It is a common desire of the average person that they live an abnormal life, one filled with extravagance and adventure. There are many who actively seek that life out, and some may find it, whether they search high or low, nearby or far away. Amongst certain groups abnormality is the ultimate goal in life. It is the one thing a person should search for with the few short years they have; the dream to stand out amongst the sea of faces.

This is not the case for Jory Johnson. All he has ever wanted is to live a boring, plain, ordinary life.

He is one of the rare, unfortunate individuals who has never sought adventure, yet by the twisted hands of fate is plunged headfirst into it.

Eighteen years of age; a plain looking young man who had just moved out of his family home, no real skills under his belt, no money to his name, no ultimate goal in life. He had found himself a flat on the twelfth floor of a suburban apartment near the centre of London, and for the turn of the new millennium he had called that place home. Five months into the two-thousands he had gained himself a job working the tills in a nearby supermarket, earning barley enough to pay the rent for the one room home he called his own. For most people this would be a suffocating life, unable to do anything, unable to make anything of yourself. But in truth Jory loved it. It was exactly what he wanted. Simplicity. Normality. Security. This sort of life could never surprise him. He had everything where he wanted it to be.

That would eventually change, however.

He could not have expected the drastic turn his life would take only five months into the new millennium. The events that were about to place would have been unimaginable to almost anyone in his position. After all, he had expected nothing extraordinary of himself, so why would the extraordinary seek him out in turn?

It had started out as a normal day, the first of May. He had decided to spend his day off outside, to enjoy the sun for once, not that he did end up enjoying it. England was not known as a sunny country. On the walk back to his flat he was blocked off by rioters. Anti-capitalist protestors blocked his usual path home. He didn't quite manage to catch what they were upset about, but he knew they'd been protesting for a few days, and now it had broken out into a full on riot. Wanting to avoid the conflict he had chosen to instead take a less public route home. This route had lead him into a dark alleyway, alone and with a setting sun.

This was where the first of many bizarre events took place.

He had been walking for at least five minutes through that twisting brick riverbed, its cramped walls looming over him, stagnant rainwater dripping from the gutters above. The orange hue of the sky was just visible beyond the shadows of overhanging balconies. Several washing lines twisted and spiralled in a sudden breeze, spinning the damp clothing into knots.

By this point Jory was feeling anxious. He usually tried to avoid places like this for obvious reasons. London could be a dangerous place if you wondered into the wrong parts of it, and from simple observations this could well be one of those places. He didn't want to fall foul of any opportunists. He was an easy target for such people, a young man with a skinny body that packed little to no muscle. If he were attacked he wouldn't be able to defend himself.

He tried not to focus on that. He kept his attention set upon finding the way back out onto the street. If he were in the open he wouldn't have to worry too much about being robber or assaulted... though that was no guarantee in the big city. Another five minutes passed. He had been walking hurriedly through the alley for ten minutes, not encountering a single person along the way.

Then, as he was beginning to panic about being lost, he spotted someone. A hobo sat against a nearby wall, tattered winter coat wrapped around his body, and overgrown brown hair soaked with rainwater. Jory tensed for a moment. Though the man was unlikely to have anything dangerous on him, that didn't mean he wasn't worthy of caution. Desperate people could be driven to do desperate things. But he was lost, and there was no one else to ask for directions. This homeless man had found his way into this labyrinth, so perhaps he could point him towards the way out.

He didn't get a chance to ask the hobo for directions. The man had noticed him when he was only thirty steps away. The moment his squinting eyes spotted Jory they widened, and he was up onto his feet and running towards him. Jory recoiled in momentary panic, afraid that the man would tackle him and attempt to take wallet, or anything else that might be worth a penny. He calmed down a little when the man slipped, fell onto his knees, and held his arms up pleadingly.

"Spare change, sir!"

Jory looked down at him, feeling pity for the poor soul. Why had he been afraid of him? The man was starving and homeless.

He patted his pockets, and felt his wallet lodged safely against his right thigh. Truthfully he had some small change to spare for the man. His parents had raided him to be charitable, to respect other people and treat them as he might wish to be treater, all that good Christian stuff. Jory was not especially religious himself, but he tried to follow that advice purely as a moral guide. The problem was he needed the little money he had. He barely made enough to keep the one room home that he had. One pound may be the difference between keeping his home and ending up on the streets like this poor unfortunate. But he supposed, if he could make it benefit him too..."

"I have a little to spare..." Jory said after a few seconds, reaching his right hand into his pocket. He pulled out a grubby one pound coin. "I'll give it to you... but only if you can point me towards the nearest street."

