an option.

I let out a scream, and the police officer guarding the door gave me a weird look. But he didn't look that surprised. He must have thought that I was insane. And I was, in a way. I just wish that world didn't have to be so... unfair.

I felt that the entire world was going against me. Even though I had absolutely nothing to do with the forge catching on fire from sparks from the bellows, killing my mother but thinking that it would be fine to leave me in misery, the police immediately concluded that I must have had something to do with it. They had to, otherwise they would have looked bad. And they only person who did look bad was me.

I had been in the orphanage for two years, and yet no one wanted to adopt me. They always went for the cuter kids, the "sweet kids". I knew they would never pick me. Just like the fire, the story had spread quickly. They had called me the "Devil Child". I had tried so hard to prove them wrong, but their eyes and ears were closed firmly shut. It was almost like they didn't want to see the good in me.

Like I said, the world was out to get me.

The police officer turned to me again, holding up two fingers to signal that we were leaving in two minutes. His expression was not kind. I had a strong urge to glare at him, but I knew that it would just put me in more trouble. And more trouble was the last thing I needed.

I returned solemnly to my walk down Memory Lane. It felt more like a prowl, given my mood. There weren't many good memories to cherish, and those few thoughts only depressed me. The bad ones weren't as bad, seeing as I was by now used to this kind of behavior. I remember being bullied by the other orphans, being afraid to fight back and yet still being the only one to be spanked. I then recalled going to the park as a trip and trying to join in on a game of basketball with the other boys my age. They agreed, but only if they would all be on one team and going against me. So eager to make friends, I readily agreed. It was more like football, and I ended up breaking both of my arms and one leg. It was a wonder I wasn't paralyzed.

I then stumbled upon a good memory. It was when my mother had taken me to the park, just the two of us. This park was different, and much friendlier. Never being good with people, I played on the swings alone. Then, completely by accident, I had fallen off and scrapped my knee.

I had been positive that I was dying, and I had cried. My mother was there in an instant, gently applying cream to the scrape and then even more tenderly placing a Band-Aid over it. She then gently kissed it, and that alone had made my knee feel better. She had hugged me tightly, telling me that it was going to be alright. She had whipped away my tears, and then placed me back on the swing and started pushing me. Our laughter rang in my ears like the dreadful sirens outside, and I longed to just block out the sound. But such feats were impossible, even to the most skilled of blockers. And I would consider myself an expert.

Run away from the pain, and the pain won't be able to catch up. That is my motto. I already had more on my shoulders than most adults, and of course, that meant more pain. I was ADHD, so I need to keep moving in order to have something to live for, or maybe even to live at all. And I didn't have much to live for. I had no friends, no home, the rest of my family had disowned me (they too had believed the rumors about my mother's death), and my life was miserable in general (if you don't get that at all, reread this entire page). I need to keep my hands dirty. I need something to live for.

I suddenly heard a bang, followed quickly by cursing. Curious and wishing for entertainment, I peaked out the window to see a glorious right: another police officer, probably the chief judging by his badge, was hopping up in down on one foot while holding the other with both of his hands. He was wincing, and obviously in pain. He appeared to have kicked the car, explaining the banging.

The chief noticed me staring at him, and glared. I only replied with a smile, which seemed to irritate him further. Somehow, miraculously, he managed to force out his words in what was a passable polite manner.

"It looks like you will have to wait a little longer, boy," he said roughly to me, "Just stay in your seat and don't cause trouble."

And stay I did. All of my fantasies of somehow pulling off some fantastic escape right under the police's nose and being once again on the run had left me in an instant, giving my excitement the spotlight. I watched with satisfaction as the chief and other random police men struggled to fix the obviously broken car, and I longed for a bowl of popcorn. I noticed what they were trying to fix, and laughed. Being raised in a machine shop, I had been trained to fix things. And compared to other projects I have helped mom with at the forge, the problem seemed childishly easy.

The chief had heard my laughter, and once again sent me a glare.

"What's your problem?" he demanded, his polite demeanor leaving him.

"Nothing," I automatically replied, smiling innocently at him.

He grunted and returned to his work.

"Although you might want to put that in the other way," I added.

Obviously desperate, he did as I suggested, though he didn't seem pleased about it. He did seem shocked, however, when the piece fit perfectly. He turned towards me, all irritation towards me gone.

"Do you think you could fix this?" he ask, trying to restore a bit of his polite tone.

"What's the magic word?" I said, unable to help myself.

The chief pulled something out of his coat pocket, which I instantly recognized as a Taser. He didn't really mean to...

"Now," he said, putting the gadget threateningly close to my face.

Rather liking my face, I opened the door he had just unlocked for me.

"Since you asked so nicely..."

If he had heard me, he didn't acknowledge it. I went to the broken part of the car, and instantly started working. I welcomed the hard labor, as it made it easier to ignore all of the pain and suffering I had dealt with in such a small period of time. But such relief was not meant to last, for with my skill I finished the job in minutes. The police men all looked stunned, while the chief looked simply impressed. I just shrugged at them, and reentered the car.

And I immediately regretted it.

I mentally face-palmed myself. That could have been my change! I could have knocked one of them out and escaped! But that chance was gone now. I was less agitated than before, but that didn't mean that it was gone completely. Then, someone get into the driver's seat. It was my turn to be surprised when I realized that the chief was who was driving me. It was odd, because the chief didn't normally drive kids like me themselves. I mean, the orphanage wasn't so hard to find, and the cars had GPS's. So why would the chief personally escort me to the orphanage?

The answer soon presented itself to me as we took one fateful turn: We weren't going to the orphanage.

I started to panic. And as always, when I panicked, my thoughts became jumbled and it became hard to think straight. I started to hear voices in my head.

First step to insanity, I thought to myself, hearing voices in my head.

One voice, however, seemed to stand out. It was that of my Aunt Rosa, calling me the horrid nickname: Devil Child.

Something like liquid adrenaline seemed to burn within me, like a flame. I clenched my fists defiantly, and I felt my mouth curve into a smile. If they wanted a Devil Child, that was exactly what they would get.

Because no one messes with Leo Valdez and gets out unscarred.