I should be working on other things, such as other stories and studying for finals. Instead, I discovered this bad boy in my files, thought it was actually pretty okay, and decided to edit it up and post it in chapters. Whismur Publishing House, you already know what this is.

Send help. At this rate I'm going to go to my first final and realize I don't know how to define Boyle's Law or something. (Haha, oh man, Boyle's Law was ages ago.)

One more thing, kiddos: it's T for a reason. There's a lot of swearing in here.

The city streets were quiet, the only sound of her breathing pervading the silence. At least, that was what she told herself; there were plenty of other sounds, drunken laughs and hushed snickers and the occasional scream, but they're not important, just keep walking, Lyra, you'll be fine…In all honesty, she was clenching and unclenching her fist repeatedly, silently cursing herself from getting separated from her partner, one hand holding her handgun in an iron grip.

Ethan is going to kill me, she thought to herself as she made her way silently toward the corner of 95th and Central.

She bitterly recalled what she had said: Ethan, we don't need a rendezvous point. I won't wander off! And he had replied, the usual cocky smirk on his face but a worried gleam in his gold eyes: Let's hope so, Lyra. The words he had left unsaid, however, said so many things: he was rightly worried, she was far too flippant, she wasn't strong enough to take care of herself, and so on and so forth.

And here she was, after recklessly ignoring his direct orders and making a beeline toward the noise once she had heard it: the sound of a spray paint can being used. He had followed her, but she had been swifter, and now she was alone with no idea where he was.

Maybe I'm not cut out for police work, she told herself, not the first time she had had such a thought. Maybe I should quit and go back home to Mom – she always has room in New Bark. But she shook her head slightly, brown eyes darting from left to right, her body automatically recalling her training to move fluidly, smoothly, to avoid detection.

There was more drunken laughter from nearby, joined by a chorus of others, and she startled, her finger tightening around the trigger of her gun. She forced herself to relax and she paused, listening; the voice sounded… taunting, almost. Threatening. While they received no response, she was pretty sure someone was cowering beneath them, afraid and about to get hurt. As a policewoman it was her duty to stop that sort of thing, so with a deep breath she turned down the alley and let the darkness blanket her.

She drew nearer to the voices on soundless steps, only stopping when she first caught sight of the offenders: two big, buff, drunk men and what looked to be a beautiful blond woman, cornered by them. There was also a flash of red, and she blinked when she saw that the woman was not actually cornered; she was holding back a crimson-haired boy, whose silver eyes reflected light off from the faraway streetlight. He looked completely expressionless as the men taunted him and the woman twisted his arm into a grip that Lyra knew firsthand as painful.

She was hopelessly outnumbered, but something inside her chorused for justice, and so justice she would serve. She had not wasted all this time training for nothing, after all, and she was, despite all appearances, one of the top police officers in the field when it came to moving swiftly and silently. This would play to her advantage.

It was also a good thing she was not wearing her police uniform at the moment, she reflected as she shoved her gun into her holster and instead cast her eyes around for a suitable weapon. She found what appeared to be an abandoned shovel and picked it up silently, testing the weight. Satisfied, she gave herself a tiny nod and drew even closer to the four, gaze intent on the boy with silver eyes. I'll have to take out the big ones first, but the woman looks fast. I've got the element of surprise, though. No problem.

She shrank back when the men punched the crimson-haired boy in the jaw, the sound proceeding not entirely unfamiliar but certainly unwelcome to her ears. Focus, she told herself. Taking a deep, albeit silent, breath, she picked her way forward, this time looking down at the ground to avoid stepping on something that might give her away.

Only when she was mere feet from the first man did she pause, analyzing the situation one last time. She barely winced when the crimson-haired boy was punched again, so focused was she on her task. Last chance to back out, Lyra, a small voice inside of her head murmured, and she considered it for about one second.

Then she surged forward, silent and deadly. I think not.

Her aim was true, and she landed a solid blow on the man's temple, one that made him crumple into unconsciousness (thank goodness for that, she thought in private relief). She wasted no time in landing another such hit on the other man, though he merely staggered and recovered quickly, lunging for her. She twirled, easily evading his clumsy grasp, and shoved the wooden end of her shovel's handle onto his temple as he fell. He did not get up, and she wondered with detachment if she had killed him. Her mind failed to focus on the fact as she continued with her duty.

The woman had released the boy and was slowly backing away, blue eyes wide and hands above her head. Lyra gave her a defiant stare, brown eyes narrowed, until the woman's eyes shifted to look behind her; then she grimaced as she instinctively ducked, hearing the punch go right over her head – apparently she hadn't even knocked the second man out, let alone killed him. With a grunt of irritation she whipped around and smacked his head with the shovel, and he dropped with a final groan.

