Curiosity killed the cat.

But Christa isn’t a cat.

But it has high potential to kill her anyways.

Usually after school, he babysitter was sitting out front waiting for her. Today, she wasn’t. So Christa had swung on the swing set on the play ground for a few minutes before loosing interest and deciding that two teenage boys looked interesting enough. Where a normal nine-year-old girl would actually be afraid of boys that looked like that, dressed like that, and probably went to a middle school (amazing!) Christa was very intriguing.

Little did she know they were whispering about money and the little plastic bag one handed to the other was illegal drugs. She followed them as they walked down the sidewalk, a few paces back, one lit up a cigarette. Honestly child, where are your senses? Well, I did say her curiosity got ahead of her quite often. They’re almost four blocks from the school now.

Christa’ blonde and brown hair was tied up into two bobbing ponytails, when down, her hair would reach to her shoulders. She was dressed in a pair of denim bell-bottoms, a black tee shirt that reads ‘Love me’ and lower ‘I’m a musician’. This statement proven by the top of a violin case sticking out of the top of her book bag. Humming softly, her little tune faltered when one of the boys turned and glared, then the other.

“What d’you want!” Then he muttered. “stupid little brat.”

“I’m not stupid,” she replied weakly.

Not all boys who dress like that should one be afraid of. Okay, well, maybe most of them. A Mexican boy is out walking. Heading home from his foster mother's gallery. He's wearing baggy black jeans that sag low on his hips, a blood red t-shirt, blood red sneakers and a red 'rag' (bandana) on his head. He looks quite cocky as he's walking down the sidewalk.

He's not carrying his backpack with him because he left it back at the gallery. He plans to go back later to continue working on a project he started. Only reason he's not there right now is because he had forgotten something at home and needed to go pick it up.

He can see the two boys and the girl way up in the distance but he's not yet close enough to hear what's going on. He thinks nothing of it really and continues walking, oblivious to the trouble that could be brewing up ahead.

She's as oblivious to the other boy as he is to them.

Of course trouble is brewing, she's three or more years younger then them, and being a very premature born child, she's far smaller then even the average nine year old, making her much smaller then the boys. These boys are now aware that she's seen them passing drugs (even though she is completely unaware of what it was) and are probably grumpy and worried that she'll tell a cop, or worse, their moms (even though she doesn't know any cops or their mothers.)

Poor child.

The one with the cigerette poked her in the chest. "Stupid."

yeah...that would be the intelegance of todays fourteen year old kids. Name calling.

"I'm not stupid!" And that would be Christa inherrited Chris' temper....which is obviously not a good thing. She stomped her foot.

The Mexican boy continued walking. He still wasn't yet close enough to know what was going on. His mind currently deeply concentrating on the project he's been working on at the gallery.

(Eeep! Shortness! So sorry!!)

"Then why are you following us, stupid?" That was the second boy. The first one reached over her shoulder and pulled the Violin case with an effort from her bag, the zipper broke and gave the bag a heavy tug on her back, throwing her balance. She stumbled back, gained her balance and stared in horror.

"Give it back!" She shouted this in her musical, high voice. "That's mine!" He laughed at her. Now here is the problem with having Chris' temper. He beats women when they don't listen. She rushed them. The difference between her and her father/grandfather, he's willing to really hurt, she just wants her violin back. Another difference, he's got the size to back it up. She's tiny.

The boy pushed her and she stumbled back again.

"Give it back!"

It was hearing the girl shouting that finally caught the attention of the thirteen year old Mexican boy that dressed like a gangster. He turned his gaze directly towards the two bigger boys and the girl. Anger flashed in his eyes as he saw one of the boys shove the girl backwards. He picked up his pace and was soon just a few feet from them all.

"Are you deaf?" he says calmly to the boys. "Give it back to her."

She was hard headedly rushing at them again when the other boy made comment. She looked, stopping short of the boys, at the other. Oh dear, another scary looking boy that Christa was (not suprisingly) not afraid of. Really, someone should instill some fear into this childs head one day, if only to keep her from getting herself in trouble.

