The Lost

Prologue -- Part Four: Jonathan

    The restaurant owners were never pleased to find the homeless, the abandoned, digging through their garbage bins after hours. Scuttles would break out, names would be called, but at the end of it all, everyone would retire and head their separate ways only to start the inevitable circle again tomorrow.

    Many of the less fortunate living in the city, the "street-trash" some would call them, often camped out in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of town.

    Jonathan was on his way home, a small piece of bread, which he'd managed to scavenge before things had gotten heated that night, tucked away in his jacket.

    Unlike many of the people fending for themselves on the street, Jonathan had quickly smartened up to his situation. He had to do what he had to do to survive, and snatching a wallet from a restauranteur's coat pocket was much easier— and certainly more useful— than playing tug-of-war with the same man for a measly half-eaten piece of a French roll.

    Jonathan had done both that night and succeeded in both... More or less succeeded in both.

    The restaurateur and a few friends of his were following him. How they'd figured out it was Jonathan that had taken the wallet in all that commotion, he couldn't be sure, but they were following him, and that was that,

    He quickened his place, going over the route back to his building in his head. The area was a pretty empty one, so there wasn't really anywhere for min to hide and wait his pursuers out. If he ran, they'd just follow him, and he wasn't sure that one of them wouldn't be able to catch him.

    He muttered to himself, realizing that he more than likely would have to fight the guys, all three of them.

    He didn't stop moving, but he glanced over his shoulder to size the men up. Jonathan himself, was in his early teen years and had yet to bulk up much, nearly starving every day. And the people following him— they were men. The restaurateur himself was a large man, a bit round, but his friends were built and bulky even from such a distance.

    Jonathan sighed, slowing his pace slightly. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had his ass handed to him for snatching something that wasn't his. If he was lucky, maybe it'd be the last.

    He pulled the wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans, pulled a few bills from it, and tucked them where the restaurant owner and his goons wouldn't bother to look. Me like that, they'd just take the wallet and go without bothering to check it. They thought that brute force was always the answer to any problem, but Jonathan knew better. Living on the streets had taught him better.

    The search party caught up with him a few minutes later, as expected.

    "I think you have something of mine," the owner hissed, his friends staring the boy down with intense glowering expressions.

    "Me?" Jonathan arched a brow at them incredulously. "No, I think you're mistaken." He turned to leave, but one of the larger men latched onto his arm.

    "Not so fast. If you don't have anything, you won't mind us taking a look, would ya?"

    Jonathan tugged his arm away. "Actually, I would. Personal space... And you smell like something fresh out of a dumpster. I would know," he added as a hissed underthought.

    He only had a few seconds to duck under the right hook flying square at his face from the furious red-faced brute. He scrambled back as the other two joined in, each grabbing him by one of his arms and hoisting him into the air.

    "Guess we'll just have to teach you a lesson then," the man he'd taunted snarled, and his fist contacted Jonathan's nose with a satisfying snap. Blood oozed down his face, but the man didn't stop or slow his battery, each swing fueling his aggression, the next more pointed and powerful than the last.