Facing Away (Broken Streetfighter)

Chapter Fifty-One

External Narrator

Rob awakens with a gasp. He opens his eyes only to close them again immediately. Rain was pouring down onto his face and body, which laid on the very damp sidewalk. He looks around after clearing enough water away from his face. It was fully dark now. The streetlights were on, however they were far enough apart where there was a section of darkness on the streets before they could once again be luminated.

Faces peaked from between the shadows of buildings, some peeking out from windows. They were all surprised to see this man alive. Rob himself was surprised after the beating he took. 

He groans as he pushes himself off the ground. A glance at his watch lets him know that it is extremely late. He also notes that it’s time for him to go back the way he came from, because the child in his care should be long gone from the place where they have been residing. If she wasn’t at their rendezvous point, he would raise hell to find her.

A step forward has him groaning again. His hip was killing him. Rob was no longer qualified to be a field agent, instead being helpful behind screens and in some cases, being as far away from the action at the other side of the country. Keeping Cammie safe was no exception. It was his job, his duty to keep her safe. If he didn’t, then he would have broken code. 

His first step has him contorting his face to pain and muffling yet another groan. The next step comes with a limp. He holds his left arm close to his chest. However, the next step has something crinkling underneath his shoe. He glances down. Nothing is on the ground. He looks around. The curious faces, now realizing that they have been caught, once more disappear into the shadows.

All but one.

The young boy, who can no older than eight years old, timidly walks to the older man who is limping down the street. He flinches at the thought of the scolding his mother will surely give him later, but he would not leave this man alone. Not after what he saw those other men do, the men who were like his father.

“Excuse me, mister,” he whispered. 

Rob stops and turns rigid. Slowly, while slipping his right hand - his shooting hand - into the pocket of his jacket, he turns. A young boy with red curly hair that comes to his shoulders and freckles lining every inch of his face stares at him with hesitant big, green eyes. 

“Excuse me,” he says again. “D-do you want help? I saw what those men did to you. I-I want to help you if you’d let me sir.”

The young boy made sure to include as many manners as he could, made sure to directly address Rob as sir various times, and made sure that Rob had the power of any outcome he would so desire. That was what his mother always told him. Never command, but rather offer everything you could.

Squinting his eyes at the young boy standing with no supervision in the dark rain, Rob notices that his shirt was completely soaked and dirty, his pants worked more like shorts based off of how many holes they contained, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He frowned. It was kids like this boy that were the reason Rob did what he did for a living. He takes a limp forward towards the boy.

When he walks forward, his shadow moves and Rob notices something else on the boy: a bruise. Not only one, but various bruises. They line his arms, his face, his neck. A lot of black and purple is visible and almost no creamy color of the boy’s complexion is seen - even less with the darkness around him.

With a frown and a sigh, Rob takes his gun and moves it to the back waistband of his jeans. He then proceeds to take off his jacket, making sure the two hundred dollars he was carrying were still in there. He offers his jacket to the boy.