The man's expression fell. Rightfully he was suspicious of the request. Jory expected as much. He couldn't guarantee that Jory would actually give him that money, just as Jory couldn't guarantee that any directions he gave would be useful

The hobo looked up at him, a small grin forming. "Oh... I can do that"

"Thank you." Jory muttered, jittering and glancing around. "I'm a bit lost."

"Heh, I can see that, I can." The homeless man muttered. He turned and pointed down the path ahead of them, the one Jory had been heading for. "Down there, turn at first left, follow for a few meters, turn right. You'll be out on the street again."

Jory nodded his thanks. "That's very helpful."

The homeless man looked at the metal circle in Jory's fingers, and coughed as politely as he could. Jory glanced down at it.

"Oh yes, sorry." He held out the coin. "Here."

The man took his hand and pulled it closer, inspecting the coin. Jory flinched as his grubby fingers touched his, but it didn't seem that the man would do anything concerning. The hobo looked back up at him for a moment, his long hair covering his eyes, nose and even mouth.

"It's not fake? Not a trick?"

"No." Jory reassured him. "Go on. Take it... as thanks for helping me."

The hobo let go of Jory's hand and picked up the pound coin with his unwashed fingers. He put it between his remaining teeth and bit, testing the metal. Jory felt a bit disgusted to watch that. He hadn't exactly washed the coin recently. Who knew what germs were on it? The hobo at least seemed pleased with it. He turned his eyes back onto the kind, charitable young man, and smiled once more.

"I should thank you in return..." He grunted, stifling a wracking cough. "Might I leave you with a gift in return?"

Jory had to wander what the man had to give. Probably nothing valuable, the man would have certainly sold it to buy... Jory hoped he spent that money on food. It was quite well known that many homeless people spent the little money they had on alcohol... or drugs. Quite often that was the reason they were out on the streets in the first place. Giving them money was only encouraging their habits. But Jory had needed the assistance, and that in turn deserved a reward. That was what his father had taught him.

"I can't accept. Surely whatever it is, you need it more."

"No, no, no..." The ragged, dishevelled man groaned, reaching an arm into his coat. He took Jory's open hand again. "Please... I insist."

He pulled his other hand out of his coat...

…and plunged an arrow straight through Jory's palm!

It took Jory half a second for his brain to catch up with what had just happened. When it did, he screamed. He wanted to believe that it was a manly scream, but in truth he knew it wasn't.

Blood sprayed everywhere. The golden tip had pierced his skin, cutting through bone and muscle and exited through the back of his hand, between the knuckles of his middle and index finger. He could see it pointing out through his palm, glistening gold, covered in unusual markings and seeping his own blood.

"Now... bleed for me!" The hobo bellowed, baring rotted yellow teeth as he cackled insanely.

Where had the shaking, weathered, weary man gone? He had been standing before Jory only a few seconds prior. Now in his place stood a figure a little taller than he was, his back losing its hunch. His voice was different, more stern and demanding and aggressive and blood hungry. So much life lay behind those sharp eyes... so much evil.

Panicking, Jory tugged at the snapped shaft of the arrow, pushing against the madman who had attacked him with it. Where had his strength come from? He had somehow gathered the power to plunge an arrowhead into his hand with one thrust. Horror was now setting in for Jory. He had made a very bad decision dealing with this person... no, this devil!

With an almighty pull he ripped his right hand free of the arrow, though he left a chunk of flesh and bone behind, and a large bleeding wound in its place. Blood spurted out of his hand like a crimson geyser. Instantly he felt sharp stinging pains and a quickly rising weakness. He gripped his hand, turned, and ran! He scampered away from that place, not daring to do so much as breathe until he was out from there.

"Where d'you think you're runnin' to, boy?!" The hobo yelled after him, cackling wildly. "You can't get away from 'im! You can't escape fate! You're one of 'is chosen now!"

Jory didn't pay attention to anything he was saying. His hand thumped and his brain sparked. He needed to get out of there. He needed to run far away, as far as he could go. He had to get out of that alley. He ran for the exit that hobo had pointed out, before his sudden change in personality and strength. There was every possibility that it would lead nowhere, that it was a trap to corner him, but he had no other direction to take. It was either backwards into the riots or ahead into the unknown. He chose the latter option.

As he was turning the corner, he caught of glimpse of the hobo from the corner of his eye. He wasn't following him, he wasn't trying to attack him again. He was only smiling a wide, malicious smile. The golden arrow was squeezed between his fingers.

"Welcome to our family!"

Those last words and the look upon his face etched themselves into Jory's brain like lightning striking a tree. The mark they made would forever remain them. He kept running, through the stone alley and the rain and the dark.

He didn't stop running until he was out of the alley.