Alone, a small child wondered through the streets of the run down slums that littered the darker areas of Haven city. Tear tracks lined his face, though his eyes were dry. It had been a few weeks since his father had left him at the street corner with a backpack of basic supplies, then disappearing into the distance as he had driven off. His eyes, so full of hatred, had burned into the child for years, beatings and harsh words the only thing he had ever directed towards his only son.

Now he walked alone through the broken down side of Haven trying to stay alive. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, a small stuffed toy, and the tattered remains of the backpack, which was filled with a pitiful few odds and ends he had found or stolen. A dirty pillow, a torn tarp he used for a blanket, a worn tape player with a built in speaker, stolen from an old woman's house, with a collection of dean martin hits in the tape, some duct tape, bandages, some string.

And a switch blade that had almost killed him.

The child's ears twitched. He had become more practiced in sensing the dangers of the streets, trusting his instincts on where to avoid, on those places that where safe, although he still made mistakes. The lion ears, which he had inherited from his mother, scanned for sounds. A group of stray cats stirred in a nearby alley, although they ignored him. The stuffed lion in his arms, now grimy and covered in dirt and mud, was clutched tightly to his trembling chest.

Exhaustion and hunger gnawed at him. He had survived so far off the kindness of some of the locals in the area, although they always had questions he didn't want to answer. Where was he from? Where was his family? Was there someone he could call? More than once, the families had tried to call the police or social services.

He had managed to get away, but the last time had been so close he had decided it wasn't worth trying again. He had also noticed that fewer people looked on him with kindness as the grime had accumulated. Now, most of the time, he had looks of suspicion and even outrage. He had begun to steal as a last resort, nabbing food and items that where carelessly left out.

He hated taking, but it was the only option that he had left. Even now, he looked for possible food, stopping at trash cans whenever there wasn't anyone nearby. He grabbed a half eaten apple, but mold and maggots clung to the inside. he sighed. he wasn't desperate enough to eat something like this. not yet, anyway.

The child was not alone on the streets, nor was he the only child. There were others who had been out longer and who were more viscous, sometimes to the point of being feral. They gathered in small groups, staking claims in alleys or even in the sewers. He steered clear of them as best he could. He had survived largely due to his claws and adaptability, although he had only had to use his claws once. Even still, he had had some close calls. He winced as the cut on his side split.

He gently reached into his pocket, pulling out the prize he had retrieved from the confrontation that had almost killed him: A six-and-a-half inch switchblade, sharpened on both sides. A word, inscribed in cursive, was on the hilt. The blade had become embedded in his side as he had tried to escape from a gang of men who had come around to kick up trouble.

They had been dressed in expensive-looking clothes and had near perfect looks. One, who seemed to be playing leader, had a football jacket on his back. Normally, he would have stayed away from them, but they had smiled at him, beckoned him closer. That was what had gotten him. It had been so long since someone had wanted him around. even the people who helped him gave him worried or nasty looks when they thought he wasn't looking.

He had immediately walked over to them. They had been friendly, giving him food and water, and even hanging out with him a while, making jokes and being friendly. they didn't ask him any questions, and, in fact, ignored him for the most part, unless he chimed in about something. One had thrown a jacket over his back, warming him up.

They had changed, though, as time began to pass and the day waned. They had been passing around a silver flask, and he caught the whiff of alcohol, a familiar scent from those nights when he tried to hide from his father. he had been warry, but the maintained their friendly demeanor, so he relaxed. They drank till the flask was empty, laughing and getting louder and rougher.

One of them cuffed him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jostle him. Others were making jokes he didn't understand, saying things like "little kitty" and "alley cat". He had never been around his father while he was hitting the bottle, or he might have seen where it was going.

The leader, after the sun had left the sky, had asked him if he wanted to see something. When the child had nodded, the man had pulled out a blade. His smile changed, though the child didn't notice at first. The knife had been beautiful. The hilt was gold plated, a word inscribed in cursive along the length. The blade had been a bone white metal. The child had reached for it hesitantly. The man had nodded encouragingly, urging him on.

The first cut had been a surprise, and had barely hurt. Out of nowhere, a blade had cut the back of his hand. Unlike the other knife, this one had been obsidian, and he almost didn't see it. They had been sitting in the light of the cars headlights. He looked, dumbfounded, at the back of his hand, which had a smooth gash along the middle, opposite the palm. There was no blood, and no real pain.

The second cut was more obvious, and hurt a lot more. A slash cut across his right shoulder, where the jacket had slipped from him, severing the skin and cutting into his muscle. He had cried out, but the sound was covered up by the drunken laughter of hyenas. He had jumped to his feet, his hand covering the wound. Thanks to this, he managed to miss being impaled by a third knife, but he practically jumped onto the fourth.

