A/N: I stopped writing fanfics in 2005 after I graduated high school and only started writing them again recently. This is technically the last fanfic I wrote before my four-year hiatus. It started life as an original fic with the names changed; and even then, somebody recognized it and called me out on the similarities to Gundam Wing. So here it is, with the names changed back and a bit of editing (because let's face it, my writing really sucked back then).
I don't remember exactly how old I was when I started fighting them. I know I was young, probably six or seven, when my world was opened to the shadows and the war within them. Ever since I was small I knew there was something different about me, something that made me... not human. It wasn't until I discovered them that I knew what I was, but I was determined to be different. I wasn't like them. I detested them and their ways, and I longed to be like everyone else.
I chose to fight them because they represented everything I didn't want to be. The only alternative was becoming more like them, and that was out of the question. Forgetting the war existed and tuning my back on the shadows would have been impossible; they would have found me eventually.
They did find me, once; that was when I became aware of the other world, the world in the shadows, and they tried to make me like them. They forced it upon me, and I fought back with all my strength. I was rescued by a man who did not realize I was like them, who thought I was a human child. He drove them away, killed them, and took care of me. From him, I learned of the war.
I never knew his name. He left me the next night to find them again, to kill more of them, and he never came back. I still think of that man as my father, because it is the earliest memory I have of a person who cared for me. All my life I had lived on the streets, in the alleys and back lots of the dirty city I called home, and never once before meeting him did I wonder about who my parents were, or what I was doing in this world. Until that point I was a drifter, a thief, an orphan boy who slept wherever I could find a dry corner and fought to survive.
After I realized he wasn't going to come back, I left and went into the world with a new outlook on life. I had a purpose: to fight them, and in doing so affirm that I was not like them.
When I was eleven I was caught by a night patrol and taken to an orphanage. I can say my age then with certainty, because Father Maxwell and Sister Helen told me it was so, and they made that day my birthday so that I would feel welcome.
They were poor and didn't receive much funding, and the orphanage closed soon after I arrived and was turned into a church. All the children were placed into homes—all except me. None of the couples wanted to take me in, and I don't blame them for it. Deep down, I knew I wanted to stay with Father Maxwell and Sister Helen; maybe things would be easier then.
I think that Father Maxwell and Sister Helen knew I was different from the other children. I also think that they had become attached to me and didn't want to hand me over for adoption. For my part, I didn't want to go home with someone I didn't know. Maybe it was a combination of all of our wants and desires, or maybe it was just that no one cared. I stayed with Father Maxwell and Sister Helen, and helped them in all the ways I could while still struggling with my life in a world they knew nothing about.
Twice a week I would go out and join in the battle. I fought alone; I knew of no one else, and alone was fine for me. I didn't want to have to worry about someone getting in my way or slipping up and putting me in danger. Often I fought as one of them, and it confused them enough that I was able to finish quickly. Other nights, when the fear of being found out was strong, I kept to my human side and fought them with whatever weapon I had—more often than not the sword I had taken from the man's room.
I knew Father Maxwell and Sister Helen worried, but what could I do? I lived in my own world, separate from theirs. No matter what they did, no matter how often Sister Helen berated me gently while she cleaned my cuts and asked how I'd gotten them, no matter how often they told me they were at their wits end and how they feared I would end up a sinner in hell, I refused to believe in their god. I couldn't.
They didn't understand, and I didn't feel the need to elaborate. They would not have understood my reasons, because they didn't understand me. I didn't want to make them worry needlessly. I didn't want to bring them into the war that was raging out on the streets, fought in dark alleyways and in abandoned buildings, unknown to most of the world. It wasn't right to let them know. And above all, I didn't want to put them in danger. I didn't want them to die, and leave me all alone in the world again.