He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but it was a hopeless endeavor to begin with. The sounds from the next room over were too loud and disgusted him too much for him to bother trying for the peace of sleep again. He tossed off his covers and stood up.

"Rags, go back to sleep."

"You go back to sleep."

"Don't order me 'round," Free muttered sleepily.

"I'm the big brother." They didn't actually know who was older, but he was taller; he was bigger, so he was the big brother. He knew how to hurt more, too.

"You'll get in trouble."

"I don't give a fuck." He'd really had it. This was all he knew, the only life he knew. That didn't mean it was a good life. He didn't even know if the woman he called 'mom' was actually his mother, or if she'd just picked them up off the street to put to use. The dingy room in the run-down apartment wasn't infested with vermin -besides them, as their loving maternal figure would say- and that was the nicest thing that could be said about it. A run down apartment in the worst part of town that had been abandoned by whoever had once owned the thing.

Let their mother's pimp shoot him for all he cared anymore. He was sick of living like this, tired of the random men in and out, tired of the raves taking place in the next apartment or next room, tired of having to hide in the closet with his brother just so no one got any ideas.

Fuck. That.

And that was assuming anyone out there was sober enough to shoot him. He walked over and kicked the wall, the banging resounding and drowning out the sound of the other banging. "Knock it the fuck off! Some of us are trying to sleep! Pick one of the other dozen empty spots in the building to fuck!"

The sounds faded off and he stalked back over to the corner of the room he called his own. His brother's widening eyes warned him and he ducked low to the ground, lashing out with his foot behind him and catching the John right in the crotch, dropping him where he stood. Someday, he promised himself, I'm going to own a room of my own with a door I can lock whenever I want.

Mother leaned heavily against the empty doorframe. "That wasn't very nice, Rags. Mama needs him."

'Mama' needs what his money can get her in needle-form. He scoffed. "Like I give a shit. Keep your fucking and your fuckers to yourself. Some people actually try to get sleep at night."

She smiled that crocodile smile and blew out a cloud of smoke that didn't come from any cigarette. "Oh, honey, you aren't 'people', you're a thing."

He hid his wince under anger. "What the fuck ever. Keep pissing me off and this thing isn't going to support your ass anymore. Two of us in this room are earning our keep, you aren't either of them." It's what he'd been telling his brother for years: When they built up a little bit of money, they'd be gone, just disappear one day and walk away instead of coming back to the apartment after their petty thefts.

She didn't seem to believe it any more than he did at times, letting out a cackle that could have cracked glass- if they'd had any glass that wasn't alcohol bottles in the building. She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his shorter form, making his skin crawl as she spoke directly into his ear. "Oh, Rags. There is no future in this place, no someday. You're not going anywhere. You need me as much as I need you." Bull. Shit. Where there was a will, there was a way, and they would find their way out of here.

"I need you like I need crabs." He really hoped she wasn't actually their mother. Not because he had any mythical loving parent in mind that he dreamed would come rescue them, just because he didn't want to think of all the things she could have given them before they'd been born that they'd have to get tested for later. He shook her off and dragged her latest 'boyfriend' to the doorway, dropping him in the hall with a kick that made the man double up and groan. "Keep your dicks out of our room."

She huffed and left, leaving her John there on the floor without a care. What did it matter to her when her pimp had more men lined up waiting to use her? He made his way back to the huddle of blankets that made up his bed and rolled on his side, resolutely closing his eyes as sounds began again in the next room. God damn it all.

Someday...

He didn't bother running as the men closed in around him. He wouldn't make it far anyway. He wasn't the fast one.

A piercing whistle drew the attention of three of the five, the smartass giving them a jaunty wave before disappearing down the side street with their wallets held high. He smirked as the dumb-asses gave chase. His brother was the fast one.

The remaining two he could definitely take and he settled back into a defensive stance. "Bring it on, fuckers."

The first's punch was ridiculously sloppy, he could have dodged it half-asleep. Either new to the streets or new to the gang lifestyle, he didn't stand a chance. Rags nailed him with a vicious uppercut and then spun around with a kick that landed solidly on his cheek, sending him sprawling on the asphalt.