"I can manage it on my own thank you." No she can't. What sort of nine-year-old uses the word 'manage'? She didn't say that with attitude, actually, there was quiet a bit of thankfulness and respect in her tone. She's just the sort of child who likes to try to handle things on her own before asking for help. And she continues her rush towards the boys.

The same one only pushed her again while the other held the case up high above her head. "Gonna make us?"

She need not be afraid of the scary looking Mexican boy. However, the two boys should be though. More than even this own boy is aware of at the moment.

"Yes, well, I can see you're managing it really well," he replies to her without moving his glaring gaze from the two teasing her. He did not say it sarcastically or anything. Just plain flat voice with a slight spanish accent.

"Yes," he states. "I am going to make you. Give it back to her before you regret it. This is your last warning."

The boys just laughed at the other, pushed her again when she had rushed them, though not before she put a light slap (with no effect) on the first boys cheek.

"I can," she assured herself more then the hispanic boy offering to help by demanding the boys to give her violin back.

One of the boys, the one that continued to push Christa out of the way until she'll fell backwards, advanced on the other boy who was helping Christa. Christa got up and charged the boy with her violin.

The Mexican boy narrowed his eyes into glaring slits as the girl was shoved backwards until she fell. His nostrils flared with his growing irritation.

"You don't want to do that," he warned the one that was advancing towards him. "You really don't want to do that."

"I think," he glanced back to see where the girl, Christa, had gone, then turned back again. "I do." He didn't stop moving forward.

The boy holding Christa's violin case may have seemed like the follower but he also seems to have less patience then the other. When he shoves Christa, it isn't a shove to get her back away from him. He deliberatly pushes her with his fist until she falls at his feet, then rolls her over with his foot and laughs.

"Stupid!" Now Christa doesn't usually resort to name calling, mom wouldn't approve. But then, mom wouldn't approve of her wandering off either. "Give me my Violin!"

"Back off!" the Mexican boy warns and the one advancing towards him suddenly stumbles backwards. The Mexican boy is having those weird feelings that only happens when his magic is building.

"Get off her!" he shouts at the other boy but doesn't remove his gaze from the one in front of him. The boy with his foot on the girl will most surely stumble backwards as well.

Wow! That boy must be very popular if he can shout at the boys and the boys actually listen. She wished she could have influance like that. She'd always been liked well enough in her old school that people just didn't bother her, but this new school she didn't know anyone. This new city she knew no one and had no influance.

She got up when the boy stumbled. He'd been suprised because unlike Christa thought, he hadn't voulenterily stepped back, so he dropped the case which thudded and clattered on the sidewalk. Christa scrambled for it.

The Mexican boy took a quick step forward towards the one that had been advancing towards him and his hands shot out, making a motion of shoving the other boy. The boy stumbled backwards further and tripped over his own feet, thus, falling to the ground. However, if one was really watching the Mexican boy closely, they would have noticed that his hands not once touched the boy.

He then turned and started moving towards the one that had dropped the case belonging to the girl. The Mexican boys eyes shone with strong irritation. He wasn't all out mad. Yet.

The boy stood firmly, staring at the mexican boy who'd pushed his friend. He threw a dirty look to Christa, then ignored her entirly. Worry about the bigger of the two, the one who can actually fight back. Christa certinally can't. Christa watched him push the first boy. She'd not noticed that the boy's hands hadn't actually touched the other. She's young, she's nieve, shes uninitiate and bliissfully so.

She picked up the case and knew when she lost the battle. She got out of the Mexican boys way, stood behind him instead.

The Mexican boy isn't worried about anything. His irritation is growing. That 'strange' feeling inside of him is growing. This isn't a good thing for the two boys that had been picking on the little girl.

He continues advancing towards the one that was standing his ground. "You better leave, boy," he says almost sounding bored.

"No. You leave, faggot."

Christa turned her head. What's a faggot? That's something she'll have to ask her mom later. Oh that'll be a lovely dinner conversation.

"Your stupid," Christa mumbled to at the boy, it was obvious this mexican boy was better at fighting then he was. To Christa's childish mind (and being an only child) this is fighting. Pushing and calling names. A fist hasn't even flown yet.

