Yada, yada, yada.
Bit rushed, may edit later. Gimme feedback by the way.
Moon light shone brightly into the dark alleyway. The night was quiet with the exception of the steady drippping of melting icicles.
A dark figure cursed under his breath as he stepped into puddle. He urgently swung his head searching for signs that he had been heard.
Satisfied that he had remained undiscovered he relaxed his stance. Keeping his left hand on his waist, the boy extracted a canister from his back pocket.
In the darkeness he smiled to himself.
He found it ironic that in past decades the world had changed. Technology had advanced as had ideals and politics. Yet the most powerful weapon was still the written word.
As he stepped back to admire his work, a small click echoed down the alley. In one swift moment, he dropped the spray paint, drew out his left hand and threw the flick knife to his right.
Despite the hours of practise, his right hand shook, causing reflections to bounce off of the walls. All pretence of stealth had been lost when he had dropped the can, and so he risked a shout.
"Who are you?" The boy's voice highlighted the silence of the dark.
After a few deliberate seconds a husky deep voice replied.
"Drop your weapon." A young man with a shaven head stepped into view. He wore black cargos and a blood red shirt. The uniform of the British Facist League.
The boy eyed the man's atire. There was no obvious weapon, yet the man seemed too confident to have not brought an insurance policy. Thoughts rushing through his head, he reverted to his training.
He adopted the stance he had been honing for the past months.
Legs wide, slightly bent, low centre of gravity, straight back, head up. Despite this, his stress showed. His knuckles gripped the blade whitely.
"No." He whispered softly.
The man's eye's widened slowly. He had never met resistance before. However, he did not pause as he swung a punch.