The other was far more experienced, and he barely moved his head to the side in time to avoid the blow aimed to brain him from behind. There was a reason they tended to use this particular street: the broken windows and glass all around gave a near-perfect panoramic view from any spot. He grabbed the other's arm tightly and heaved him over his shoulder. The guy rolled to his feet and grinned ferally at him in a way that put him on edge. He hated people that smiled like that, like he was some mouse, like he was prey.

Rags snarled and launched himself at his enemy. He didn't expect the man to step into his attack and plant a fist in his solar plexus. His breath stole out in a pained wheeze as his back hit the ground to the sound of glass crunching under his body. There was a moment of utter panic as he tried to breathe and couldn't draw air. Light refracted off a dozen surfaces as the asshole pulled a knife on him. Shit, shit, shit! Move! Move you piece of shit! Move!

He dragged a desperate gasp of air and spun his body around on the abrasive ground, sweeping his opponent's feet out from under him. Rags jumped up and panted for breath, moving back out of range of the other's blade while he forced his body to remember how to work properly. His back and shoulders felt like ground meat where his shirt had ridden up and the glass dug into him, that was going to be fun to pick out later...

The other grinned manically and rushed at him, swiping at his midsection. Rags jumped back, sucking in his stomach just in time not to lose it. Fucker wasn't just trying to disfigure him, he was trying to gut him! Fury washed away the pain and he pulled his foot up and aimed it for the other's face. He knew for a fact, younger or not, his gangly legs were longer than Knife-guy's arm. His opponent showed no concern for his own well-being and took the opportunity to skewer him in the calf with that fucking knife even as his face met with the heel of Rags' stolen combat boot.

Knifeless-guy crumpled to the ground in perfect time with Rags' pained shout as he lost his own balance to the pain and fell backwards. "Shit, you little fuck!" The whole area around the blade throbbed in fresh agony with each heartbeat. He reached down cautiously to touch it and hissed. Shit, he didn't have time to do this nicely, even a goddamned boot to the face wasn't going to keep that psycho down for long. He set his jaw, wrapped his hand around the handle, and pulled, the scream muffled by his teeth as he tossed the blade away.

His shallow breaths were sucked in through his clenched teeth as he forced himself up into a crouch on his bad leg, blood already filling his boot and soaking through his sock, squelching disgustingly. The pain only added to his fury as he approached his downed enemy, who was just recovering himself with a chuckle. Rags stepped on his left arm- the one that had held the blade, and put his weight on it. "Find that funny, do you?" He lifted his foot and snarled, "Laugh at this!"

Knife-psycho screamed, and Rags smirked at the satisfying 'pop' when the elbow joint gave way. He wasn't sure if it was just dislocated or if he'd broken something.

He should fix that.

He dug his heel in harder and ground, the other's screams reaching a new height as his elbow was utterly ruined beneath Rags' foot. He picked it up and stomped down again.

"Try it again. Come on, try it! You want to play, right? Like sharp things, right? Play with me, play with me, play with me now!" Stomp, stomp, stomp. The other was insensate- he wasn't even sure if he was still conscious. He didn't much care, fury driving his every move. Knife-psycho's accomplice woke up in time to see him deliver a devastating kick to his friend's head before turning on him. His lips spread in a smile that had nothing in common with sanity. "You wanna go, too? Come on, fight me. Fight me. FIGHT ME!"

The man scrambled to his feet and scuttled backward like a panicked crab. "St-stay away from me! You're some kind of demon!" He turned around and ran, as fast and as far as his unsteady feet would take him.

Rags didn't bother trying to chase after him. After all, he wasn't the fast one. The red haze cleared from his vision somewhat and he could feel the pain and anger as two sensations separate from each other. He limped over to where the blade lay in the street among the broken glass, picking it up. It was a folding knife, with a loop cut in the blade, meant to catch on the fabric of one's pocket and open itself when pulled out. He spun it around his finger by the loop before folding it and putting it away. Spoils of victory.

Damn right he was a demon. It was the only way to survive these streets. He'd be as demonic as he had to be to keep himself and his brother alive. If he had to be the Demon of the Streets, he'd do so in a heartbeat and never look back.