When she turned around, the woman was gone – and the silver-eyed boy was staring at her, blood running from his nose, arms crossed protectively over his middle. His sharp, angular face was not swelling, which was a surprise considering how hard the man had punched him, and the gaunt appearance was a little odd but seemed to… fit him, almost. He wore the look like a cloak, Lyra decided, and she watched silently as he wiped the blood from his face with the back of his black sleeve.

He was just as silent as he pushed himself off the wall, wincing at the pain and hunching over slightly. Her eyes flicked to the duffel bag strung over his shoulder, the contents coming together with a sound resembling those of glasses clinking together in a toast. She met his eyes again as they abruptly hardened, noticing where her attention had been, and with just the slightest frown he turned and, just like that, disappeared into the darkness. She couldn't even see his shock of bright red hair, and even as she looked for a few seconds, she knew it was in vain.

Finally, with a scowl she dropped the shovel and turned away, shoving her hands into her pockets and forgetting that, with the motion, attention would be brought to the gun at her hip. Not that it mattered, she hoped as she continued to walk, until she was on the street again. She scowled even more deeply when she realized she could have been at the rendezvous already if she hadn't stopped; the crimson-haired boy hadn't even said thank you. Ungrateful tramp.

She continued walking quietly until she heard the distinct hiss of spray paint, in which she forced herself to hurry forward silently and quickly. When she arrived, however, the lot was abandoned. Someone had been painting graffiti again, as she had thought, but this actually looked somewhat like art. She came closer and, hesitantly, as if it would burn her, placed a finger on the edge of one letter. She traced it as her eyes slowly followed the trail, reading the message spray-painted in a beautiful array of fonts.

Affogo nel dolore.

"Where the hell have you been, Lyra?"

"I've been – walking."

"Lyra, don't even try to – seriously. What were you doing? What took you so long? I was about to call backup!"

"Ethan, I am a fully capable woman, and I can take care of myself."

"Lyra, you're nineteen."

"And Ethan, you're twenty-four. Give it a rest."

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"…"

"Look at me, Lyra. Look at me. Now tell me, what were you doing that took so long?"

"Nothing. I got lost. I found my way back. Simple."

"Lyra. Come on. You can tell me."

"… I helped someone."

"What, again? Lyra, you really don't need to help anyone in that sector. They're all criminals. Let them get what they deserve."

"But Ethan, he was my age, if not younger. I couldn't just let him be – "

"It's not worth risking your neck for someone like that. Next time, don't do anything. Okay? Promise me."

"But Ethan – "

"Lyra. Please."

"… Fine."

"If you break that promise I'm holding it against you."

"Go ahead; you already don't let me do anything anyway."

"Lyra, you know I'm just trying to protect you – "

"I can take care of myself, I've already told you a million times. How else would I have taken down those two guys in the alley earlier?"

"What?"

"Um. Wasn't supposed to say that."

"I'm guessing so. What exactly did you do while I wasn't there, you stupid idiot?"

"I'm not an idiot! And Ethan, before you say anything, I'm fine, I saved someone's life, and the jerks deserved it."

"Lyra, I think we need to have a talk with the Chief about this. You could've gotten killed!"

"No, no, please, Ethan; don't tell her. She doesn't need to know and she'll make a big deal out of it even though – please, Ethan, please don't tell her."

"… Since it's you, I guess I'll overlook it – only this once, though. Honestly, Lyra, you are such a handful! Everyone's worried to death you're going to get hurt somewhere along the line when we aren't watching you."

"I am one word away from slapping that smirk off your face, Ethan."

"Do it. I dare you – ow! I didn't think you'd actually – never mind."

"You're such an ass."

"Language, Lyra. Your mouth is even fouler than mine, and that's saying something."

"Shut up."

"Just saying."

"…"

"… What's that you have in your palm?"

"Oh. You mean this? I was walking and found some graffiti. Just wrote down what it said."

"Graffiti? Did you see the artist? Catch them red-handed?"

"No, they were gone by the time I arrived, but the paint was fresh – I could smell it. Anyway, here; recognizable to you?"

"Huh. Let's see if I can say this right – affogo nel dolore… kind of looks like Italian. I think 'dolore' means 'pain' or 'sorrow', but it's been years since my last class so I can't say for sure."

"I'll look online. And maybe I'll bring you around to show you the graffiti – it actually looks pretty cool, for street art."

"I'll believe it when I see it. See you tomorrow?"

"Of course. You think I wouldn't show up? Thanks for your faith in me."

