Author's Note: Hey, I'm back with another chappie of Street Scars. I like writing this story, it's very interesting. I hope you like it.

I dun own: Yu-Gi-Oh!

[.]=Narration by Joey

Kuramas Koibito: Hey, as we say around my house, the only dumb question is a question not asked. However, if you're Brett James, that doesn't stand true. ANYWAY, the prefabs are those crummy little buildings that schools sometimes have for extras. They're just a step up from shack. They're sort of like those trailers in a trailer park, those could be considered prefabs. Hope that clears up something.

[As you can see, I was a pretty rough kid. I always had been, and even now, still am a little. I wasn't into the whole, "Let's make friends" deal. I thought it was a bunch of junk. Or at least that's what I thought for the longest time. But as you're about to find out, that changed when I learned that even after you've become tough and streetwise, that the streets sometimes bite hard anyway.]

Joey raced down the street towards park. He was itching for a good ride. Not one the streets give you, but what the slopes of the park give. The unmistakable rush of feeling free. Joey loved the feeling.

He zipped along at a good pace until a small cry for help stopped him.

"Help, somebody," it choked.

Joey looked down the nearest alley, where the voice seemed to be coming from. There, he saw three boys crowded around one smaller one, who lay motionless on the cool, hard, ground.

"Help," the boy on the ground murmured again.

"Heh, like anyone's going to help you," the tallest of the three smirked, and then kicked the boy on the ground.

He winched and tightened the ball he was already in. His arms seemed to be wrapped around his small body. He had a strange hair do. It was spiky. His bangs where yellow, the spikes themselves were black, however, they where edged with a purple red. He seemed to have been beaten before.

"What was that?" the shortest of the group said when they heard the injured boy groan.

They all kicked the boy again. He let out a cry of pain. Joey couldn't take it anymore.

Sure, he was a street kid. Sure, he fought, but he fought to protect others, not hurt them on purpose like that. He decided to take a stand.

"Hey, you," Joey growled. "Why don't you pick on someone that can actually give you a challenge?"

They all looked at Joey, their eyes looking as dumb as they could. Then, they looked at each other, as if asking whether they should or not.

"Awright," the tallest slurred.

OBVIOUSLY NOT THE SHARPEST TOOL IN THE SHED, thought Joey.

They all charged after him. Joey dodged fists and landed lots of his own. The boy on the ground weakly lifted his head to see why the bullies had left him. He watched a little as Joey fought the bullies, then weakly slinked away, hunched over in pain.

GOOD, thought Joey. AT LEAST THE LITTLE GUY IS SAFE.

Joey eventually began to run out of steam. He started to take hit after hit. Soon, he found himself lying on the ground just as the other boy had.

"Well, this looks familiar," the tallest sneered. "Only this time, it was a fight."

The others chuckled. The kicked him a little bit and then, left him for dead.

Unable to get up, Joey laid there on the cold, hard ground, scraps and cuts bleeding out slowly and slightly onto the black asphalt. He could see his backpack and his skateboard. Oh, how he longed to be at the skateboard park. Why did he stop? What made it so that he couldn't help it? Why couldn't he have just ignored it, like he does pretty much everything in school, and keep going? Joey didn't know the answers, but he hoped that he wouldn't lie there for long. The streets may have been home, and they may provide protection, but when you're injured and lying on the streets, hoping and praying for protection, like you usually get, the streets are unfriendly and cold, and they don't give you what you need, just what you don't.