Old Comrade (Izaya x OC)

Prologue

A young boy was walking on the street when he heard some noise.

"Hahahahahaha! Come on, squirt, what are you gonna do, run to Mommy? Oh yeah, I forgot, your mom is dead. And can't go to your daddy. He hates you. And you're a bastard child. Freak!"

A little girl was cowering down on the concrete sidewalk of a rundown playground where no one passes by, surrounded by young newbie gang members, kicking and punching at her. The girl was trying to keep her emotions in check, to not make herself more vulnerable than she already was. She has heard this so many times in her short lifetime, and she knew everything was true.

"Come on, freak, say something. Cry, whine, something! Freak!" the head of the gang said. "It won't do you any good to stay silent. You might end up not being able to say anything at all when we're through with you." Yet she still was silent. Don't you dare cry, she thought.

The gang got even rowdier. One of them pulled at a long, thick stick about the size of a small T-ball bat with thorns. They all started cheering and hooting. The leader took it into his hands. He looked at it as if analyzing some specimen. He nodded approvingly with a smirk on his face. He turned to the little girl.

"Well, looks like it is your lucky day. For us. Anything to say, freak?" The girl shook her head. I might as well disappear. Nobody cares anyway. Maybe Mama would rejoice, the girl thought. She braced herself for the blows that moght end her life. She shook uncontrollably. Then the beating started.

One blow. The girl bit her lower lip, trying to not shriek. Another blow to the back. The girl lowered her head to the ground, as her eyes welled up with tears. The third blow came. Tears dripped from her eyes to the ground. As, she braced herself for the fourth blow, she heard someone yell. Some guys were snickering.

"You know it isn't nice to pick on a poor, defenseless young girl who can't stand up for herself. Is that what you guys are about. I thought you were men, but apparently, you are just little eight-year-olds in 26-year-old bodies," said the boy who observed until now. The girl looked up. He was probably the same age as her, yet he was holding a switchblade. She looked over to where the source of the laughing was. The leader's pants were around his ankles and his face was red with embarrassment and anger. His group was laughing at him. The leader glared at them, and they stopped laughing immediately. The leader turned to the boy.

"You are going to pay for this, punk. No one is safe from the Purple Diamonds. Just you wait," the leader spray out. Then he turned to the girl. "And you. We'll be back for you. You better be ready to continue where we left off." The gang members run off, the leader trying to hold his pants up along the way. The boy looked after them. He was only nine, but like that mattered. In that sector of Ikebukuro, nothing was as it seemed. The boy turned to the girl. The girl was starting to get up, wincing in pain. But she didn't say anything. He watched her struggle to get back up, intrigued by her resilience to not show emotion. He was surprised when her body was shaking violently. Then the boy realized the girl had started to cry.

"What's wrong? I save you and this is the thanks I get?" He joked. But he stopped when he saw tears drop onto the ground from her eyes. The girl raised her head. She had the most vivid green eyes, made more interesting with little rivers of blood pouring from her face. Her short hair was a dark blood red that seemed to blend with the wounds. She had injuries covering her face, bruises on her arms, and cuts on her legs. Marks from the thorns on the stick were visible from the punctures made on her skin. The boy was amazed how she resisted this long. His expression softened to one of pity. He sighed.