Disclaimer: At the start of this story, the protagonist is 17 years old, but absolutely nothing even vaguely romantic happens between her and Dick until after she is 18. This story does contain swearing, canon-typical violence and sexual themes.

~O~

CHAPTER 1

The third step of my house's staircase always creaks. I gently step over it, as silent as can be. It is a difficult task; leaving the house without making a noise. There is a discarded beer can at the bottom of the steps that would crunch horribly if I stepped on it and the hardwood floors always echo beneath my boots. For that reason, I carry my shoes in my left hand, my school bag slung over my right shoulder, and I creep through the house on my tiptoes.

Jim is asleep on his recliner in the living room, tv remote hanging from his fingertips.

I didn't iron his uniform for work today and I know he's going to be beyond pissed when he realises, so I'm hoping to avoid waking him at all. Maybe he'll sleep straight through his shift at the auto repair shop and won't even notice that his uniform is still crumpled on the bathroom floor.

When the lock on the door clicks open, I cringe at the sound, glancing over my shoulder. Luckily he's still snoring, fast asleep. Slipping out of the house and onto the front porch, I suck in the sweet taste of freedom. The school bus rounds the corner of the street and, quickly tugging my boots onto my feet, I jog down the driveway and wait for the bus doors to burst open.

The first thing I see when I enter the bus is Kyle breathing down Rachel's neck, taunting her about being a freak. I brush straight past the bus driver and stride down the aisle. The moment I'm close enough, I shove Kyle back into his seat roughly.

"I promised you the last time this happened that I was going to break your nose," I sneer down at him.

"Willow, leave it. Please," Rach requests, trying to get me to sit down next to her.

"Mommy's swooping in to save the day," Kyle taunts Rachel before his beady eyes turn to me. "I wouldn't get into a fight if I were you. They might send you back to the orphanage or wherever the hell you came from—"

I wind back my arm and punch him in the face, feeling the crunch of his nose beneath my knuckles. He grabs the collar of my plaid shirt and yanks me downward, fisting his other hand in my hair tightly. I knee him in the stomach and manage to avoid his elbow whilst the bus driver shouts at us to cut it out. Finally, Matt the Quarterback shoves us apart and I fall into the seat beside Rachel, glaring at Kyle like my eyes alone can kill him.

"Why did you do that?" Rachel asks, clearly annoyed. Her black hood is pulled down low over her forehead. I know what that means; she had a bad night, filled with night terrors and emphatic praying with her mom.

"He deserves that and more," I mutter, slumping back in my seat and inspecting my bloody knuckles. I wipe them on my jeans, leaving a red smear that I will surely be ridiculed for throughout the day.

"Whatever." Rachel shakes her head and turns away from me, resting her temple on the bus window.

I lean my shoulder into hers, silently asking for forgiveness. When her pinky finger gently curls around mine, I know she's given it to me.

~O~

School is an insufferable affair. Rachel is the only person I can tolerate (certainly at school and possibly in the whole world) but she's a Freshman and I'm a Senior, so we're separated most of the day.

In the afternoon, we decide to walk back to her house. I don't want to face Jim and his inevitable rage quite yet. Arms brushing, breathing in the cool air, we ramble slowly down the sidewalk, not in a hurry to be anywhere quite yet.

"I had the dream again, last night," she tells me quietly, her voice as wispy as the wind.

"The circus?" I ask and she nods.

"I just want it all to stop." Her voice cracks and I put my arm around her, tucking her into my side. I'm only an inch or so taller, but I cradle her like she's small, my cheek pressing against her black and purple hair.

She's still beneath my arm when we reach her house and walk inside, only to find the fridge door flung open and food scattered on the floor. My heart rate immediately quickens; something isn't right.

"Mom? Mom!" Rachel calls out but I'm already gripping her wrist and beginning to back up, toward the front door.

"Rachel, I think we should go," I say quietly, but she ignores me, peering around for her mother, who suddenly comes into sight from the laundry out the back. There is fear in Melissa's eyes that sends alarm bells screeching in my head.

"Mom, I'm really sorry about this morning—"

A hand slides onto Melissa's shoulder and Rachel and I both inhale sharply as a man holding a gun appears.

