AN: Wasn't going to upload this next chapter so soon but it was just sat there staring at me with puppy dog eyes while I edited the other chapters 0.0
Ah jokes but seriously next chapter will probably be Thursday (or sooner if I get bored. Probably sooner then. What can I say! I have no restraint!).

Chapter 2: Fulcrum

Twelve years ago

"Is this really necessary George?" his Grammy, though exasperated, was thoroughly amused by the antics of her husband. Knife and wood in hand, Mike glanced from his Grandfather to his Grandmother. His Grandfather gave a good natured scowl.

"Of course it is! The boy needs to know how to survive in the wild!" her lips twitched.

"But we don't live in the wild!"

"He needs to be prepared for anything!" George Ross had been deeply affected by the Cold War. The fear that everything he was used to being ripped from under him had led him to take survival course after survival course, determined to be the master of his environment, "I want to know that he can take care of himself!" Mike rolled his eyes, used to this 'argument'. He returned to whittling down the strip of wood in his hands into a usable arrow. Grammy chuckled.

"One more hour!" she warned, "Then I want you both inside – I didn't make this pie just for it to go cold!" at the mention of pie, his grandfather agreed easily.

They never changed.

'Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.'
- Lord Byron

His arm was aching with the effort is took for him to cling onto the tree branch as he leant forward precariously, reaching for the apples hanging in the neighbouring tree. He could feel splinters threatening to dig into his palm. He released the breath he had been holding and snatched his arm back, an apple in hand. Satisfied, he shuffled back to sit comfortably in the natural cradle of the tree's branches and bite into the apple. He sighed as its sharp taste hit his tongue and juice dribbled down his chin. He'd spent the whole morning scavenging for fruit and vegetables and generally anything edible. He had a bag full of apples, carrots and pears, all courtesy of both central park and the occasional private vegetable patch. The best haul he'd gotten all year.

Central Park was like a jungle in the middle of the city. It was overgrown and gradually leaking out of its previous neat rectangle to reclaim the rest of New York. It was simultaneously the most resource rich and most dangerous area in (perhaps) the whole state. In the right months, food was abundant but so were predators (human and animal) and the dense fauna and long grass concealed all kinds of dangers. The water was just as bad. He knew from experience that somewhere in one of the many ponds and pools and lakes, there was at least one alligator lurking, waiting to strike. He'd never come so close to losing a hand before.

It had been a week since the subway incident (as Mike referred to it in his head) and he had only just gotten back enough motion in his shoulders to be able to climb a tree like this: his roll down the stairs hadn't done him any good. He couldn't help but keep an eye out for the man and his dog. It was sad and foolish, but Mike had been all alone for a long time, long enough to start dreaming about a man who had waved a gun in his face. Waved, but not fired: the existence of a person who hadn't tried to kill him reawakened his hope for some sort of human interaction.

Mike froze half way through taking a bite of his apple as something stirred in his peripheral vision. He carefully lowered the half eaten apple and swapped it for the crossbow he had hanging from a branch – it was one of two he had looted from a weapons store. He didn't use it often but it was fantastic for hunting.

Locking a bolt into place, he smoothly turned to seek out the source of movement. His interest peeked as he spotted a ginger cat or as he preferred to call it: dinner. Quickly as he dared, he slipped his bag onto his back and slid smoothly from the tree, his jacket catching on the bark but his eyes never leaving his quarry. His landing was near silent and he went unnoticed by the cat. Crouched as low as he could (pausing to breathe through the remaining ache in his back), he crept forward. Every step was calculated and hesitant, his eyes flicking constantly between the cat and the placement of his feet, calculating every next step. He swallowed a curse when the cat looked up, ears alert and tail held high. His hands clenched in frustration when the cat began to move. Luckily it seemed unconcerned.

He stalked closer until finally, he was hidden behind a tree while the cat (still ignorant of his presence) paused to groom itself. It was right out in the open on what had once been a walk way – god only knew how it had survived this long! He held back a triumphant smirk, and took aim. He took a deep breath, closed one eye and held the air in his lungs.

