We're dashing right at the throng of people the thieves slipped into. At first I have no idea how we'll manage to weave through the crowd, but Connie takes a sharp left turn and darts into an alleyway. I run straight into a burly man carrying a sack of lemons and send the fruits tumbling to the ground. Usually I would stop and help, probably pay for all the fruits I damaged, but common courtesy is not a luxury I can afford right now.

It takes all my energy and focus to keep up with Connie. He navigates through alleyways with surprising ease while pressing his straw hat against his head, his elbow at a funny crooked angle. His bare feet move so fast they hardly seem to touch the cobblestones that gradually give way to clumps of soil and weeds that I struggle not to trip over. At one point we're skirting through an alleyway so tight the fabric on my elbow chafes against the stone walls on either side of us, but I grit my teeth and keep going.

There's an exit, though. I can see it. The walls on either side of us stop, allowing light to shine through, marking the end of the brick and mortar abyss.

Connie slows to a jog and comes to a stop some yards before the exit and turns to me, wiping the sweat off his brow. Aside from that the only sign of physical exertion is a slight flaring of his nostrils, but his breath is controlled and steady. Much more than I can say for mine.

"It's real important, ain't it? The scroll? It'll help you save the princess, gettin' it back?"

I don't have the energy to reply, so I give a jerky nod.

After a moment Connie's face splits into a grin.

"Aw-right then! Could ya do me a favor, if it ain't too much to ask? Could ya hold onto this?" He takes off his hat and brushes it off a couple times before holding it out to me. I take one of my hands off my knees and grasp it, once again not having enough energy to form coherent words.

"One more thing," he says after he decides I have a decent enough grip. "Promise you'll stay right here - no matter what. Okay? Can ya promise that? Can't promise I can get you the scroll otherwise, okay? So stay right here and don't you move a hair on your head, even if ya really really want to." He puts his hands on his hips. "Got it?"

"Got it," I manage to wheeze.

He stands there a few more moments before deciding I sincerely got it. Then he pirouettes and exits the alley.

Once my eyes adjust to the light I realize it isn't really an exit at all. The opening leads to an empty expanse of dirt. Tall, rickety townhouses circle around an empty field shoulder to shoulder like onlookers egging on a fight. Connie comes to a slow stop at the very center, puts his hands on his hips and whistles an odd little tune. It echoes faintly before being swallowed by silence.

That's when it bothers me, the silence. Not only does it leave the ears feeling empty after the outgoing bustling of the marketplace, but it just feels unnatural, too.

I know that my instincts are right when a rock comes flying out of nowhere and strikes the side of Connie's neck with enough force to send him stumbling.

Chuckles reverberate, their sources slipping out of other alleyways and nooks and crannies of the surrounding buildings. My heart sinks with each malicious grin I count. Two, five, eight, thirteen...

"You got some fucking nerve showing your face around here, Copper," one of the boys says. The ringleader, I assume. He has a pug-like countenance with beady eyes and a flat nose. It's not a face I would normally note, but a faint echo of familiarity tugs for my attention. Yes, I'd only caught a glimpse of him a split second or so, but he's definitely one of the two thieves. I scan his pockets but don't see any paper sticking out of them. Maybe the other thief stole the scroll? Maybe he already pawned it off?

"Well, it's awful good to see you too, Mack," Connie replies. He's wearing a cocky grin, but a faint rasp in his voice ruins the effect. The rock had hit him pretty hard.

The small sign of weakness doesn't escape the other boys. Mack leeches off the new wave of laughter, soaking it in. Only after a solid moment of silence, when he's completely sure the last of the amusement has been wrung out, does he continue speaking.

"I bet you're here to get the fancy paper that belonged to your fancy friend, aren't you?" he sneers. "Well, tough titty, you ain't getting it back."

The other boys chuckle like he's some kind of comedian.

"That thing? Aw, that thing ain't worth nothin'," Connie says with a shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets.

That makes Mack scowl. "The hell are you here for, then?"

"This," Connie says, pulling out a fist and planting it across Mack's face.

The other boys let out a chorus of "ooh"s, nudging each other and leaning in to see what Mack would do. It dawns on me then, that Mack's friends are only his friends when he can entertain them. Maybe he doesn't really know it, but somewhere deep down he probably has some inkling of it, and it makes him perpetually hungry for their approval. Starving. 

I am now more than slightly worried for Connie's sake. 

Mack's beady eyes glitter with malice as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck from side to side, but Connie doesn't seem the least bit fazed. His nonchalance only further aggravates the other boy, but it gives me a little hope. Maybe Connie Copper knows what he's doing - maybe he's secretly some kind of street fighting extraordinaire that uses the fact that people underestimate him to his advantage. 

My hopeful hypothesis is butchered once Mack's fist collides with Connie's stomach and sends him to his knees. Mack is a bit on the shorter side, but his hands and forearms are thick and meaty, built like a human sledgehammer.

The punch is followed by a kick to the chest that sends Connie flying backwards, his thin back hitting the ground with a sickening thud. By the time the dust settles Mack is comfortably seated on the smaller boy's stomach, beating his face in with a steady rhythm that's almost lazy.  

Each meaty thwack leaves me feeling a bit colder, but I stifle the urge to help.