"Don't mention it, Lyra. Good night."

"Yeah. You too."

She pointed out the graffiti to Ethan later the next day, and he was suitably impressed, one black eyebrow arching up and his metallic eyes widening somewhat. He agreed it was certainly something, and then added he had seen something in the same look and style. He believed it had said something with el dolor; perhaps it was similar to what it said here?

Lyra asked him to show it to her, and since they were off-duty, he did so. It was nearby, only a few blocks away, and just like her partner had said, the font and style was practically the same. This time, she also recognized the language, Spanish. She translated the words out loud for Ethan, I drown in pain, she said with surprise, and he wondered if someone was trying to leave a message for someone else.

Lyra said they would never know, would they. Ethan, after a moment's thought, agreed. Then he asked her to show him where she had taken down the two guys, just to see where she had been the day before. Although reluctant she was left with little choice, so Lyra quickly navigated the alleys to the very place where she had met the crimson-haired boy who hadn't thanked her for saving his ass. Her brown eyes narrowed slightly, but other than that that was the only visible reaction she had.

Upon arriving Ethan freaked and told her that this was one of the shadiest places in Goldenrod. What the hell had she been doing here? She could have been killed!

Yes, of course, Lyra replied. But I wasn't, was I? And he grumbled but consented, true, she hadn't been. She pressed him further that she was perfectly capable of handling herself and that she didn't need protecting all the time, but Ethan refused to respond, instead turning around and walking away. With a sigh, she followed, wondering what she really had been expecting.

He was really going to kill her this time.

One man said something and laughed, leering down at her with the most awful smirk on his face. She gave him a cool glance in response, thankful she hadn't brought her gun (they would use it against her already and that would have been – well, tricky, to say the least), and shifted, body pressed flat on the wall behind her. The other man reached out a hand and without hesitation she calmly slapped it away, her face expressionless. She forced herself to breath slowly, levelly, and her heart and mind calmed until she was once again capable of rational thought.

The first thing that came to mind was oh yes, Ethan was going to be furious with her, and with these thugs, and that it was a true shame that he didn't know where she was currently.

How are you going to get out of this one, Lyra? she asked herself, breathing slowly, watching with eyes devoid of expression as the men tittered to each other, eyes sliding over her slender figure. They were drunk again, which made sense, but she hadn't thought they'd be sober enough to distinguish her from all the other brunettes walking the length of the street. Then again, the Chief had told her before that her stride was far more confident and elegant than most; that had probably given her away.

She considered knocking both unconscious, but she could only do that if she had the element of surprise and was swift enough, and she didn't have the former or the latter – at least from what she could surmise from the dull, throbbing pain in her left thigh. If only she hadn't tripped when they had grabbed her, and maybe none of this would have happened. If only. Which made it a good thing that Lyra never let herself mope in 'if onlys' or 'what ifs'.

Maybe if she kicked them in the groin? No, that probably wouldn't work either. She briefly thought of codpieces and then successfully resisted the urge to chuckle. Well, actually, maybe it could work, so long as she managed to kick both in rapid succession. Which she couldn't, and even then, she couldn't really run. She carefully pressed some weight onto her left leg and cursed under her breath at the white-hot flash of pain it brought, shifting so she used primarily her right leg again.

Ethan was going to absolutely murder her if she got out of this.

She tensed as they both turned to her again, hands clenched into fists at her side, muscles in her lean arms prepared to fight, heart beginning to start its frenzied dance once more. She wasn't going to let them touch her without bruising them up a little, she thought grimly as one reached behind her to grab her arms. She gave the approaching hand a swift jab with her elbow, using her bad leg to kick at the other man who was coming from the other side and –

Oh god, that had hurt like hell. She made a mental note not to overexert her leg as it fell back to the ground, heel pressed against the wall of the building behind her. It was a struggle to keep her balance now; perhaps she hadn't just bruised her thigh but maybe sprained her ankle? She didn't know. All she could see was the faces of the two men and their hands and she closed her brown eyes so she didn't have to look anymore, breathing hard and heart pumping at impossible speeds. As a young, pretty policewoman who was often incognito, she should have been prepared for this sort of thing, and she thought she had been – but she'd been mistaken. I can't believe they even found where I keep my pepper spray. No one ever goes for the earrings…

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, there was a grunt and the sound of metal hitting flesh, followed by a thump as a heavy weight hit the ground.

Her eyes flew open unwittingly, and she saw the same crimson-haired boy from a few days ago standing over the two men, now unconscious, with what looked to be a metal pipe in his hand. He looked over at her and, once again, she blinked upon meeting his unusual silver eyes.