The blade entered his skin with the feel of burning fire, and lodged itself in his side, just above his hip. Without thinking, his claws extended and he lashed out. His hand missed the man holding the knife, who was then forced to let go to keep his face intact. His swing did, however, catch the lead man, who was still sitting in front of him.

The man had cried out himself, much louder and deeper, as blood began to gush from the wounds. Drunk as they were, the others were too busy laughing at this new pain to notice the child running off, fear and adrenaline keeping him on his feet.

He had later managed to remove the knife, with the help of a wino who was holed up under an overpass in a tent. The man helped extract the blade, careful not to damage the surrounding flesh with the sharpened blade. Then he washed the wounds with some of his vodka reserves, grumbling about wasting his "precious commodity on a street rat". The pain had been so great that the child had blacked out. He woke two days later, laid out on a filthy mattress under the same overpass. His pockets had been turned out, though he had nothing in them to begin with.

His backpack, oddly enough, had some new things in it, namely, the duct tape, bandages, and half a protein bar, which he ate as fast as he could. it had tasted like sawdust, but managed to get him to his feet.

The knife and his lion had been placed on the ground in front of him, and his wounds had been bandaged, although the bandages were filthy. He had cried for a few hours, pain and sadness turning his insides to mush, but he knew from the way his stomach was turing that he needed to eat something. He had been wondering for a few hours now. The sun was setting, and he had lost himself in the rotting center of society.

An elevated freeway ran over this section of the city. The sound of cars had comforted him in the beginning, helping him to imagine his father would come back. Now, they offered nothing but an annoying buzz to go along with his pain. He was just thinking that he should try and sleep for the night when he caught the scent of cooking food. Not even thinking, he raced towards it. The smell was overpowering, with the scent of meat cooking over an open fire drifting through his nostrils.

It didn't even occur to him to wonder why there was a fire in the middle of a neighborhood, or why someone would be cooking outdoors in this largely abandoned section of buildings. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled. The smell was coming from just around the corner...

He sprinted around the curve... and pulled up short. Four men stood before him. Two had their backs turned, but he recognized all of them. They were the men who had fed him, had given him water... and had attacked him two days before. All wore perfect clothing and had clean hair. The car was parked over to one side, blocking the street on the other side. An alley went off to either side, though they were dark. A fire pit had been set up in the middle of a circle of bricks. Hot dogs sat on spits over the fire.

The left man, upon seeing him, laughed. "Hey, what do you know? The boss was right. A bit of food and presto! The little kitty came out to play!"

The one on the right laughed as well, a deep, ugly sound. The two men who were turned away from him moved, coming around. One was dressed similarly to the others, expensive but not outstanding. The one on the right... had a football jacket on. His face was covered by what looked like a hockey mask, but he had the same cruel blue eyes. Something twitched beneath the mask, and a thin line of blood trickled out from under the mask.

The child had the horrific feeling the man had tried to smile. He began to speak, and each word brought a fresh line of blood out. "I figured it had a good chance of working." His words were slurred and broken, and the child noticed he was weaving on his feet. In one hand he held the gold and white blade. his eyes where bloodshot, and he looked like there was something other than booze flowing through his blood.

The child tried to back away, but his ears caught the sound of something flying through the air. He dropped to the ground, kicking out backwards with his feet. They hit calves, knocking over the man who had tried to club him. The broken table leg went flying, and he ran to the right, towards an alley. But a second man stepped out. he was big and brutish, with hands the size of bricks.

Now thoroughly surrounded, the child began to panic. He turned back, planning on running into the other alley, but found himself face to mask with the lead man. the man had been dead silent, and he tried to scream, but a hand grabbed his throat. His sound cut off, his lungs aching at the sudden backfire as the air had nowhere to go. He felt himself being lifted, his hands coming up and beating at the arm that held him, but the man who held him was in a drug and alcohol induced state of strength, and the child might as well have been punching a brick wall.

Now he began to have a different problem. with the air in his lung rapidly growing stale, his body screamed for him to take a breath. on top of this, the blood circulating through his jugulars was slowing as the man squeezed. his vision was growing fuzzier, his head dizzy.

His lion had fallen to the ground, and he was dimly aware of a ripping sound as the other men tore it to shreds, tossing the pieces into the fire. His vision was going black at the edges. His claws extended, scratching at the man's arms and wrists, but despite the cuts, he seemed oblivious. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware he was going to die.

THE BLADE. The thought pried loose from his turmoil. His body acted on it's own, his hand leaving the arms that where choking him, reaching into his pocket, where he had moved the blade after he had awoken. His thumb fumbled for the spring release for a moment. Then the reassuring vibration of the blade flipping out was felt through his hands, and his body swung. The blade missed the man's body, but on it's pass, it caught the edge of the mask.

The hands relaxed for a moment, a shiver of surprise running through the body that held him. The child pushed out a breath, then noticed the mans face. The sounds of the laughing men receded, and the child was stuck looking into the face...

