Peter is tucked alone into a crook made by a divot in the forest floor and a crooked root rising above the earth, and it's damp, and dark, and he's alone. He can hear Alfred shouting in the distance and he knows he's come quite far. He knows he'll be safe if he stays there, that they can't find him and he'll escape - and then what? Where will Peter go when he's all alone? He doesn't even know where he's going with Alfred and Jet, he's just happy to be going with them. Peter doesn't want to be alone again.

But he's safe here. It's dangerous back at the camp where Alfred and Jet are, and Peter can't forget the retort of a gun and Jet's cry. He can't hear Jet at all now, only Alfred, and Alfred's voice is sharp and wary. Peter thinks about Jet, even though he doesn't want to. He thinks about Jet's jaunty grin, the gentle hand that wiped away Peter's tears and have him the incredible rare treasure of Hot chocolate. He thinks about how warm Jet's body was next to him in the sleeping bag only minutes before. He thinks that Jet is gone too, like all the adults, all the teenagers, and now even all the kids. They're all gone.

He wonders if Alfred is alone now, like Peter used to be. Peter's eyes feel so dry they're itchy, and his chest feels heavy and suffocating, but he can't cry. He can't let himself cry, just like he can't let himself think that maybe Jet is somehow okay. "Okay" is a thing of the past, when people could go to hospitals to treat injuries, when weakness or injuries were inconvenient and dangerous, but not necessarily a synonym with death. When people would help an injured person. But Peter knows the world isn't like that anymore. He knows Jet is better off if he is gone, especially if he's been caught bethem.

He can still hear Alfred, but he's not as loud as before. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, pressing himself as far back into his hollow as he can. It's dark, but not dark enough, and the brightness of the outside, even at night is still too bright and shines through Peter's eyelids, and he can't keep his eyes closed. His eyes snap open again. Alfred and Jet had saved him. They'd taken him from that dark place. His fingers twitch away from his ears as he remembers everything they've done for him, from offering food when he was starving, and comfort when he had none, to that impossible promise he needed to hear so badly.

"We won't make you go back there.Ever."

Peter's hands fall away, and he can't hear Alfred at all anymore. Is Alfred scared and alone now? Is he like Peter used to be, hiding, while the Monsters that looked like people destroyed what was left of Jet? Was Jet, maybe.. Just perhaps...? It was dark out, past late night but still early morning, and Alfred might not be able to see his attackers. They might not be able to see Alfred and Jet either in this dark. But it wasn't as dark as the bunker. Peter's eyes are still adjusting to the day, but to him the night is still incredibly bright.

They can't see Peter, but Peter can see them. Peter knows how they move, he knows their tricks and traps. He knows how to move quietly so they can't see him, and most importantly, Peter isn't like other children, he knows more than they know, and he's not as easy to kill as they are. After all, while Peter might not be as a strong as some of the others, he's still stronger than other kids his age, and Peter has another advantage that the other kids in the bunker never had:

Peter knows how to kill.

They aren't expecting him to go back, he knows that. No one would return to where they know attackers are, at least, no one in their right mind. Peter's been alone so long he's often wondered if he was still sane. When he silently picks his way through the pitch black, barely slipping unseen between two ofthem, Peter knows he isn't sane. They have traps set up, piles of twigs and leaves to crack and rustle, a net, trip wires, but Peter knows how they work. He's seen all their tricks and traps before, and knows how to avoid them just as well as he knows how terrible his future will be if he fails. Peter doesn't fail.

He thinks he's gone beyond crazy when he slips his small hand, barely restraining his shaking, into the holster on the hip of one ofthem,pulling out a loaded gun just ready to draw, sure that he'll be caught any moment. He thinks he must have a death wish when he somehow succeeds, but still goes closer to the campground instead of running away.

And then there they are. Jet is tightly bound and gagged, and way too extremely pale, his right shoulder and arm dyed with a dark coloured liquid that Peter knows is blood. Alfred isn't yet tied, struggling against four ofthem, yelling muffled curses through the cloth they'd somehow managed to shove in his mouth to gag him. Alfred is strong, and even four of them can't take him down, and Peter remembers how weak and useless he is. He thinks that Alfred and Jet don't need the help of a child, that he's nothing but a burden, and maybe Alfred and Jet only got caught because they were worrying about him.

Then there's a click that makes Peter go back many years in the past, a familiar loading of a gun, a memory he doesn't remember, but his body still reacts to as though his instructor is still whispering instructions in his ears. One of them is pointing a gun at Jet's head, and though Peter's far enough away he shouldn't be able to hear the words, his ears, more accustomed to silence than the quiet noise of the forest, easily catch the warning.

"Stay still if you don't want him to die."

Peter doesn't see Alfred's expression, illuminated by the smouldering embers of a fire they hadn't quite managed to put out. Peter's not looking at Alfred, or Jet. He's focusing on the man holding a gun against Jet's head. Peter is made of steel in this moment. There's no fear, no nerves, no anger. He feels cold, rather, or empty. He can't remember the voice that used to whisper commands to him, but he remembers the commands clear as day.

"Never give the enemy a chance to shoot first."

Peter's stolen gun isn't meant for sniping. He aims the gun carefully anyways.

Brace for the recoil.

He shifts his position and braces his feet.

"Look where you want to hit, not where you're aiming."

Peter stares coldly at the head of the monster holding the gun, seeing every details from the green bandana around his head to the scraggly beard growing from his drooping chin. The man opens his mouth to say something, but Peter won't give him the chance.

"And once you're sure you can't miss-"

Thesharp bang of the gun is quieter than Peter expected, but still loud enough to draw all attention to his direction.

"Shoot."