This story is about the strong but often turbulent friendship between George and Mitchell (and later Annie). This chapter focusses on how those two met and is from the scene in Series 1 Episode 6. Most of the dialogue has been taken from that scene but I've changed it here and there. This is more of an prologue than a chapter hence why it is quite short. I understand that this might be not the best but I'm planning, in upcoming chapters, to improve it hopefully!

All the characters and, in this case, dialogue belong to the wonderful Lord Toby - so thank you very much to him for creating such a brilliant world! I'm not sure what I think of this chapter yet, so any comments will be gratefully received. Any mistakes that I've made are mine and mine alone so I apologise in advance!

2008

It was nothing really; just a small good deed in the darkness. But fate is always playing the long game.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Each attack was brought upon him as strong as the previous one. It seemed that his assaulters would never stop; they would just keep kicking, over and over and over again.

George didn't even try to fight back for he knew any attempt would be useless. He wouldn't be able to last even a few steps without receiving a blow which would cause him to fall back down again.

Kick. Kick. Kick

He had faced pain as excruciating as this before, many times before, however this was different. This was human. This was a choice. He had survived the other with only a few bruises and scrapes. He could already feel his conscience ebbing away because of this constant onslaught. The only way to escape this was to receive a miracle...

Kick. Kick.

"Whoa!"

The blows stopped straight away at the sound of this new voice but George stayed where he was, his head buried in the plastic bags. Though he didn't dare sit up he opened his eyes and listened intently to the conversation that was going on.

"What are you doing?" the newcomer asked, shocked. George heard a slight intonation in his speech, Irish perhaps.

"He's a lyco. We saw 'im in the caf," one answered casually like this was an everyday occurrence.

"Got something to say, Mitchell?" Another of his attackers asked, moving away from the rubbish to stand only a foot or two away from Mitchell, glaring at him but with a slight glint in his eyes.

George's hopes fell at those words. They were clearly acquaintances, though by the tone of the man's voice it seemed that perhaps they and this Mitchell didn't get along like best mates. There was still a chance then.

"How many people in the café?" Mitchell questioned.

"A few."

"Aha. Did anyone see you leave?"

"Oh, does it matter?" came the shout from above George.

Mitchell turned to face him, "I don't know Marco. Their kitchen guy turns up dead and they've seen you guys slink off after him. Do you think they might make the connection?"

The one nearest Mitchell took another step forward.

"So?" he demanded, "They don't know who we are."

"They do," the attacker that had spoken sounded uncomfortable as he carried on, rather reluctantly, "I got here before you arrived and I got talking to the owner. His Nan's died and they wanted an undertaker so I kind of...gave him our business card..."

As a response to this new, unwelcome piece of news the closest to Mitchell and the, now clear to George, leader of the group emitted an exclamation of outrage.

"Look," Mitchell carried on, dismissing the argument, "I've got no love for lycos but that's a big trail you're leaving there." He gestured to George and the three other men sighed with disappointment.

George listened to their retreating footsteps and decided that he had enough strength to release himself from the suffocating plastic prison. He pushed his body up till he sat raggedly against the cool metal. He took several deep, broken breaths, letting his eyes adjust until he was able to see the blurry outline of a man standing a few metres away.

It was Mitchell.

He stood there; just close enough so that George could make out whom he was, simply observing the man sitting between the bin bags.

Finally George picked up enough courage to speak.

"They were going to kill me?" He asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah"

"Why?"

"Because they don't like werewolves," Mitchell stated simply.

He walked slowly up to George who pressed himself against the wall, awaiting the next wave of agony to hit. It didn't come.

In fact, instead of finishing off the job that the others had started, Mitchell took a gloved hand out of a pocket and offered it to George. He took his glasses from his rescuer's clasp and fitted them on his face, his hand shaking.

"How- how did they know?" he finally stuttered. He kept his eyes on Mitchell's hazel brown ones, hoping that it would make him appear unafraid when in reality his heart was thumping wildly about in his chest.

"People like us can recognise people like you. It's complicated," he said plainly as if that held all the answers that plagued George's mind.

He didn't like that excuse for an answer, nor did he like the way he used the pronouns 'us' and 'you' so ominously.

There was the look that Mitchell wore as well. It was a look of disgust but also of pity. Not fake pity that George had experienced from his attackers but true sympathy. It was almost as if this man had been brought up to believe that...werewolves were terrible monsters that deserved to be wiped out but had started to understand that they didn't deserve to be so cruelly labelled.

He stayed staring up at the man above him, unsure about what he would say next. He wanted to leave this place badly; he already knew that it would reappear in many nightmares, however he also knew that if he were to leave he would always have that nagging question: 'What did Mitchell mean?' Nothing could be worse that what he had just gone through, he knew that for certain.

George made his decision. He pushed himself up so he could look straight into Mitchell's eyes but kept pressed against the brick wall. He still wasn't sure whether Mitchell was just playing with him or whether, he really was trying to help.

"People like you?"

Mitchell regarded George for a moment.

"Vampires," he turned his head quickly to look behind George at the café, "Do you live near here?"

"Um, yes...I have a room above the café," the words which Mitchell previously said suddenly dropped.

"Did you just say vampire?"

Mitchell nodded, a small sad smile flittering across his face for a fraction of a second.

"You're gonna have to leave. They're going to come back...they always do."

He stood there for a moment, letting George know that he was serious.

"I'm sorry."

Mitchell turned around and headed back towards the bustling streets of Bristol, hands stuck firmly in the pockets of his jacket and his eyes fixed on the floor below.

Back against the cold rough surface of the wall, George watched him go, his mind scrambled and eyes wide. Only one thing was clear – he wasn't going to let Mitchell go. He wasn't going to let him vanish back into the shadows of which he came from. Not after what he had just said.

George staggered into the clearing. One of his legs was weak but the other was strong enough. He put his weight on that one.

"And then what?"

Mitchell turned slowly back to look at George at the sound of his strained voice.

A thin wisp of light illuminated Mitchell's features allowing George to get a clear look at his rescuer at last.

His hair which was wavy and ebony like the night sky, hung to rest just below his ears, its darkness contrasting dramatically with his pale complexion. He had dark eyebrows set in a frown and light stubble around his mouth. George didn't think that he was one to laugh.

George straightened his stance and breathed deeply, trying to settle his nerves. He couldn't go back now, he had made his choice.

"I can't keep – I have lost everything. I've had this for six months and now...there are vampires! And they want to kill me. So I have to leave...again," he choked back a cry of despair.

"And then what?"

George stopped there, afraid that anymore would cause him to break down completely. He just wanted to go back to his room. He wanted to shut this new nightmare out from his accursed life. Though he knew, however hard he tried, that he would never be able to shut it out forever.

Mitchell didn't reply, he just looked at George with the ever youthful eyed that he owned. He stayed standing for what seemed like an age, listening to the occasional broken sobs that echoed around the yard, before making the final decision. The decision which would change both their lives forever.