The cat flinched at the click of the trigger being pulled but it had no time to move, an arrow piercing its side and killing instantly with a low thud. Mike whooped under his breath, jubilant: a killing hit was a killing hit, even if he had been aiming for its throat. He darted out from behind the tree to scoop up his kill by its tail. He pulled at its skin, trying to assess how much of a meal the cat would make. It was lean and a little scrawny but it would do for a meal, maybe two if he was frugal in his portions. What he knew for sure was that, for tonight at least, he wouldn't be wanting for meat.

Slowly, the smile on Mike's lips slipped away. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and a shiver tingled down his spine. He could hear breathing - deep and ragged. He couldn't prevent his own breath from coming quick and shallow in his panic: he was vulnerable here. He'd put himself in exactly the same position as the cat he had been mocking mere moments ago as being stupid. He could hear breathing. He swallowed. There was a growl to his left. The world seemed to slow as his world narrowed to include only himself and the shadow in the corner of his eye.

He spun in time to smack the lunging timber wolf in the face with the cat in his hands so that its jaws where filling with it rather than his throat. The wolf, a mad look in its yellow eyes, snarled around the cat in its mouth and tried to advance closer despite the distraction. He let out a cry of pain as its claws caught his arm. He didn't have time to check if he was bleeding; as soon as he had turned around, another wolf was upon him. He faltered at the sight teeth, sharper than he liked the think about. But it was all he could think about and they were all he saw when he caught the wolf around the head with his crossbow. He distantly recognised the sound of crunching bone and the choked whine of an animal in pain, before dropping everything in his hands and running.

He always seemed to be running. He was so tired of running all the fucking time!

He yelped in pain as teeth sunk into the back of his ankle. The injury was enough to trip him. He tumbled to the ground and felt the skin of his hands rip on the ground. Without hesitation, his kicked his foot out and made solid contact with the head of the wolf that had bitten him – he couldn't count now whether there were two or three of them. Either way, if he didn't start moving it wouldn't matter.

His kick had stunned the wolf and gave him enough time to scramble to his feet, turn tail and run.

Running. Always running.

He fought through the panic threatening to cloud his mind. He needed a gun. But where! Where was his nearest gun…

He broke through the tree's onto the street (snarls at his back still, but he hadn't expected them to be so easily put off after all). Suddenly, his brain slipped back into gear and he knew where to go. He couldn't see it yet, but he knew the school was there, a fractured rainbow framing its entrance. Panicked tears threatened to blur his vision and he brushed them away hastily: he couldn't afford a distraction now.

He could see the school now: it was so close. He chanced a look over his shoulder only to wish he hadn't. There weren't two, or even three, there were five. The closest was by the far the largest; a black hulking beast of an animal with a bald snout and a missing ear. And he was gaining on Mike. Quickly. Four legs beat two every time. This was going to be a close one.

Mike ignored the schools front door and dived head first straight through the window third along to the right: the janitor's cupboard. Thrusting his hands in front of him, he managed to avoid cracking his head open on the floor. Standing, dazed, he had eyes only for the metal cabinet on the wall opposite him. His movements urgent, he threw a table blocking his path to the side and strove forward to the cabinet. He ignored the two grated doors and instead unzipped and dug into his pocket for the set of keys he kept on him at all times. He fumbled for the smallest of those keys, distracted by the noise outside.

Howls joined the deafening snarls at the window. Fingers shaking, he jabbed blindly at the lock in the top left hand corner, eyes focussed on window frame. Suddenly, there was a wolf in the window. Its legs were straddled awkwardly across the width of the window sill as it struggled to pull its self-up – it was the black wolf again. With a yelp, it slipped and fell out of the window. A moment passed and the wolf was back in the window, this time further forward. Mike cursed.

He jammed the keys into his mouth to free up his hands in order to scramble up on top of the cabinet (ignoring the burning in his skinned palms) where he fit snuggly between the cabinet top and the ceiling with barely enough room to breathe. He returned to his struggle with the lock.

"Come on! Please, please, please!" his near maniacal mantra was cut off by his pained gasp as strong jaws lunged up and nearly bit his fingers off. He heart plummeted: two of the wolves were in the room now. Teeth gritted in determination, he pulled his knife free and drove it down against the wolf that lunged up at him. He managed to skim the top of its head.