His claws had done much more damage than he thought. One, probably his middle finger, had caught the top of his forehead, ripping down along the left side of his nose, cutting the nostril open. The other three claws, minus the pinky, had cut down under either eye, and one had caught the middle of his lip. The lips were ruined, three cuts ripping the top lip open, the skin parted, blood dripping from the wounds that looked crudely bandaged.

The teeth showed under the ruined face, stained red. A puff of air hit him as he breathed.

The child jerked. The air was the same sour stench that marked the nights when his father had stumbled in to his room, screaming at him, and always his mother's name. The man, for he had been a man, unlike his mother, who had been a faunus like the child, had always been horrified by what he'd done after becoming sober. But he never stopped drinking, never once came home sober.

The memories, the smell, and the jerk saved his life. On instinct, the child thrust forward towards the man's face with both hands. Whether by luck or by purpose, the blade, held in his right hand, stabbed through the eye socket of the man. The jerk was so forceful that, pushed as it was by fearful strength and adrenaline, it punched through the thin bone shield behind the eye, jamming into the man's brain.

He fell to the ground, retching as the man let out an unearthly howl. The other men, who, moments before, had been laughing and giggling to themselves, watched, dumbstruck, as their leader convulsed. He fell to the ground, jerking, over and over again. The child looked up, and couldn't stop looking. The man continued to scream, the sound bouncing off the concrete and brick walls that surrounded them, but as he did, a hand grasped the knife handle. His body shivered, and blood flew from his mouth as he bit his tongue.

With a single jerk, the blade was pulled free. A sickening, sucking sound reached his ears, and for a moment, the child again looked into the ruined face of this man who had tried to kill him moments before. Blood soaked most of his body, and a skull-like smile coated his face. one of his eyes had been bisected, the pupil cut almost evenly in half. He jerked once more, his final breath wheezing from the ruined remains of his face. And he fell.

The other men looked back and forth from the faunus to their leader, shock and surprise covering their faces. The sound of cars was distant, difficult to hear over the sound of the boy dry heaving. One of the men stepped forward, hesitantly, anger slowly beginning to appear on his face.

"You... you killed him... You...YOU LITTLE FUCK!"

Anger overcame all of them, and he couldn't even stand. He closed his eyes, just hoping it would be over soon. He heard them approach, could feel them radiating anger, hate, and madness. He waited.

He heard the first strike before he felt it. a savage kick to his stomach. his breath abandoned him, and a thin squeaked flew from him as he tried to scream again. The second hit was worse. one of the men grabbed his leg, wrenching it out straight. The table leg came down on it with an awful snap. He screamed, a horrific, awful sound that tore at his throat. The child rolled, grasping at the limb. His claws extended without intention, his body going into survival mode. the claws cut his skin, but at this point, he was too hurt to notice.

When they saw this, the men began to laugh again.

One grabbed his hand, forcing it open. He took a knife from his own pocket, and forced the blade beneath the pinky claw. The child tried to scream again, but his voice wouldn't co-operate. The claw was ripped from his finger, a jagged, bloody hole left where it had once held sway. The edges of his vision where blurring again and he could feel the tempting touch of the unconsciousness.

But, a moment before it touched, he heard a new sound. A shout of indignation, And a collection of meaningless, slurred words. from the very edge of his notice, he saw them.

The people wore ragged clothing and were from all different stocks, tall, short, young, old. some where haggard, others relatively fair looking. The only thing that they had in common was that they were all armed, with knifes, boards, broken glass shards and even an occasional sword. They looked like an ill equipped militia from some far off village. The men straightened as they looked at the group of people, their anger and hate bleeding from them and being replaced sudden fear, a stench so strong even he could smell it.

One tried to speak, lifting his hands in a surrender gesture, but then the group charged.

The child was fading by the time they were finished. He was listening more than watching at this point. The sounds of solid hits and grunts of pain were heard. Car doors slammed, glass broke, an engine revved, and the car tore away. In his final moments of consciousness, he heard words.

"Kid! Hey, Kid! You still alive?"
"Careful. He was pretty torn up when I last saw him."
"This whole mess could have been avoided if you had just brought him back with you."
"I doubt he would have let me. He looked like he'd been through hell."
"And does he look any better to you now, you dirty rotten drunke-"
"ENOUGH, shut up, both of you. Get the meds; we need to stop the bleeding. And get a splint on that leg!"

He felt himself floating, the pain searing his mind, digging sharp fingers into his mind. Then, through the dull haze, he felt a small prick on his arm. Suddenly, the pain flushed from his body, numbness spreading from the prick outward. He still felt the ache, but suddenly, the pain itself was gone.

"Hey, stay with us, kid. Talk to me; what's your name?"
He struggled to remember. "M-my, m-my name, is... Zach."