Oh now you've done it boy. The Mexican boy is now no longer just irritated. He's mad. Oh yeah. That 'strange' feeling inside him is nearly pulsing now as his anger grows. His eyes are darkening rather quickly. No longer are they the bright green that they were when he'd first arrived on the scene. They're now a deep, dark green.

The Mexican boy takes only one more step forward before he throws his hands out just like he'd done to the other boy. The boy in front of him would end up at least stumbling a few feet backwards. "I'm not going to tell you again."

This time, the boy did freak out. He'd just been shoved....without being touched. He made a confused sound.

Christa didn't see, she was behind the Mexican boy, she couldn't have seen him not touch the boy. And good thing too, or that would lead to some very awkward questions. And does it seem like a question an adult would cover with just one or two questions a child can stretch into a million? What a headache that would have been.

The first boy turned and walked, quickly, then ran. "C'mon man lets go. Leave the faggot alone."

The second stood there stupidly, frowned. Turned to leave but not before giving the mexican the finger.

Mistake number one, still calling him a faggot. The one that said it would suddenly lurch forward. Probably stumble and smack his chin on the sidewalk if he fell just right.

Mistake number two, flipping him off. The very finger of the one who had flipped him off would suddenly start to bend backwards until a cracking noise was heard. Yes. The Mexican boy just broke his finger without even going near him.

He stands there. Looking very angry.

I supose it's a lovely thing that children have very good immaginations and can cope unquestioningly with strange occurances.

The boy screamed and scrambled to his feet. Christa cried out when he screamed, gasped and hit the Mexican boy on the back with small useless fists. It probably felt like rough patting rather then hitting. "Don't do that! Don't hurt him! You'll get in trouble!"

The boys running now, by the way.

He couldn't help but snicker as the boy screamed. Slowly he turned around towards the one that was hitting him on the back.

"Naw," he says. "Don't worry about it. I ain't gettin' in no trouble."

His green eyes were slowly starting to go back to their normal color as the two boys vanished from sight. He looked down at the girl.

"You alright?"

She frowned. "Two wrongs don't make it.....doesn't," she corrected herself. "Doesn't make it right." Yeah yeah, that's the oldest mommy rule in the book. But she's such a good girl and she listens so well.

Was she alright? She looked over herself and by passed her scrapped palms where she'd scratched them falling down. She looked over her violin case. "My case is scratched. And my hands. That's all." She took off her book bag and slide the violin back into it and frowned at the broken zipper. "Thank you." She stood up. "I'm Christa."

He just smiled down at the girl. "It's alright. They'll get over it. It could have been much worse." And he's right too. He doesn't know how to control what he can do. Not yet anyway. He makes a mental note to talk to Gunn about it.

"Everyone just calls me Blade," the Mexican boy replies. "No need for thanks." Modest. "Where you supposed to be anyway? I take it that you didn't know them."

She looked down then at the ground. "I was suposed to be at home now but my babysitter didn't come get me from school." So she'd wondered off. She shook her head, no she didn't know those boys. "Where are you suposed to be," yeah, she's a kid. It's highly probable that everything you ask her, she'll ask you.

"Blade, what's a faggot?" Oh dear.

"Do you live far from here?" he asks. "Maybe I can walk you home. I was just heading to my house really quick to get something and then go back to my foster mom's gallery." He doesn't mind her asking.

His mouth falls open slightly as she asks this second question. This he does mind her asking. "Uh..." he stutters. "It's best to ask your mom."

Nice, Blade.

Mom will probably wonder where she learned that partucular word. "Oh? Don't you know what it means? That boy said you were one." She frowned. "I guess I could go home but I don't have a key. Maybe I should go play in the yard and wait for mom." She blinked at him. "You would walk me there? Would you like to hear me play the violin? I'm really good. I'm gonna be like Motzart." What kind of nine year old knew who motzart was?

Yeah, she's completely random.

He lifted an eyebrow slightly as she talked. She talked a lot. Is it wrong of him to be glad that he's the only kid in Ellen's house?

