A youth in old and torn clothes lay against an alley wall, panting heavily. He had long dark brown locks of hair and piercing emerald eyes, and had a small baggie clutched to his chest. He knew he didn’t have long, and gulped down what precious air he could. He had gone to meet with two gangsters he met at a park to buy some cocaine, and when he’d shown up they’d tried to mug him. Typical.

He’d gotten lucky, and a cop had seen, tackling one of the two gangsters. Somehow, in the confusion, the youth had been able to get both the coke and his money before fleeing. One of the gangsters had gotten away, but he seemed scared enough he didn’t want any more of ‘the thug life’. 

Atticus was beginning to feel better when a police cruised rolled past his alley on the street, two officers obviously looking for someone, probably him. He didn’t understand how such a simple drug deal could have spun out of control into such a problem. Atticus hated many things, but cops were among the worst. In a world that was clearly going to hell head-first, what was so low about getting high?

He looked inside the baggie, and just by eyeballing it judged it to be an eight ball. He had scored. He stood up and lit a cigarette, exiting the alley and making his way quickly down a side street. Looking up into the sky, he saw heavy and thick clouds overhead, and right on cue, Atticus felt a raindrop land on his cheek. He shook his head and shivered, continuing on his way.

He figured he would head back to the Amaranth Wolves for the night, wary of the rain. Though he was new and young, he had already found a small corner on one of the upper levels of the warehouse near a window he had called home. It was dark, and easily missed. He called it the Perch. Yet he was only a block or two away at Huxley Cemetery that he was walking past when his eye caught a familiar name.

Henry Flagg.

After Atticus had lost his little sister, and became even more lost and alone in the world, he had met Henry. Henry had mentored him and taught him how to more effectively live on the streets, and was good to Atticus when nobody else was. But Henry was also hooked on heroin, and was HIV positive from dirty needles. His mentor had taught him to be a loner and survivor out here in the cruel world, and with his death came the last death of the last of the homeless boy’s compassion. 

[b]”Aye Oh, Nigga Fuck You!”[/b] came the frenzied scream of the remaining gangster, having stumbled through the same Cemetery fleeing from the police as well. Atticus turned to the yell, and found a rock smash into his forehead, sending him sprawling backwards. He fell onto the grave of Henry Flagg, and felt blood begin to trickle down his forehead from the impact. The gangster was approaching him slowly with a knife, and Atticus was seeing stars. 

“You ain’t got no cops to save you this time, white boy.” Came the furious snarl once more.

Yet as he would reach the youth lying on the soft green grass, and appear to loom over him, Atticus himself would reveal a boot knife with lightning quick precision, planting it firmly in the leg of his assailant. He would scream in pain and anger, and the ragged teen knew he had to act quickly. He had coiled himself on the ground into a perfect leaping positon, and did so now to tackle the man to the to the earthy floor. 

The knife fell from his hand in the confusion, and Atticus snatched for it, but failed. The gangster had it once more, and the boy grabbed at his wrist and bit into his knuckles, causing him to bleed and drop the knife. This time, Atticus reached it first, and was able to wrestle himself to a sitting positon on the man’s chest. He would plunge the knife down, but the wounded gangster caught his wrists, stopping the stabbing. 

The knife slowly descended downwards, and fear and panic began to manifest in the wounded thugs eyes and face. He began to whimper lightly as it drew ever farther down and closer to his throat, the intended target. 

“Aye nigga please man, I got a kid, man. You can keep it, alright? You can keep it, you can keep it, you can ke-“

The knife sunk snugly into his throat, sending warm red blood spurting out into the open air, and Atticus could smell the iron in the air. He began to cough and choke, and pull at the knife in his neck, but the life quickly drained from him and he lay still. The youth would roll off him and fall to the ground exhausted. This man made three deaths by his hand already, and once more he had been a cold and efficient killer. A kind and warm soul that could shed its humanity when needed to commit the most heinous of crimes. 

He rose and began walking home immediately, leaving the corpse of his slain foe on the grave of his friend. The rain was beginning to come down more heavily now, and he wanted nothing more than to get back to the Perch, do a line of white girl, maybe smoke a bowl to the rain, and fall asleep. 

This was just another day in the life of the Damned.