"Rachel. That's what she calls you." The man says, shoving Melissa forward menacingly.

I grab Rachel and push her behind me, backing up a few steps.

"But that is not who you are," he continues.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand, my backpack dropping to the ground. My voice projects confidence, defensiveness, but the fear inside of me is real and horrific.

"I'm the truth," he says, like that means anything.

"Let my mom go," Rachel says and he ducks his face down, close to Melissa's.

"This woman is not your mother. Tell her….Tell her!" He commands.

"Rach, we need to go," I mutter to her.

"I'm not your mother," Melissa admits and I grimace, knowing how painful this must be for Rachel. "But I do love you."

"Rachel, we got to go, right now," I start pushing her toward the front door when the loud bang of a gunshot makes us freeze. It echoes and rings in my ears. Melissa drops to the floor, a bloody, gaping wound in the middle of her forehead.

There is a moment of shocked silence. Then, Rachel screams. The room shakes and I am thrown to the floor. The corner of the table bashes into my temple and for a moment my vision blurs. I can only hear the commotion going on above me, the thud of the man falling to the floor, the shattering of glass as the table breaks.

Rachel's voice tapers off and I manage to push myself up, sliding in the pool of blood leaking from Melissa's head wound.

"Mom," Rachel cries, trying to get to her fake-mother. I grab her before she can.

"We have to go," I insist, my voice shaking and my head throbbing. The man is knocked out, but not dead. Rach tries to push past me, but there's no helping her mother now. "Rachel! We've got to go!" I shove her back and, right before we run for the front door, I turn and grab the man's gun from the linoleum floor.

There is a moment where I think that I should put a bullet in his head. He's passed out, an easy target. But I can't bring myself to do it.

~O~

"Who was he? What did he want?" Rachel cries as we hurry down the street. The sun is starting to set but it's still light enough that someone might see us and I'm covered in blood. We have to get somewhere safe, off the street.

"I don't know." I'm not focused on comforting her, not right now. I'm busy glancing over our shoulders to make sure we aren't being followed.

"Where are we going? Do you have a plan?"

"A rough plan. We're going to my place," I answer as we round the corner onto my street.

"What?" Rachel is surprised and I don't blame her. My foster father's house isn't exactly a safe haven.

"Just trust me, ok? We've got to keep moving." If we stop, she's going to break down completely and we don't have time for that. Not right now.

The dilapidated, two-story house that I've lived in for the past three years comes into sight. We jog up onto the porch and I manoeuvre Rachel into the corner. "Stay here, wait for me. Alright? No matter what you hear, do not come inside."

Dazed and in shock, she nods. I slip into the house and close the door behind me. The slam of a beer bottle hitting the top of the kitchen counter makes me stop in my tracks.

"What the hell have you done this time?" Jim demands, looking at the blood on my clothes in disgust.

"I didn't do anything. I have to go." I turn to walk up the stairs but he surges forward and his meaty fingers close around my arm, pulling me toward him.

"Stop! What the fuck!" I try to yank away but he grips me tight.

"I knew taking in a screw up like you was a mistake. Everything I've done for you—"

"Stop acting like you took me in out of the kindness of your heart and not because you get a pay check every month for letting me live here!"

Suddenly his hands are around my neck and I'm pinned against the wall. He's been an asshole to me since the day I moved in, but he hasn't put hands on me before. I scratch at his arms, trying to get him to let go, unable to breathe. I feel blood rush to my face, the pressure against my throat building.

"You are an ungrateful, little bitch. No wonder your whore of a mother didn't want you. Tossed you away like garbage, didn't she?"

I hate him. I hate everything, so much that I want to scream. But I can't because my windpipe is being slowly crushed by his fingers.

Then, I remember the gun sitting in the waistband of my jeans. I reach behind me and yank it out, flicking the safety off with my thumb and pressing it to his jaw. His eyes go wide, shock lighting his pudgy face. He quickly lets me go, scrambling back and I cough, trying to regain my breath.

With one hand resting on the wall to hold me up, I point the gun straight at his head. It's heavy in my palm. "Stay the fuck out of my way."