Plink. He hated this place. Plink. He hated it. Plink. Hated it more every day, with every breath he drew. This sick, twisted place that spawned equally sick, twisted people. Plink. He hissed in pain.

"Sorry." Shit, was Free digging the glass from his back or mining for fucking gold back there? "I need to- there's too much blood."

"Go for it." The sting of the brandy on his wounds made him grit his teeth and groan, but that wasn't going to be anything compared to the one on his leg. It wasn't even going to be fun peeling off his blood-stuck pants to get to the thing. His boot still squelched when he moved. "How much did we get?"

"They had a four-hundred and thirty-some odd dollars on them in total."

His heart almost skipped a beat at the number. That was a lot of money. A lot of money. That much money could get them a long way away. He didn't have to think before the words left his mouth. "Hide it. Now. Free, hide it now, my wounds can wait. Go!" They'd get beaten for not bringing home any cash. It'd be worth it for that much.

Free scrambled to obey, moving swiftly and quietly into their closet, wedging the money into the small hole in the back top-right corner, out of sight of even a flashlight. He came back out and knelt down in front of his brother to poke at the wounded leg, just in time for their mother to stumble into the room. It was early, the sun barely setting, her pimp didn't get in until midnightish, so she had to be sober- which was never a good thing. They both tensed.

"How much did you get?"

Rags looked her in the eye. "Didn't get a fucking thing. Do I look like I had a good day?"

She'd been getting more and more unstable lately. Not that she'd ever had a problem turning a hand to them even in the best of times, but she'd changed lately. Seemed to enjoy doling out pain in a way Rags only ever did when he lost himself to the blood-fury in a fight. She was on him in an instant, pressing him backwards and digging claw-like nails into his chest. "Lying, you're lying! You have to have gotten something! Give it to me, I need it. I need it!"

The woman wasn't to be underestimated even at her highest, but when she was hurting for the relief she only got from a needle, she was a whole different creature. Rags bucked and threw himself to the side. "Get off!"

She rolled to her knees, eyes too-bright. "You're lying to me. Lying to Mama. Bad boy. What bad boys you always are." She pulled the knife from her skirt, the one she used to 'dissuade' Johns who thought they'd get away without paying her what she was due. Shit, shit, shit. They never got away without scars when she went into Psycho Bitch Mode. "Come to Mama."

He levered himself to his feet and tested his leg- hiding the grimace when it nearly gave out on him. Fuck. He didn't even have to think before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife he'd stolen, his own blood still on the blade. He gave his own feral smile. "Come to Rags."

Movement from the corner of his eye grabbed his attention. "The money's right here." Both their heads whipped around to Free, standing at the doorway and flashing the cash. "Come get it." He took off running.

SHIT! "Free, no!" He collapsed to the floor as his leg gave out on him, unable to grab the woman as she slipped past like a snake on the hunt. FUCK! He growled at his weakness and tried to get up again, fresh blood pooling in his boot and trickling down his back. Free just had to be a fucking hero, didn't he? Idiot little brother!

The mad cackle that trickled up from the floor below made his heart race and he forced himself up, locking his jaw and stomping with his injured leg, jarring, electric agony racing up his spine and prickling even the back of his neck. She couldn't catch Free, she couldn't. Not once he lost himself. No one could touch him then. Rags had to believe that. He stomped again. Fuck this shit. Get angry, dammit. Get furious!

A howl echoed through the apartment. A piercing, pained howl. That was all he needed to ignite the fury in his blood, anger washing his mind in red at the thought of that bitch touching his brother over something so pointless as paper. Every step he took on his bad leg only stoked the flames inside. If she'd touched his brother, hurt his brother, he was going to shove the knife clutched in his hand through her black, shriveled heart. The front door of the apartment, the only door in the apartment, stood no chance against the storm of his wrath. The wood turned to kindling beneath his boot, splinters littering the hall.

Another high-pitched yelp-like howl sounded before it changed- changed into a very young, very human scream. Rags' heart kicked into overdrive and he ran down the stairs. Free! His brother was alright. No one could touch him. No one could touch him. No one had better have fucking touched him!