After a long moment of staring and silence, she sighed softly and pushed herself off the wall, grunting with effort. He made the slightest motion toward her, as if to help her, but refrained from doing anything as she shakily tested her balance. As she did this she wondered what to tell Ethan, calming her fluttering heart with a few steadying breaths. That had been way too close. Maybe I shouldn't say anything at all.

Satisfied with her legs' ability to hold her weight, she hobbled forward as he watched, stooping down to collect her belongings from one of the men. She was not exactly talented in the art of pick-pocketing, but she had enough skill to quickly retrieve her pepper-spray earrings and magazines for her gun (why she had brought those and not the gun she couldn't say) before rising unsteadily to her feet, biting her lip as her left leg protested violently, almost buckling underneath her. When the boy offered a hand, she wasted no time in grabbing it.

Without a word he helped support her weight as the two walked (stumbled, in Lyra's case) out of the alley and into broad daylight. Through the dull pounding of her leg she noticed his crimson hair, falling just below his shoulders, was impeccably smooth and combed, matching the surprising cleanliness of his jet-black jacket. Also, he had the same duffel bag, and its contents were clinking together with the unmistakable sound of… something she couldn't quite name at the moment.

He slung one of her arms around his shoulder as she blinked in the sunlight, and he gave her a quick glance before murmuring something that sounded like "This way" before continuing to walk. She gritted her teeth as she hobbled along, cursing her ankle every time she took a step and wondering why this strange silver-eyed boy was even helping her. Paying back a favor for what happened a few days ago? That would make sense; but all he would have had to do, then, was to knock out of the men and then leave. Instead, he was helping her along, though to where she couldn't say.

She wished the reassuring weight of her gun was bouncing against her thigh.

The boy slowed the pace a bit, and she exhaled loudly through her nose as her full weight landed on her (what she was now certain of) sprained ankle. She didn't collapse completely, but then she saw Ethan running toward her, and she chanced a quick glance to the boy besides her – but his face was shadowed, and his silver eyes were narrowed, and he wasn't looking at her.

With a sigh she whispered, "Thank you" before gently taking her arm from his shoulder. She tested her balance, found herself capable of at least standing, not failing to notice the crimson-haired boy was still standing next to her even as Ethan, a renowned officer, approached.

"Can I have your name?" she asked him, her voice coming out more as a croak. When she heard herself she was surprised; then, all of a sudden, she was swamped with fear and apprehension and anxiety. She swayed slightly and the crimson-haired boy easily reached out and steadied her, looking deep into her wide brown eyes. What on earth did I get myself into in that alley?

Ethan was within shouting distance now, and shout he did. Even so, Lyra did not miss the answer coming from the boy, his voice barely audible. "Silver."

"I'm Lyra," she whispered with a tired smile, and then she made a shooing gesture with her hand, her fingers shaking visibly. "You should – probably get out of here before Ethan pummels you to death."

The boy's lips lifted into what she could describe as the smallest smile, and without another word he turned and seemingly vanished down the nearest alley, his steps so quiet she couldn't even hear them, the clinks of his duffel bag the only thing testament to his presence. Ethan then drew up, yelling something down the alley before grabbing her shoulders and asking her repeatedly if she was okay.

No, she wasn't okay, she would've been raped were it not for the crimson-haired boy, she was terrified and scared and "Can you just bring me home?" she whispered, and Ethan quieted immediately, sensing her exhaustion and knowing his questions would receive no response.

She wondered if she would faint as the person besides her helped her walk, though he was obviously aiming for his apartment rather than her own; well, he could probably wrap up her ankle better than she could, anyway.

She was adamant about going outside afterwards, but Ethan had insisted she stay in her apartment for the day and to give her ankle a rest. So, instead of doing something useful, she got to sulk. All day. With no distractions but TV and books. And with her ankle burning whenever she placed weight on it. Also with her mind continuously chorusing I hate crutches every half-second.

So she sat on the couch, watching TV and reading books, Ethan checking in at lunch to make sure she had eaten. When she hadn't he had busied herself in her kitchen, and though he wasn't the greatest chef ever, the food he made was passable, so she ate all of it. Then she waved him away, though her anger of him ordering her to stay home had ebbed.

She hobbled over to the window of her small apartment and sat down at a chair she had placed there a few weeks ago – she loved looking out at her city. Goldenrod was beautiful, and she didn't let anyone tell her otherwise. Sure, some of the buildings were old and run-down and ugly and maybe close to collapsing, while others were new and hi-tech and marvels of architecture, and some places were rich and some overrun with gangs and violence, but it was her city.

She watched, and she learned how traffic flowed, where people tended to gather, where to not go during certain points of the day. There was always something new to learn about it.