I turn and race upstairs, still clutching the gun like it's a lifeline. In my small bedroom, I pull out a duffel bag and begin filling it with anything I can grab. I don't have much to pack; I've always had to fit my entire life into a single bag. I wrestle into a clean pair of jeans and throw the bloody ones into the corner of my closet.

In my bedside table, tucked beneath a bunch of textbooks, is a photo of my mother. She's young and beautiful, with golden hair just like mine. From the round, hazel eyes to the soft pink lips, I look more like her than I want to admit. There is a second - a brief heartbeat - where I simply clutch the picture and look down at it.

But now isn't the time to be emotional; if I start crying, I'm not sure I'll ever stop.

I place the photo on top of the jumbled pile of clothes in my duffel bag and zip it shut. With it slung on my shoulder, I jog back down the stairs, still holding the gun.

"Good," Jim sneers when he sees the bag I have. "Get out of here. Don't come back, you feral bitch. You were gonna age out in a month anyway."

"Give me your car keys," I demand and his eyes widen.

"No fucking way—"

"Give them to me." I hold the gun up and my other hand out, expectant.

He doesn't move, nostrils flared and mouth curled into a snarl. My finger moves toward the trigger and there is a part of me - a hateful part, one I don't dare acknowledge - that wants to kill him.

It is a tense few moments before he reaches into his pocket and slams the car keys down into my hand. Without hesitation, I turn on my heel and march out of the house.

"What happened?" Rachel demands as soon as I reach her. Without reply, I seize her arm and hurry us down into the car. A screeching of wheels punctuates our departure from the rotten house. I will never return.

~O~

Sailing down the highway, I have the heat turned up high. Despite this, Rachel shivers and shakes. Tears smudge her dark makeup and run tendrils of mascara down her cheeks.

The engine rattles, squealing in protest whenever I try to speed up. The car is old and long overdue for a service.

"You should let it out now," I tell her quietly. "While you can."

She shakes her head, legs pulled up to her chest, and begins to sob. I take a hand off the steering wheel, keeping my eyes on the road, and rub her back soothingly.

"I don't understand," she cries, over and over again. "I don't understand."

"I know, I know."

"Why'd she keep this from me? My mom…she's not even my mom…"

It's a shocking revelation, I will admit. Rachel and Melissa were always so close and had a relationship that - although at times strained - I always envied.

"Why is this happening?" Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rachel's head turn to me. She's looking for answers that I don't really have.

"I don't know, Rach. If I had to guess though…."

"It's because of me. Because of what's inside of me," she finishes and I'm glad I don't have to say it aloud. Rachel has always been…special. She told me about the thing inside of her about a year into our friendship, but I think a part of me always knew she was different.

"This isn't your fault. We just have to keep moving, get away from that man. Whatever he wants with you, it isn't good."

"Where are we going?" She asks but I shake my head.

"I don't know and it's best if we don't plan. We'll just keep driving and see where we end up. If we don't have a plan - don't buy tickets anywhere or book anything - then he can't track us."

"You think he's still after me?" Her voice cracks with fear and I swallow thickly. That's not a question I want to answer.

~O~

The car breaks down ten miles outside of Detroit, near Dearborn. I look under the steaming hood, marooned on the side of the road, but the only thing I know how to do is change the oil and I think the whole damn engine has given out.

"What do we do now?" Rachel questions, exhausted and frustrated. I feel similarly.

"I don't know. I have a bit of cash, but not enough to pay for repairs…" I glare down at the hunk of metal.

"Maybe we should go into the city."

I hesitate. "I'm not so sure. I think we should go West, maybe to Iowa. Put a few more miles between us and that man."

But Rachel shakes her head. "I have a good feeling about Detroit, ok? I think we should go there."

~O~

It's a long walk into the heart of the city. We keep our heads down, eyes to ourselves. Don't want to draw any unnecessary attention.

"Maybe we should hit up a homeless shelter? Get some food?" Rachel suggests.

