//A warning that there may be strong language and semi-graphic depictions of gore//

Dark streets and even darker pavement, glistening with snaking trails of water and oil. Silence hovers like a fog, like the heady scents of petrichor and burning garbage. Yet it isn't silence, for deep in the back alleys, a boy is being beaten to death. Blood mixing with the water and oil in the cracked asphalt. Screaming, hissing; it's as if a rabid animal has been cornered by hunters.

    Might as well be.

    Curled in a fetal pose, defensive, protecting the organs stored within a fragile abdomen, the victim lies on the wet asphalt. Grit digs into his open lacerations as he shrinks away from the flurry of fists and boots raining down on him; a hurricane leaving bruises on his flesh and fractures in his bones. Blood loss causes him to fade in and out of consciousness, even as he gathers the strength to pull himself up against a wall and stand at his full, unimposing height. He isn't up for long, knocked down with a right hook to the jaw. Like vultures to a carcass, the offenders smother the scrawny body. The beatings begin to feel distant, a gentle tossing of his body across the ground. His breath comes slower. This could be it.

    Through the foamy haze of the moment, a sharp threat is uttered but he can't comprehend it. Next thing he knows, a tall figure is standing over him, offering a hand wrapped in strips of fabric. Stained in blood, just like him.

    "Lookin' a little rough there, buddy." The figure speaks, but the voice sounds distorted. Like he's underwater. He lies back against the asphalt, breathing, trying to feel. It's like a weird dream.

    He opens his mouth and tries to work the jaw muscles, but that last punch really threw him out of alignment. Pushing both hands to the sides of his face, he squeezes until the thing pops back into place. Pain floods in, followed by adrenaline that clears his senses and he stares up at the figure before him: an adolescent male Wit–probably seventeen-eighteen years of age–dressed in cargos and a wifebeater. Tied around unruly hair, a checkered strip of cloth intended to be a headband is failing to do its job.

    "I said, you're lookin' a little rough there," the Wit reiterates. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

    "Two," glares the boy.

    "Excellent," the Wit nods in approval, "Name?"

    Silence, followed by a look of confusion.

    The Wit sighs, "What do they call you, little punk?"       

    "What do you care?" spits the scrawny victim, glaring at him through large wary eyes.

    The Wit inhales deeply, throwing up his hands in an expression of defeat before offering his hand again, "I'm Nyx Flaithbheartach."

    "Fla-var-what? I'm not even gonna try to pronounce that."

    "Fair enough. Anyway. Your name, mate. Got one?"

    Now the wounded boy narrows his eyes, deep brown irises darkening with mistrust.

   "You're a Wit."

    "Yeah, so?" Nyx raises an eyebrow.

    "So you couldn't say my name even if I told you." The boy looks away, curling his pained body up as much as he can in this damaged state. "You shouldn't even be talking to me."

    Nyx slaps a hand to his forehead, "Look, bro, did I save you or not?"

    The boy glares again, stonily silent.

    "...Aight," Nyx sighs, shifting his stance slightly, "I'll make you a deal. I show you where you can get cleaned up, and we'll get you some food, then we discuss your name. Sound good?"

    At this, the boy bristles even more, shaking his head. Thick, dark hair whipping around as he does so. "I'm good, really man..." He tries to stand, only to stumble back against the wall and to the ground again. "Ungh..."

    Nyx steps forward and gently helps the boy to his feet. "C'mon pal, you just take it slow. I'll help you."

    The boy growls. It is a very inhuman sound coming from deep within his scrawny chest. Nyx ignores this, though he should know better. Easing the injured boy's arm over his shoulder, Nyx is shocked at the sudden strength that begins to choke the life out of him.

    "Hey! I'm–I'm not going to hurt you! Lay off, man!" Nyx shouts, employing self defense measures to get the wild boy off him. Hissing, growling, the boy is very animal in his reaction to Nyx's volume.

    "It's...it's okay, pal. I get it. Come on, we need to get those wounds tended."

    "Piss off," snarls the boy, retreating to the bloodsoaked alley's dark recesses.

    "I'm afraid not." Nyx has made up his mind. He grabs the boy, who bites and struggles, but being in a compromised state soon gives up his fight as he realizes they are passing down main street.

    Now, to call it Main Street is really an injustice, as it is just as untraversed as the others in this dreary town. In most places, the title can be associated with a bustling metropolitan area, shops, bodies moving from store to store. But not here. No, this main street gets its name merely from being the literal main street connecting all the others. Half the shops are either condemned or foreclosed, decrepit and crumbling, their merchandise at the mercy of diurnal and nocturnal scavengers alike. The only buildings still very much in service are the cantina, the druggist, and a few obscure food import shops.

    Nyx does not take the boy to any of these shops. He wanders down Main Street, immune to the few judgmental glares cast at him. Let them stare, he wants this boy to be tended. Taking a detour from the main road, he descends a massive set of concrete steps. They are cracked and overgrown; slippery, with rusted railings protruding from them. Nyx does not use them, needing both arms to prevent the scrawny, growling being from escaping him.

    "Put me down," hisses the victim, plunging his knee into Nyx's stomach. Nyx coughs and adjusts his grip on the boy, "Absolutely not. No way in hell. You are staying right where you are. You're injured, dude."

    "Really? I didn't realize that!" And with this venomous sarcastic remark hanging in the air, the boy sinks his teeth into Nyx's shoulder. For someone with a potentially broken jaw, his bite force is incredible. Nyx grits his teeth and pulls the boy off like a leech, still keeping a tight grip on him.

   "Is this any way to  treat someone who's trying to help you?" Nyx demands hotly, but the boy avoids eye contact and proceeds to wriggle and kick.

   "I don't need anybody, leave me alone!" he insists, his voice raising several octaves.

   "A shame your body says otherwise," Nyx retorts before knocking the wind out of the boy. He instantly regrets it, but how else should one deal with a feral youth who won't cooperate? With the boy wheezing and weak, he picks him up once more, slinging him over his shoulder like a bag of rice. He carries the body into the Metro station. It looks like any underground subway, with its walls in need or repair, tainted by moss and water damage with bright pops of graffiti peering from the shadows. Blue fluorescents flicker overhead; many are busted, glass on the platform being ground to powder underfoot each passenger arriving and departing. It's a ghastly, chilling place.

   Nyx goes to the turnstile and inserts a few bullet-shaped pieces of currency, choosing a cheaper carriage for this particular journey. A pair of tickets spits out of the machine; he secures one around his left wrist and the other around that of the feral boy. This proves difficult, as a concerning black wristband already loosely encases the boy's left wrist. Nyx swallows; he knows what the band means. But does it matter? No. This is still a person, a person who is hurt and needs to be shown mercy, however feral and uncivil he might be.

    When the train arrives, Nyx boards the very last car. All eyes are on him and his cargo, suspicion so thick in the air he could almost touch it. He sets the wounded boy in one of the seats, making sure to give him a bit of space for when he comes out of his minor knockout.

    To Nyx's relief, the trip is quick and uneventful. When the train pulls into the station he grabs the unconscious boy and hauls him off, ascending the steps into daylight and the bustle of Murder City.

    Inevitably, eyes follow the unsightly pair through back alleys and side streets; Nyx is avoiding the main roads in hopes of avoiding the local Patrol.