The door to the unit below was partly open and slammed against the wall with a bang that resounded through the entire structure, Rags stopping cold at the scene in front of him and his breathing picked up. Free crouched on the floor, wedged back into a corner with her standing over him, and clutching his face, clutching at his eye- blood pouring freely between his fingers as he screamed, slamming his head back against the wall.

There was a very distinct sound of something shattering. Rags thought it might have been his sanity, but couldn't bring forth the effort to care. She'd touched his brother, hurt his brother, maimed his brother. The red world narrowed down to just her, just him, and the absolute desire to utterly destroy her. There was no method and no skill in the way he threw himself at her. She rounded on him, her nails longer than normal and deformed, or maybe it was only his perception of them. Fuck the difference.

He knew they hurt more when she slashed them across his face. Hurt him through the anger. He didn't care, he didn't care; let her hurt him, maim him, blind him. Let her. Let her try. He wouldn't care, he wouldn't stop, not until she was gone, not until she was dead. That was all that mattered anymore: her dying for hurting Free.

Rags grunted and shook his head to clear the blood from his eyes, arm moving with the swiftness of a viper towards her throat. He panted in surprise when she managed to grab his hand and hold up the blade. She'd always been fast, but her speed was unreal, her strength impossible as she crushed his hand in hers and forced him unwillingly to drop the knife. She leaned forward, forcing his arm behind his head and pushing back until his knees gave out.

It couldn't be possible. She couldn't beat him. Couldn't bring him to his knees like an unruly child, make him kneel before her. Werewolves shouldn't be possible. His mind whispered. His own demonic tendencies shouldn't be possible. What was one more impossibility in their lives?

She laughed that glass-cracking laugh as he struggled fruitlessly against her hold. She brought her claws down on him again and his head whipped to the side from the force of her blow, blood stinging his eyes and blinding him. Let her hurt him, maim him, blind him. Rags couldn't breathe he was so angry. It choked him, disgust at his own weakness nearly made him puke. Unable to do anything while his brother sobbed against the wall. And not a single other fucking person in the building would so much as look in to see what the commotion was about.

It was a coal in his chest, magma in his veins, the sheer, overwhelming hatred that swamped him. He would kill her, no matter what! He'd get stronger and more powerful and he would kill her for what she'd done to them! The burning in his chest intensified, nearly a solid, living thing, growing with every heartbeat. Her laugh scratched at him, he panted for breath in the too-hot air and tasted the copper of his own blood on his tongue where it ran down his face like a crimson waterfall. There was a great echoing 'crack' from somewhere inside his chest and it was like chains breaking free from the walls that held them.

Power flooded his system, rising from his chest and flowing down his unhindered arm. He didn't know where it came from, he didn't care. He raised his arm up and let it gather, he could feel it against his fingers, a shapeless, formless something. It felt questioning, like it was asking him what he wanted, and the thought rang clear as a bell through the fury of his mind. Something strong enough, powerful enough, unstoppable enough to annihilate her!

The something solidified in his grasp, with an indomitable weight that he couldn't hold aloft, that she couldn't possibly have the strength to stop, and he brought his arm down with it, feeling as much as hearing her laugher as it turned into ear-piercing screams.

"Rags! No! Be good! Be good for Mama!"

He never had been a very dutiful son. "Die, bitch!"

The floor shook with the impact of the thing he held in his hand still, and the silence at the end of it rang louder than a bell.

He heard sniffles coming from somewhere ahead of him. "R-Rags?"

"I can't see, Free. How bad is it?" He didn't even know if he was talking about his own wounds or his brother's.

"M-my eye. Rags, she t-took my eye! I can't- it hurts," he whimpered.

"We need... We need to... need to go." They needed to go... somewhere. Damned if he could think where at the moment. He put a hand on his knee and stood up, forced to let go of the too-heavy something. The moment he did, he heard and felt it shatter into nothingness, but he could feel it inside, ready to be called on again- whatever it was.

"She- she's dead. She's dead."