"Not a good idea. Those places are dangerous, especially for young girls. Predators know there are targets there that won't be missed. I have enough to get us a motel for the night. Tomorrow…I don't know. We'll figure it out." I bump our shoulders together and she takes my hand in hers, lacing our fingers.

Weaving through the dark and damp streets, we search for the cheapest motel money can buy. We're standing underneath a flickering 'Vacancy' sign when the short buzz of a police siren stops us in our tracks. I curse under my breath, but reassure Rachel as two policeman hop out of the car and come towards us. "Stay calm, everything's fine. Let me do the talking," I tell her quietly.

"Do you two have IDs?" The first cop asks.

"We don't have our wallets on us. Sorry," I am calm, collected. Police can smell even a whiff of fear from a mile away. Unconsciously, I shift the duffel bag on my shoulder. The gun is hidden inside it; if they search us, we're done for. "Can I ask why you stopped us?"

The cop nods to the dark, blooming bruises on my neck. "What happened to you?"

"My boyfriend got a little kinky. Why'd you stop us?"

"A stolen vehicle was found a few miles outside of the city. You two know anything about that?" There is suspicion in the cops' eyes that I don't like.

"Why would we know about a stolen car?" I shrug, but begin to get nervous. Jim must've reported it stolen the second we left.

"Well, there's an APB out on someone fitting your exact description. How about you come down to the station and we can have a talk?" The cop takes a step toward me.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. Our parents are expecting us home, we really have to go." I put my hand on Rachel's shoulder and we turn to walk away when suddenly the cops are on me, yanking me away from her roughly.

"What are you doing?! Stop! Stop!" Rachel launches herself at them before I can tell her to stay back.

It ends with us both in the back of the police car, handcuffed and totally screwed.

~O~

"Theft and unlawful use of a motor vehicle, one count of assault with a deadly weapon and running away from your assigned foster guardian…All this paired with your past offences and it's not looking good for you, Miss Moore."

I glare at the cop standing across from me. He tosses my file down onto the metal table between us with a thud. "Where's Rachel?" I demand.

"She's safe."

"You need to let her go, she didn't do anything."

He pulls out a chair and sits down, the fluorescent light above us shining off his bald head. "Actually, she assaulted an officer. That's a serious offence."

I scoff. "You've got to be kidding me. A fully grown man with a taser and a gun was scared of being attacked by a fourteen year old girl? You're all pathetic." I sit back, arms crossed loosely over my chest.

"If that's the attitude you wanna take, so be it. But you'll be charged as an adult, seeing as you turn eighteen in less than a month. That means real prison time. You know what happens to pretty, little girls in prison?" He sneers, getting real close to my face. I want to hit him so badly that I have to curl my hands into tight fists to stop myself.

He soon leaves me alone in the cold, sterile room. The empty pit inside of me aches to sleep, to give up. To let myself be taken to prison. Let them do what they want, I think. But Rachel…She'll be alone. Completely and utterly alone. And I can't stomach that, can't live with it.

My left hand is cuffed to the table, so with my right I reach across to the manila folder - the folder of my life, every failure and fuck up detailed by cops and caseworkers. A paper clip holds together a bunch of pages and it only takes me a few minutes to unlock the handcuff. Getting out of the room is harder and it takes longer. I have to quickly sit back down when an officer walks by and glances into the interrogation room. But eventually, I manage to get out. I creep past a bunch of cops all chatting and laughing together, keeping my head down, hands jammed into my hoodie. Heading straight for the room that I saw them drag Rachel toward when we first came in, I am alarmed to find it empty. Have they transferred her already? If they have, I'll have no way of getting to her.

With no time to continue searching for her without being found by the officers mulling around, I slip down a hallway and toward the back exit. Past a police car being serviced, I stop in my tracks when I see a flash of purple and black hair. A cop is trying to force Rachel into his car and she struggles back against him.

"Rachel!" I call out, racing toward her just as he plunges a needle into her neck. "Stop! Stop!" I jump at him and try to pull him away but he flings me off and I crash into the side of the car, hitting my head hard for the second time in a twenty-four hour period. Lying on the concrete, my vision goes blotchy, everything spinning like it does when I'm really drunk. I faintly hear the screech of tires as the car takes off, then a voice calling out.