"I... uh... I just think it would be best if you ask your mom," he says. Yes. He knows what it means. And, no, he's not going to try to explain it to the little girl. It would just bring up more questions that a thirteen year old boy doesn't want to be the one to answer.

"Yeah. I'll walk you there," he says. "Sure. Let's get to where you need to be and you can let me hear you play."

He thought nothing of her knowing who Motzart was. For a thirteen year old kid, he knew quite a few name of famous artists before he was old enough to remember his neighbors name.

She sighed softly. "Fine, I'll ask my mom if you don't know." Now she's entirly convinced that he doesn't know what it is, despite what he says. If he knew, he would have told her. So he doesn't know. Simple logic, child's logic. She smiled at him and looked around, and the more she looked, the quicker her smile faded.

"I think I got to..." frown, self-correction again. "I have to go back to the school to go home." Meaning she hasn't got a clue where she is and she hopes he knows where the elementry school is.

That's fine with him. He'll let her think he doesn't know. He just doesn't want to be the one to try to explain it to her. No way. Can't make him.

"It's alright. I know where the school is," he says and turns in the direction he knows the school to be. The only reason he knows where it is, is because he's walked past it several times and paused every so often to watch the kids playing and laughing and having such fun. "It's this way."

"Ok," she nodded and turned to follow him, putting her bookbag back on her back, though now it hung awkwardly since the zipper was broken and the bag hung open against her back.

"How old are you? Your really brave you know," brave because he stood up to those boys with her.

He slowed his pace so that the girl could catch up. "Need help with that?" he asked as he glanced over at her bag.

"I'm thirteen," he answered. "Brave? Naw. Just don't like it when bigger kids pick on smaller ones. 'Specially girls. It's wrong."

Frown. Lets recall she's too young to understand that rule that boys shouldn't hit girls. In her classes, people shouldn't hit at all in the first place.

"Just cause I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't take care of stuff." She wiggled a little to be sure that her bag was settled on her back. "Nope, I got it," demonstrating that she can do things on her own. "You were brave."

"I didn't say that," he told her gently. "What I meant was it's absolutely wrong for a boy to hurt a girl. It's not nice for anyone to hit anyone else but it's even more wrong for a boy to hit a girl. Ask your mom about it. Being a girl, she'll agree."

The ultimate dreaded question comes next...or at least the most annoying question a child can summon up.

"Why? I thought it was wrong for a girl to hit a boy too." Ask your mom. Is that all the boy says? Did he not know why it was wrong? Just that it was? She giggled at the thought, a cheerful sound. "Your weird." She frowned. "Sorry, m not makin fun of you." Notice her vocabulary gets worse when she's upset or thinks she's done something wrong.

He actually laughed as she called him weird. "It's okay. I know you're not making fun of me," he tells her with a smile. "It's not that I don't know the answer. It's I don't know how to explain it to you. My madre taught me when I was growing up that it was a sin for a boy to hit a girl. Madre is Spanish for mother."

Ah she'd been about to ask him what a Madre was. She turned her head to the side. "Did you ask her why?" Like I'm asking you why right now? She wiped her hands on her pants, rubbing dirt out of the scraps as they walked. "My....mm...madre (it sounded more like mad dree) knows everything." Well....so she thinks. But he mother is her ultimate hero.

"No," he answered. "No I didn't. I didn't question anything she told me. And especially not about boys hitting girls." He glanced in direction they were walking. "Look. There's the school."

"Oh." She frowned a little bit. It didn't look right on her face. "Well i....is it not good to ask questions?" She sounded just a little bit confused because she did after all ask a lot of questions. It's how she learned. She asked her teacher, her mom, her friends, random people. Now she isn't sure if it's good to ask questions. It never seemed to bother people before.

"Oh goody. I can find home from here. I think." Think because they've only been in this city for three months and she's never walked home before. She walked to the end of the block and took a right.

"Of course it's good to ask questions," he said to her. "There's just some things, though, that aren't really meant to be questioned. At least that's what my madre taught me."

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he asked her as she didn't head for the playground of the school. He followed her though. Wasn't about to let the little girl walk by herself.