"We need to go." When he actually got upright, the whole world, dark as it was with his eyes glued shut from his own blood, tilted precariously. He would have fallen if Free hadn't jumped up to bolster him. They needed to go... away, that was it! "Free, do you still have the money?"

Another wet sniffle preceded the answer. "Y-yeah. When she caught me- I don't know how she caught me, no one's ever been as fast as me before -it was like she didn't even want it anymore she just wanted to-"

"Hurt us."

"Yeah..."

Thanks mostly to Free, they managed to hobble back upstairs and Rags limped his way to the sink to wash his face. That was a mistake on his part. The rusted water might as well have been the alcohol lying in bottles around them and he sucked in a sharp breath as his whole face throbbed. He rinsed his mouth out and spat, then reached for one of the closest bottles, an unopened one, and popped the seal on it with his teeth. He took a swig of the burning drink. Three long swallows later he held it out to Free's general direction. "Drink."

His brother complied wordlessly and he counted the gulps, taking it back after four. His hand trembled on the bottle and he took another pull. They traded back and forth until it was gone and he reached out for the second bottle. Free took it from him. "On three."

"Yeah."

"One. Two."

Rags didn't bother to try and hold in his scream as Free upended half the bottle on his mutilated face. He lashed out and swiped several more off the counter, his fingers finding and trying to dig in to the steel sink. His whole body shook in reaction and he took the booze. It was a good thing he didn't have to be particularly accurate. "On three."

"Yeah," Free mirrored.

"One." He poured. Free screamed and dug his wolven claws into the counter far more effectively than Rags had with the sink.

As soon as he could stay upright without shaking from the pain, he grabbed Free's arm and pulled him towards their room. They didn't have much, but they weren't leaving here without everything of theirs. Free let out a breath as they both gathered the few things they owned. "We're leaving."

Fuck yes, they were. They went downstairs and stepped outside just in time to see their mother's pimp enter the building as midnight beckoned, smiling in a way that, even through still-blurry vision, made Rags want to crush his face. "Looks like you had a rough day, Rags."

It was a split-second decision, and he didn't regret it for a single instant. His eyes widened the moment the thought entered his head and his fist lashed out viciously, sending the pimp tumbling down the stone steps. He jumped down the rest of the way and rifled through the man's pockets, coming up with his keys, and smirked down at him with the Demon's Smile that always made his opponents flee in the other direction. "My name isn't 'Rags' fucker, it's Ragnarok. And I'll be taking these."

A brutal stomp to the head and the other man wouldn't be coming after them any time soon. He nodded to Free and got in the driver's side of the asshole's car. His brother dove into the vehicle and tilted his head at him. "Think he'll call the police on us?"

Ragnarok snorted. "And say what? 'They stole the car I stole! I stole it fair and square, dammit!' "

Free snickered, then chuckled, then laughed whole-heartedly as Ragnarok turned on the car and put it in drive. Four-hundred and thirty-odd dollars would get them a long way. Free looked at him with a single glittering brown eye. "Where are we going?"

He put the pedal to the metal and they peeled out at break-neck speeds. It wasn't the first car they'd ever stolen. "Don't know. Don't care. Anywhere but here."

Four-hundred and thirty-odd dollars could get them far. It could not get them to a repair shop when the car broke down. Free kicked the front right wheel spitefully and sighed. "Now what?"

Ragnarok shrugged and looked out into the desert air as the morning sun rose higher. "Now we walk."

"Out into the desert?"

"You heard those guys at the last stop, talking about those freaks who can draw weapons from their bodies and fight things that shouldn't exist? I thought we'd try that."

Free tilted his head for a moment in thought, then smiled. "Sounds fun."

"We're probably never going to get the chance to grow old and gray. We're likely to die young and bloody."

"Any younger or bloodier than we would have if we'd stayed?"

He paused. "Only if we make an effort to be stupid."

"We don't usually have to make an effort." Free pointed out into the desert before his brother could scowl at him. "Off we go!"

Ragnarok hitched his own pack higher on his shoulder and began walking, Free's shadow next to his in the rising sun. Where there was a will, there was a way. They had will in plenty, and the way stretched out before them.