Maybe that was why she loved it so much.

Another few days and she was freed of crutches and was now using an ankle brace. The doctor had told her not to overwork it, because sprains actually made the ankle weaker and more likely to break, but she didn't care. She could walk, finally, with minimal pain, and she thus she was happy.

Plus, she was half-hoping she would encounter Silver again. For all of his silence, he didn't seem like a bad guy.

Ethan was waiting for her at the door to her apartment building. They were both was off-duty, it being a Saturday (for one reason or another Ethan refused to work on Saturdays – Lyra guessed it had to do with the woman he was courting), and greeted her with a cheerful, "How's it going?"

She gave him a sunny smile and said in a sing-song voice, "So much better. I want to walk everywhere!"

He gave her a grin in return, but he reprimanded gently, "We can't walk too much, mind. We don't want you to kill your ankle again."

She saw the logic in this, of course, but the euphoria of being outside again trumped her reasoning. Still, she conceded to use the bus to go around town instead of walking at her partner's insistence. It was better than enduring his constant nagging.

The first stop was Lyra's favorite 'food area' as she called them, a quaint little café a little ways from the public square. All of the servers knew them by name, so when they entered and found a table a few of them, seeing as the café was nearly empty, came and sat with them to chat. That was one of the reason Lyra loved the place so much, other than the fact the food was delicious – plus they always knew to hold the pickles when preparing her sandwich.

After the brunch Ethan bid her farewell, citing his reason for leaving as "errands to run, sights to see." He also forbade her from walking too much, but telling her not to go to the same sector she'd attacked and been attacked slipped his mind.

Lyra was weaponless except for her pepper-spray earrings, so she knew she shouldn't go. But she had a nagging feeling that Silver would be hanging out around there; and truth be told, she kind of did want to see him again, maybe talk with him a little. He seemed like an interesting individual, and besides which, she had to thank him for getting her to Ethan those days ago. If he'd been anything like other street rats, he would've just repaid the favor by knocking out the men and then leaving; but instead, he had helped her walk, in the middle of day, where anyone could see him.

Yes, she had to thank him. She knew how the street rules worked, and she knew when someone was breaking them.

But still, she was weaponless, and gang activity always increased on the weekends. So she conceded that she wouldn't go the sector, despite knowing she dearly wanted to, and instead busied herself with visiting some places around the city. First, though, she had to get her bag from her apartment, which she hadn't grabbed earlier because Ethan had insisted on paying for the meal.

As she walked back to her apartment, a small smile on her face and her hands in her pockets, people milling besides her and talking and laughing, she heard something, just barely audible over the roar of the crowds around her: the sound of can of spray paint.

She didn't run like last time, but instead ambled along, angling herself toward the sound. It increased in volume as she neared, and she slowed as she neared a corner. Hesitantly, she edged around the corner and peeked into the alley.

She couldn't really see, but she could make out the form of a young man – along with the familiar shock of red hair. He was focused on spray-painting at this point, unaware of her presence. Since she was off-duty, she figured it was okay to get closer and watch, though she was surprised people hadn't tried to stop him; this was one of the richer, cleaner sections of town.

She didn't try to disguise her steps as she neared, and his head snapped up when she winced, her left foot slamming down on a sharp rock ("Ow. Dammit."). However, he paused only for a few seconds, as if knowing she wouldn't report him, and then he was back at work, shaking the cans, picking up new ones, continuing to paint. She stood back at a respectful distance and watched quietly.

It was almost done, she could tell immediately; she also recognized the style and fonts he was using. This, then, was the artist writing 'drown in pain' all over the city, wasn't it? The words he was using now looked foreign to her, Arabic maybe, but she was guessing it meant the same thing as the others. Drown in pain… maybe he was trying to leave a message, like Ethan had mentioned earlier.

When he finished, a quick dart of his hand with the paint, he packed everything in the same old duffel bag, quickly and efficiently and neatly. When he slung it over his shoulder he finally looked back to her, silver eyes holding a question: what will you do?

There was nothing to be said for quite some time, as they stared at each other, her with her hands in her pockets, his wrapped around the strap of his bag. Then, to his surprise, and also to her own, she smiled, held out a hand, and said, "You hungry?"

Even more surprising was when he shrugged, without taking her hand, but then began to follow her when she began walking away. She wasn't sure whether to be more pleased than anxious.

Please remember this was written about a year ago, so it may not sound like my usual style of doing prose. Assuming you read my other works, that is. Also, where in hell's name is Ethan/Hibiki in the characters list, because I spent quite some time looking for it, jeez.

Reviews are appreciated!