A man appears above me, blurry and out of focus. My eyes slip closed and open again and I can't really think or move.

I hear the man's voice, distorted and faded, say, "This is Detective Grayson. Can I get a 10-20 on the car number 310?"

A hand presses against my cheek, another against my shoulder. I try to shy away from the touch but I'm still immobile. My ears start to ring in this horrible way and my stomach churns like I'm going to throw up. It's a horrible feeling, one I am both detached from and acutely aware of.

One moment, I am lying against the cold concrete, harsh and biting at my back, and the next I'm cocooned in warmth, arms wrapped around me. The thumping of a heart beat replaces the ringing in my ears. Slowly, my mind starts to work again and I realise I'm being carried. My eyes flutter, my breathing getting shallower. The blurring of my vision recedes enough for me to study the face of the man holding me. Warm skin and dark eyes, a pensive look that seems engrained. He reaches down and opens a car door with some difficulty, then slides me onto the passenger seat.

"Rachel…" I barely manage to get my mouth to cooperate. God, what if I have brain damage? The detective crouches down outside the car, looking up at me.

"Willow? Can you hear me? Rachel told me about you and you don't need to worry. I'm getting a location on the car she was taken in. I'm going to get her back. I'll drop you at a hospital—"

Suddenly, I manage to sit up straighter. "No, no hospital. I have to find her, I have to—"

"I'll find her," he insists.

"No!" I shout. "You don't understand what this is about, the danger she's in…"

"How about you tell me?" There is a hard edge to his voice now, a dark glimmer in his eye. "Because I've got a missing girl, a runaway and a dead body and I have no idea why."

He seems like the type of person who doesn't like not knowing things.

I hesitate, rubbing my head to try and relieve some of the ache. Trusting cops is against my very nature, but I need to convince him to let me go with him. "A man came to Rachel's house and he killed her mom. Rachel and I ran and now he's come to get her."

"Alright, but why?" The detective pushes.

"Does it matter why?"

"It does, so that I know what the hell I'm walking into."

We glare at each other, both waiting for the other to break. Finally, I say, "I'll tell you why if you take me with you." He immediately shakes his head.

"I can't do that."

"Then I guess you'll be walking in blind." We're at a stalemate. I sit back and though my head throbs, I feel better than before, more in control.

He sighs and looks down, brain hair falling across his forehead. The shrill ring of his phone makes me flinch. He answers it and I very faintly hear, "We've got the location of the car you requested…"

When he hangs up, he looks at me, gears seemingly turning in his head. "Fine, you can come. But you're staying in the car."

As he walks around to get into the drivers seat, I get a glimpse of the gun holstered to his hip. The second I get a chance, I'm taking that gun and then getting Rachel the hell out of this city. But first, I need to find her.

~O~

"Where is she?"

"The car's stopped outside an abandoned building, not far from here," Detective Grayson - I heard him say his name on the phone - replies, speeding around a corner. Glad I'm not the only one feeling a distinct sense of urgency. "The report your foster father made said that you stole his car and assaulted him with a gun. Is that true?"

I shrug, looking out the window at the passing buildings. "I guess so."

"Did he give you those?" Grayson nods to the bruises on my neck. I don't answer; I don't need his pity. "I get it. Rachel needed to run and you saw it as an opportunity to get away from an abusive father."

I scoff and shake my head. "Actually, I saw a homicidal psycho coming after us and decided we both needed to get the hell out of that place. We would've made it away from him too, if we hadn't been arrested on some bullshit charges. And don't call him my father."

"All I meant was I get it, wanting to get away from someone like that, wanting—"

I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Before you tell me your undoubtedly devastating childhood trauma, I just want to preface it by saying that I don't give a shit and this isn't a bonding moment. I just want to find Rachel."

His mouth hardens and he grips the steering wheel more firmly, knuckles going white. "Fine. Whatever."

The silence that follows is painfully tense. I feel sick, imagining all the things that could be happening to Rachel right now. When we finally pull up at the building, the police car parked in front of us, I hastily yank open my door. But Grayson quickly grabs my arm.