He told me to stay hidden, which meant he knew what he would have to do. He purposefully antagonized Mack, so this is all part of the plan.

Mack pulls his fist behind his head and lets it linger a moment. For a brief second I think it's over, he's done, but then he brings it down on Connie's face.

This is all part of the plan. He told me to stay still no matter what, or else we may not get the scroll back.

The fist rises again and I find myself calculating our odds if I jump in and help. I'm bigger than every single one of them, I could do some damage. The numbers are stacked against us, but I could get Connie out if I wanted to. And I do want to. Badly.

But the scroll - that's what's most important, I can't do anything to compromise it. I take a deep breath and tear my gaze away - I didn't have to see this. I didn't want to.

Sometimes when you're anticipating something, fearing something, time has a way of slowing down the moment, stretching the it as long as it can, just so it can make the impact that much more painful.

I assume that's what's happening when I don't hear the collision of fist on face, when silence takes the place of raucous laughter. But then the silence is pierced by a single laugh - not the bumbling, stupid sort that had made itself so familiar to my ears in so little time, but a piercing giggle that leaves me slightly filled with unease. And recognition.

I snap back to the scene before me and see him facing Mack and Connie, his hair hiding the malicious glint I can almost guarantee is in his eyes. There's no other reason for Mack to look so unsettled. Well, except for the burns, I suppose. I've been in the medical field for so long that despite the initial shock, it didn't take too long to become accustomed to his deformity. But for Mack and the others, Nathaniel must be terrifying. 

Nathaniel tosses his bangs out of his eyes as he surveys the gang, the contempt easy to read even from where I'm hiding. For a split second I think he catches my eye, but he acts like he doesn't see me and ends his inspection from where it started, right with Mack.

Now his hair is hiding his eyes from me again, but I can almost imagine them flickering down to a motionless Connie, then back to Mack.

"You guys think you're tough, don't you?" Nathaniel states coolly.

No matter how loudly common sense begs boys like Mack to not act against it, when boys like Mack are antagonized in front of their peers, they undoubtedly will. 

"What's it to ya?" Mack replies, getting off Connie and standing to his full height of 5' 4", arms crossed. "Who the hell invited this joker to the party, eh?" he tacks on, inclining his head towards his friends, his beady eyes trained on Nathaniel in some sort of showdown. "Eh?" he grunts again. But none of them laugh.

One of Mack's cohorts finally steps up. He's a pile of twigs, knobby knees and lumpy in every visible joint, right down to the shaky finger he's using to point at Nathaniel. 

"You're him. The - Nathaniel." He swallows nervously, pulling his hand into his side. "Derrington. The Young Dragonslayer."

The spectators murmur amongst themselves as Mack goes pale. 

"Congratu-fucking-lations," Nathaniel says, punctuating every other syllable with a slow, sarcastic clap. "Real intelligent crew you got here, ah... Mack, is it? It's nice to officially make your acquaintance. Mack." 

He holds out his hand. When Mack doesn't respond, Nathaniel wiggles his fingers playfully: a challenge. It's his right hand, the burned one, the one covered in hideous scars, blood weeping through the corroded flesh like visible veins. 

Mack inhales and plunges his hand into Nathaniel's, giving it two hardy pumps before sharply pulling back, his face twisted in thinly veiled disgust. He doesn't have the restraint or courtesy to keep from wiping his palm on his trousers, leaving rusty red streaks on corduroy brown. 

Nathaniel doesn't mind, only watches with amusement. 

"So, what's, ah, all this?" He vaguely gestures to Connie's crumpled form. It's so pathetic it hurts to look at.

"None of your fucking business," Mack spits out, barely sparing the blonde boy a glance.

"I'm here now, so I'm making it my business," Nathaniel says pleasantly.

"Butt out, bitch."

"Make me."

And this is where time stops, where Mack falls into a trap. He definitely knows, somewhere in the very back of his pea sized brain, that he should tuck his tail between his legs and call it a day. 

He licks his lips while he struggles to make a decision. 

"Make him, Mack!" one of the boys shout. Someone standing next to him gives him a jab to the side, but he it pays no attention. "The word's that he ain't jack shit no more, not since the dragon got him. I heard he can't fight for shit!" Another jab to the side. Again, it's ignored. "He can't do shit! Look at him! You teach him a lesson!"

"That true?" Mack says to Nathaniel a little nervously, folding his meaty arms. "That since the dragon messed you up, you ain't shit?"

Nathaniel goes still. 

My heart sinks while the corners of Mack's lips dig upwards. 

"I think you're right, Bobby. I think," Mack continues, grinning wider. "He. Ain't. Shit." 

Mack strides up to Nathaniel and gives him a little shove on the shoulder. When Nathaniel doesn't respond, the shorter boy laughs and turns his back on him, putting his hands on his hips, facing his audience, his adoring crowd. I'm assuming Mack is about brag about how he would show him what for or some other nonsense, but he's silenced by a whispering slice of metal. The sound is soon followed by a soft thump.

Mack's arms immediately fall to his sides. The rest of his body, on the other hand, takes a little longer to catch on that it no longer has a head. 

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A/N: Hello! Votes and comments are all sincerely appreciated :D

...

I have exams and college is expensive.

What am I doing with my life.