WHAM! That was the sound of his back slamming into the brick wall. It knocked the wind out of him, but his face twisted in stubbornness and he spit in the face of his attacker. Well, one of them. The guy was taller than Foster was, but he only stood about five foot six so that wasn't hard to do. He was still growing! He was going to be basketball star height, he could taste it, but right now all he tasted was blood in his mouth as Bradley took a good swing and decked him along the left side of his face. "Damn punk, think you're better than me?"

"No. I know I am. I don't have to beat up anyone smaller than me." He spat out some blood before his back was slammed into the wall again. This time he was held there, feet dangling off the ground as if Bradley had to prove a point.

"Yeah, only cause no one's smaller than you, runt."

Another slam and this time he saw stars as the back of his head made contact as well. Did he shut his trap? Hell, no. Foster never knew when to shut up really. It was one of a few reasons why he was here now. "Good things come in small packages, though I bet your girlfriend didn't think so, huh pinky?" That actually took Bradley a moment to realize it was an insult to his manhood.

Okay, in hindsight, that wasn't the best thing to do, for his body was thrown across the alley where he slammed into several garbage cans. The lids clattered to the ground as he landed hard and rolled. He tried to get to his feet before Bradley and his posse of goons got to him first. He was just a few seconds too late. Hands hauled him up from the ground and he was thrown into one of the thugs. His arms were wrenched behind his back and he was held again, a few feet off the floor. That was their mistake.

Bradley advanced with a fist raised, Foster just lashed out with his feet. One tennis shoe caught the bully on the left side of his head with enough force to make him stumble back and fall to a knee. His face was twisted in hard determination to not become a tenderized pork chop, only he was kind of stuck at the moment. Hrm, or maybe not. He drew that foot back and up with a sharp motion, nailing goon number two between the legs. He landed, stumbling for balance as the guy dropped him. As soon as he had his feet underneath him, Foster booked it. He tried to make it to the exit of the alley, but dammit, he needed legs a few inches longer for that extra stride.

"I'm so gonna kick your ass." Bradley had tackled him and they both fell hard to the ground. Foster crashed into the side of a dumpster on the way down, his still bruised ribs taking yet another beating. They wrestled on the ground for a good minute before the bully had the upper hand. One hand clutched the collar of Foster's shirt, holding the kid tight and pinned to the floor with a knee embedded in his gut. The other was formed into a meaty fist, targeting his face, but not yet making contact. Bradley spit the words, "Say it!"

"That you're a dick? You're a dick. Don't have to beg me to say that."

WHAM! That was the sound of a fist rudely meeting the side of his face. Ow..Foster struggled, kicking with his feet, defending with his hands as he attempted to buck his assailant off. Sad thing was, the whole fight wasn’t about anything important. Bradley and company just liked to see if they could break the kid, so far they hadn’t succeeded but today, they were determined to beat Foster into submission, or into a pulp, whichever came first. "Say it! Who do you belong to?"

Ow. "This really hot number with legs that just don't quit, only she's in like Washington so I better get goin.." Another connection of knuckles to his jaw, and Foster momentarily saw stars. Serious ow. He wasn’t just going to give up though, it wasn’t in him, even when the odds were vastly against him.

Bradley was pissed off. "You don't say it, kid, and your face is going to look like ground chuck. Say it. Who. Owns. You?" It was about that time when they all heard it, the sirens of a police car heading down the street. Bradley didn’t care to wait around for it, so there was one more punch delivered to the side of Foster’s face, then he quickly rummaged through the boy’s pockets, taking anything found within.

Foster was too busy trying to recover from the beating to offer up much resistance. He heard them run out of the alley after Bradley gave him a good kick to the ribs. The same ribs that were still healing from his pub fiasco a couple weeks back, those bastards. He curled on his side, coughing and just generally wallowing in pain. Foster tried to focus on just breathing, took him several minutes before he managed it, but he managed it. At least the sirens sped on by, the fight in the alley the least of their concerns.

Pushing up to his hands and knees, he took stock of his injuries. Ribs hurt like hell, but they didn’t feel broken, or so he hoped. Left side of his face was already tender, and swelling. That eye didn’t want to stay open, and he could feel the blood from cuts along his cheek and a partial fat lip. Those seemed to be the extent of his beating, and he could live with that, didn't mean that it didn't hurt. A groan was torn from his throat as he stood up, one hand snapping out to use the alley wall for extra support.