"You're staying in the car, remember?" He reminds me and I nod, placid. He gets out of the car and walks around to the broken and cracked sidewalk.

I roll down the window and call after him, "Grayson?" He turns and comes back, bending down and resting his arm on the window. "Just get her back safe. Please."

His eyes soften into a caramel colour that almost distracts me for a moment. "I will, I promise." It's sad how sincere he sounds.

My hand goes to the door handle, he turns away and I shove the door open, bashing it into him. He falls forward to the ground - I think more shocked than hurt - but I move too quickly for him to react. Out of the car, I shove the heel of my boot into his back as hard as I can and sweep his gun out of its holster. A swift but firm kick to the gut keeps him down just long enough for me to run inside, flicking the safety off his gun as I go.

It's dark and musty, old wallpaper peeling to reveal mold-covered walls. The creaking of floorboards tells me someone is close by. I duck back into the shadows of a dark room and the police officer that kidnapped Rachel walks by me, his own gun drawn. I don't dare breathe as he passes me, keeping as absolutely still as possible. My finger moves to the trigger of the gun in my hands and I silently creep forward. The policeman has reached the other end of the hall, his back to me. He's a danger to Rachel and to myself; he needs to be taken out. But as hard as I try, I'm unable to raise the gun and shoot him.

Do it.

Do it.

I can't.

My hand trembles. Though I loathe to admit it, I'm scared. I must accidentally shift my weight because the floor beneath me creaks and the officer spins around. His gun aims right at my head, my breath catches, I'm about to die. Then an arm wraps around the officer's neck and yanks him back. Grayson punches him one, twice, three times, then sweeps out his legs in an elegant move. This is my chance to get to Rachel.

I turn on my heel and race upstairs, half afraid that the rickety staircase might give way beneath me. The horrifying sound of Rachel screaming tears through the air. Following the sound, I kick a half-broken, wooden door open. Flickering candlelight casts long shadows over Rachel - strapped to a chair - and the man that murdered her mother - holding a knife. I raise the gun and point it right at him.

"Drop the knife."

"Will!" Rachel cries, sagging over in relief.

He turns and faces me. "I'm cleansing her. Don't you see?"

Raving psycho.

"Put the fucking knife down or I'll drop you right now."

"See, I don't think you will. Your hand is shaking. You're not going to pull the trigger."

I look over at Rachel, the fear in her eyes so potent and heavy. I remember every moment we've spent together, smoking in parking lots and ditching school and eating bad takeout because it's all we can afford. There's nothing I won't do for her.

I pull the trigger.

The recoil of the gun is harder than I expect and it skews my aim slightly, so the bullet hits him in the shoulder. He goes down hard, crying out, the knife skidding away from his grip. I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans and pick up the knife, jogging over to Rachel to cut her free.

"Will, you came. You came." Tears streak down her face.

"Of course I did—"

"Look out!" Her warning comes too late. I am yanked back by my hair and flung hard into the ground, the wind knocked out of me. The villain gets back up; what a cliche. I should've kicked him while he was down.

We grapple for the knife, but it ends up getting knocked away from us. He knees me in the stomach and smashes my head as hard as he can against the floor until I see stars, the moon and the whole Goddamn universe. I manage to bite his arm, hard, and he yanks away with a hiss, giving me the opportunity to kick him in the stomach. I reach behind me for the gun but suddenly his hands are around my throat, choking me. His fingers slot perfectly into the bruises Jim left earlier.

I struggle to get to the gun, but my head's all cloudy, my body is exhausted. It's like the adrenaline that's been keeping me going is abandoning me right when I need it most. I look over his shoulder to Rachel, who is screaming my name and struggling against her restraints. I want to get to her, but I just can't.

Everything is quiet….and then loud. An unnatural whooshing, an other-worldly occurrence. Part of Rachel leaves her body and enters the man, forcing its way inside of him and tossing him away from me. The door to the room slams shut just as Grayson tries to get through. I heave in air, my lungs expanding, my throat burning and I watch as Rachel tears the man apart from the inside out. It is hideous and grisly and somehow beautiful. It's the last thing I see before I pass out.