Five weeks later
Monday, April 7th, 2014
Evening

It was to be his first night out.

His fitness was almost perfect, so he thought he was, too. The boy cautioned myself not to get complacent, as tonight would be a challenge. He was on his own and with no backup, if anything went wrong. He was wearing his full outfit, which consisted of black combat trousers, shirt and jacket, and black boots. His face was covered with a black ski mask. There was ballistic armour underneath the jacket, and he had managed to obtain a tactical vest, which would allow him to carry his weapons and equipment.

He had selected a pistol; a Glock 19 pistol, which fitted his hand quite well. A cross-draw holster was attached to the vest along with three pouches for spare fifteen-round magazines. He had also appropriated a pair of Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knives, which he had found in the Safehouse. Those he carried on his right thigh. He had also selected a 42-inch long, black, riot baton, which again, he had found in the Safehouse.

Whoever had lived at the Safehouse, all those years ago, was a complete nut.

He left the Safehouse, at around nine and well after dark.

The plan was to move around, close to the Safehouse and ensure that there were no low-lifes around. He headed east at first and kept to the shadows. His first mark appeared, just as it started to rain quite heavily. It was, he supposed, a bonus, as the noise of the rain covered the sound of his movements. The man was busy assaulting another man; it was a mugging by the look of it. The boy approached from behind the attacker and he swung the baton, which caught the man across the head and sent him into the alley wall, knocking him out. The other man was not hurt, so the boy helped him up and on his way.

"Who are you?" The man asked.

"I am Feral," the boy replied, in a growly voice which he hoped would cover up his age as his voice was not very deep, at all.

Once the man was gone, the boy checked on the attacker. He was just unconscious, so he called in and left an anonymous tip for the Police. Next, he proceeded to head further east and then wrapped around to the south. Thanks to the rain, there were not many people out on the streets, which made his life so much easier.

The drug dealers and other hardened criminals were not usually affected by the weather, so he knew that he would come across some dealers at some stage.

..._...

He was not to be disappointed.

The two that he did find, hidden in a doorway, appeared to be the bottom of the pile, but they were selling, and he had watched them doing it. The boy went in hard, swung the riot baton hard at the head of the first man, and watched as a cloud of fine blood sprayed across the face of the other man. The first man dropped silently to the ground while the second man pulled a knife and he swung around towards the boy.

The boy caught the man on the wrist with one hand and swung him against the doorway. The man's nose broke as it hit the doorframe. The boy followed through, after he had dropped the riot baton, with a punch to the side of the man's head. Once both men were disabled, the boy rummaged through their pockets and he found a few bundles of cash. His eyes lit up at the sight. Unfortunately, he paid too much attention to the cash and he never heard the three men approaching until they were seconds away. He shoved the cash into a pocket and he dived for the riot baton, just in time to avoid the bullet that struck the door. The boy swung the baton round and he cracked somebody's ankle. He heard a scream, as that somebody dropped to the ground. The boy leapt up, pulled his pistol and he fired two aimed shots at the man with the gun.

The man fell back against the third man and the boy ran for it.

The Safehouse

He fell onto the couch at the Safehouse, shaking.

He had just killed a man.

He had hit him, in the head, with two bullets; he was definitely dead. His Dad had warned him that killing for the first time would be difficult. The problem was that the boy had nobody to talk to about it; so, he would have to cope alone. The boy stripped out of his clothes and weapons, and he climbed into the shower. He was still shaking, which made him feel ridiculous. He sank down in the shower and the shaking increased as emotions welled up inside him. Then he started to cry. He really felt ashamed and he was glad that he was alone, but only for a few seconds, as he wished that he had somebody to talk to, to be with him at that moment. He wished that his Dad were there with him. He really needed him; he felt so alone, and he had never felt ao alone. For fuck's sake, how was a thirteen-year-old, British boy, supposed to be able to survive, alone, in New York City?

Everything kept running through the boy's mind, again and again.

The following week
Friday, April 18th

The received received some good news that morning.

According to the cops, one of their own had been found dead. Apparently, he was a dirty cop. So, best place for him to be was in the ground. What was his name? Gigante; he sounded like a dick. The boy had not been out, since that other night, almost two weeks previously. He was still struggling with his emotions; he had fucking started crying in a McDonald's, the previous Saturday, for fuck's sake; talk about embarrassing.

He needed to get a fucking grip; he was getting really mad with himself.

Two days later
Sunday, April 20th

It was Easter.

It was his first ever Easter alone.

It was his first ever Easter without his Dad.

He felt so alone, and he was ashamed to say that he cried, a lot.

He was trying to be a hardened vigilante, but when hr was alone, he cried.

"Not doing too well, are you?" he said to himself.

Updated: January 2018