Foster made his way with measured steps toward the other end of the alley, where the scent from a fish ‘n chips stand had been driving him mad with hunger. At least until Bradley interrupted his food deprived interlude. His stomach growled when the scent washed over him again, but instead of looking for food, he grabbed a fistful of napkins from one of those outside tables. It wasn’t being used, so he settled on the seat, wiping at the mess that was his face.

A few people looked to him but really didn’t pay any attention. No one wanted to get involved anymore. They were always too worried about their own husk of a life. Foster let out a snort, a harsh exhale of a breath through his nose that wound up making him wince right after. He licked part of the napkin to get the blood off his face, throwing it in the wastebasket next to him when all of the white part had been dirtied. It was about the third or fourth napkin that something in the bin caught his eye, and the attention of his stomach.

Someone hadn’t finished their food and dumped what was left, which was half a fish sandwich and a handful of chips. His hunger lurched and before he thought twice about it, Foster was reaching in and rescuing the abandoned food. He sat back in the chair, not caring who saw him wolfing down the half-eaten meal. He might be stubborn and stupidly defiant, but Foster wasn’t above eating out of trash cans. Food was the basis for everything else, and it was still a little warm. Foster grinned in that moment, the left side of his face pulverized, his ribcage yelling in pain, his body weary from a hell of a day. Foster smiled, for at least he wasn't going to be hungry tonight.

Foster was nearly done with his stolen food, though really if you thought about it, it wasn’t stolen so much as it was rescued. That’s how he liked to think about it. He rescued it, making food serve its intended purpose, which was to feed someone and in this case, that meant him. He smacked his lips with relish as he finished off the chips and dumped the container in the trash. It was as he was wiping his hands on a napkin, saving his old faded jeans to live another day, that he saw a girl walk right into a pole.

Yes, he laughed, only a saint wouldn’t have and powers that be, they knew Foster Samuel Draft was no saint. Even though it hurt his face, he laughed and had a grin from ear to ear. By now, his left eye was pretty much swollen shut, but it’d recover in time. The laugh though, did cause a fresh jolt of pain to rush through his ribcage. One arm wrapped around his torso, fingers curling into the old gray tee shirt he chose to wore today. This, in hindsight, was a damn better choice than his hooded jacket. Bradley would have likely stolen that if he had worn it instead.

Foster pushed himself out of the seat and meandered closer to the pole stricken female, who was already standing back up and brushing herself off. He couldn’t help but say something, his mouth always at the ready to say something, despite the screaming protests his brain might have had. “You know, poles aren’t known for their ability to dodge people. Don’t think they’ll make that kind of technology for probably another fifty years. I hear tell they’re working on hover seats first. Guess it makes sense, if the hover seats have bumpers, then you don’t have to worry about greeting poles with your head. Until then though, you’re better off taking a step to the left or right and just avoid meeting mister pole all together.”

Foster ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, leaving it an unruly mess in their wake. The smile was still firmly in place and green eyes, well, the one open green eye, crinkled with the width of his grin. “Unless of course, you like greeting poles with your temple on a regular basis. Not complain’, just sayin’.”

Foster laughed, and then winced a split second later. His left hand came up on instinct to touch his face, but he stopped short, having thought better of that particular action. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, only they never quite reached the bottom, with this pair of jeans being a little too big for him. “More like a meat puppet and friends. Some would say I was the meat puppet, but no, see, I have brains.” His right hand lifted and tapped a finger to his temple. “I know better than to carry all of my things in my pockets.”

Foster smirked, most of the smile was on the right side of his face. “Meat puppets, they are not as fortunate.” Funny, pulverized to half a pulp, and here he was talking about someone else not being as fortunate. When compared to Bradley and company though, Foster felt more fortunate, most of the time. Today, he felt well tenderized and ready for the seasoning. That thought had another laugh welling up inside and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it from escaping. Didn’t feel like wincing again.