"FUCK OFF!" there was a clatter by the window – another wolf was in. Oh God, he couldn't die like this! After everything that had happened, after all the shit he'd been through, he was NOT going to be eaten by a pack of FUCKING WOVLES!

He twisted suddenly to thrust out his free hand and grab a wolf (this one was a pale grey) by the throat as it leapt up. He plunged his knife into its shoulder and threw it to the ground. Distracted by their fallen pack member, the wolves remained earth bound long enough for Mike to attempt to struggle with his key again. His blood slick hands only complicated things and his fingers couldn't find purchase on the smooth metal.

BANG!

There was a squealing, screaming howl from outside the window. Mike bit his lip, battling with his own anxiety to keep his hand steady. The wolves below him shrunk back against the noise.

BANG! BANG!

Finally, the key slid into the lock's barrel smoothly. His fingers faltered and slipped momentarily in his attempt to turn it. He was vaguely aware of someone new in the room: the wolves growls renewed. Click. He forced the draw open, thrust an arm inside and yanked the pistol he'd stored there free; in his haste, he skinned the underside of his arm on the sharp cabinet lip.

BANG!

A split second later, his own weapon discharged into the head of the pack leader.

The growling in the room stopped. The only sound that remained was his own deep and erratic breathing. His extended arm collapsed and his gun clattered against the cabinet door. He tore his eyes away from the wolf he had shot and down to the one he had stabbed. A gash separated its fur with a valley of red from above its shoulder, round to under its chin. Blood soaked both it and the carpet it lay upon. His gaze wondered to the wolf he hadn't killed (brain and blood framing his misshapen head), then to the German shepherd that was sniffing at its flank and finally to the man stood beside it, hands clasped around a sawn-off shotgun. Brown eyes stared back.

The man from the subway.

His eyes were narrowed and focussed on Mike, ignoring the dog at his side and bloodied wolves around him. He seemed to be battling with himself, his eyes on Mike but occasionally flicking to the gun in his hands. Hesitantly, he raised the gun (Mike felt a lump stick in his throat 'Please don't shoot me…') up over his head and slid it in the holster on his back. He took a slow step forward, holding out an open hand. He scowled when Mike didn't take his offered hand.

"Listen kid, this is against my better judgement, but you aren't going to make it anywhere by yourself right now," he nodded at Mike's bleeding ankle, "You telling me you're going to be able to run away from anything with that? And your arm – what are you going to do if it gets infected hu?" Mike snorted in disbelief.

"And what if it does – are you saying you're gonna' take care of me or something? Well excuse me if I doubt you're here just to play at being the Good Samaritan," a reluctant smile spread across the other's face, though it was less a smile and more a grimace.

"You little cynic you. You want to know why I'm offering to help?" Mike nodded, "Because you're the first person I've come across in over four years who hasn't tried to do me some kind of harm. You're still holding a gun – you could shoot me and run if you wanted to, but you haven't," curling into himself, Mike sniffed, "I'm not saying we should become best buddies or some sort of crap like that, 'cause I sure as shit don't trust you,"

"Likewise," his mutter went ignored.

"But it would be nice to know that there is one person in this city I could say hello to in the morning without being shot in the face for my trouble. And it would give us both an advantage – pooling resources or some shit like that," he rolled his eyes when his hand still went ignored, "If it makes you feel better, if you do get an infection, I'll be dropping your ass as soon you become a hindrance " oddly, that did make him feel better. Careful to avoid the blood on his hands, Mike rubbed at his eye with the back of his wrist. He looked down at the dog that was in turn, staring back.

"What's your dog's name?"

"She's called Annie. And I'm Harvey," finally, Mike took the offered hand and allowed Harvey (it felt odd to attach a name to this person) to pull him over the body of the wolf at the bottom of the cabinet and down to the ground, an arm ready to brace him should he fall. He had to fight not to pull away – it had long been ingrained in his mind that touch was a bad thing. Gingerly, he put weight onto his injured ankle and was relieved to find he could hold himself up. He couldn't help but feel a little skittish when he met Harvey's eyes. Pushing his gun into the waistband of his jeans, he swallowed.

"I'm Mike."