“They do have a hell of a right hook though. Still, hard to say which is better, right hook meat puppets, or poles. I suppose poles, because they’re usually a one hit wonder, takes you just one to realize that you need to take a step left. Meat puppets, well, they keep on coming back, like athlete’s foot.” Foster stuck out his right hand, one eyebrow lifting, “Foster Draft, tenderized pork chop.”

Blake was keeping a slow pace as he walked past Thames. It was nice out and Blake didn't desire having to listen to the bickering that normally went on in the warehouse. It was nicer outside. The common noises sounded like music in his ears - the small thuds of feet, taxi horns, people talking and children laughing and crying. Sometimes they did annoy him though, because as he would lean over the rail and watch the water, he would think about the noises. The children's voices reminded him of his old school friends back at his school almost ten years ago and the old couples walking along the riverside always seemed to look just like his "grandparents". Those weren't good days for him and even though they did happen a lot, Blake considered himself to be a happy person.

He was happy with life: stealing, eating, sleeping, selling and listening. Making sarcastic comments were other things that brightened the nineteen year old's day but they weren't necessary and if he wasn't making comments, he usually wouldn't talk at all.

Brushing a hand through his messy curls, Blake headed back towards the warehouse. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his black jeans and the black t-shirt he had on was letting in too much cold air, but he didn't seem to mind it. His attention had faded from himself when he spotted Kylie, one of the youngest members walking towards him on the path. Blake always seemed to get a bit protective of the younger kids and so when he approached Kylie, he grabbed her wrist. It wasn't harshly or anything, but it was strong enough to pull her along with him back towards the warehouse. Blake knew that running away meant that she wanted to be able to do whatever she wanted to do but Blake knew the streets all too well and young girls running around this neighborhood was basically asking for death.

He released Kylie from his hands once he had scooted into the warehouse. His eyes scanned the area, making sure nothing had changed since he had left it earlier and he spotted a new face. A girl. "What the hell is your problem?" Blake was keeping a slow pace as he walked past Thames. It was nice out and Blake didn't desire having to listen to the bickering that normally went on in the warehouse. It was nicer outside. The common noises sounded like music in his ears - the small thuds of feet, taxi horns, people talking and children laughing and crying. Sometimes they did annoy him though, because as he would lean over the rail and watch the water, he would think about the noises. The children's voices reminded him of his old school friends back at his school almost ten years ago and the old couples walking along the riverside always seemed to look just like his "grandparents". Those weren't good days for him and even though they did happen a lot, Blake considered himself to be a happy person.

He was happy with life: stealing, eating, sleeping, selling and listening. Making sarcastic comments were other things that brightened the nineteen year old's day but they weren't necessary and if he wasn't making comments, he usually wouldn't talk at all.

Brushing a hand through his messy curls, Blake headed back towards the warehouse. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his black jeans and the black t-shirt he had on was letting in too much cold air, but he didn't seem to mind it. His attention had faded from himself when he spotted Kylie, one of the youngest members walking towards him on the path. Blake always seemed to get a bit protective of the younger kids and so when he approached Kylie, he grabbed her wrist. It wasn't harshly or anything, but it was strong enough to pull her along with him back towards the warehouse. Blake knew that running away meant that she wanted to be able to do whatever she wanted to do but Blake knew the streets all too well and young girls running around this neighborhood was basically asking for death.

He released Kylie from his hands once he had scooted into the warehouse. His eyes scanned the area, making sure nothing had changed since he had left it earlier and he spotted a new face. A girl. [i]"What the hell is your problem?" She said just as Blake walked in and he raised an eyebrow, wondering who this stranger thought she was.

Blake didn't adress her yet though, and he walked over to his own area, glancing over at Sky. "You trying to let Kylie get raped?" He mumbled as he looked away from her, pulling on his own sweatshirt. She said just as Blake walked in and he raised an eyebrow, wondering who this stranger thought she was.

Blake didn't adress her yet though, and he walked over to his own area, glancing over at Aimee. She wasn't someone that Blake knew very well but he was willing to blame anyone. In his mind, girls were supposed to be like the mothers and not let things go wrong. "You trying to let Kylie get raped?" He mumbled, annoyed that no one had stopped the kid from straying out on her own. Blake knew Kylie did this regularly but he seemed to be looking to pick a fight. He would've started it with Sky if she had been here but she wasn't so he decided Aimee was alright too.