Kendrick Draper [D1 FIN]

His body is but a shadow in the deeper darkness as he pulls himself up into the empty loft.

Time might have passed but memory is the same, and his dreaded hair, curled and bound through sun or sleet fans out over his shoulders in a messy halo as he slides himself into the space. His strong fingers find purchase in the worn gaps between the slats, the tough, calloused flesh resisting any wayward splinters. He grunts once, a mere breath of a sound, and rolls the rest of the way into the dark.

From here he can easily look out through the rest of the barn. Eyes of a soft spring green track over the forms of sleepy horses shuffling about in the hay, the soft huff of their exhales filling the calm space. Their hooves thump against the ground in staccato bursts - it is the song of his childhood. Many hours were spent in this same space that looked so much bigger, watching the massive beasts and how their muscles rippled under their short hide. Dad promised him he would be the best rider District One had ever seen. He shakes his head to chase the phantom memories away, the echoes of times long past. In order to survive, he has to live in present. Never the past and always the future.

"What are you doing, Kendrick?" He mutters to himself, still worming out a worn book from his back pocket. The top cover has been entirely torn away and the words are fraying at the edges where his hands have rubbed the ink from the page, nights spent reading and re-reading what he already knows. Here, in the quiet of the night, he can slip his wire-framed glasses onto the broad slope of his nose and immerse himself in another world. His waking existence is spent being stone, and fire, and most of all blood, but here he can simply be.

It's been hard, there's no denying that. There have been days where he simply wants to give up and go back to being that scrawny little kid who hides under his sister's arm, but this District makes monsters out of everybody. That tiny slip of a person who sat on his father's lap to watch the horses race is gone and won't ever come back. Not when there's so many people depending on him to lead them to their elusive salvation. His sandy skin and heavy fists have become their messiah, the solid set of his shoulders a beacon in the darkness this place creates. Not that he can blame them - he used to be lost, too. After his parents disappeared into the gutters of the city it was just him and Kaylee wandering around like ghosts, two dirty little children clinging to each other for safety. His sister gave him everything she could but it was never enough - a twelve year old child shouldn't have to be a parent.

He sighs and runs a hand over his face, peering over his glasses in an attempt to read the familiar words on the page. It's rare that he has such patience for things that require silence; his existence is one of movement and action, slipping in and out of the world depending on what is required of him. Everybody in his group knows of his booming temper, explosive and volatile, but few know of his steely quiet that speak of untold promises. His hand passes over the inked flames over his defined bicep, still red and raw, a sign of superiority. His closest allies have found a way to distinguish themselves from the rabble, driving friendship into their skin. Kendrick's is the largest, swirling and raging until nobody can dispute he is the leader of the Wrath Pack.

Sometimes he still snorts at the name. They're only teenagers... kids. They barely know anything about gang life, or the potential repercussions it could create. Still, in the slums of the District, status can be everything.

Status was something he didn't have when he was younger. He lived separate from everybody else on his parent's horse track, spending his days watching them tear across and his father count the money coming in with a smile. His momma taught him how to play chess, always rolling her eyes when he got frustrated at his losses. "You have to learn to be, patient, little foal." She would tease him as he learned to balance his hidden intellect together with his budding temper. The last day he saw her was the only time he ever won.

When they left he figured out pretty quickly with part of himself he had to hide away. Nobody even knows that he wears glasses.

A shuffle of clumsy footsteps by the door, and Kendrick tenses as he slides his book back into his pocket. His old family barn is a safe haven even though it's been shipped up and moved on to another family with bigger dreams than his own. He remembers sleeping here for months before they had to move out to the streets, learning how to become a rat in the sewers before being picked up by the orphanage. At age ten he'd learned a lot more in three years than he ever had safe in his little race-track home - he killed the little boy he used to be, starving and weak, and clamped onto that hellhole with an iron fist. He wasn't Ken anymore, or Kenny, he was Kendrick.

"Boss?" Somebody whispers frantically, a head of messy hair peering over the threshold. "Boss, you in here?" Kendrick sighs and slides his way down the ladder, stepping into the soft hay with nary a sound. So much for no interruptions.

"What do you want?" He growls, seamlessly falling back into leadership. They've all gone scared and quiet around him from when he walked out of the Detention Center the second time, eyes hard and unkind. Nobody knows for what - and he's going to keep it close and quiet until it needs to see the light.

"We, uh, got a problem on the streets we need help with." The boy admits, sheepishly scratching his scalp. Kendrick doesn't even remember his name. "It's pretty nasty."

One of his hands float down to the knife hidden in the deep pocket of his pants. "Fine." He sweeps from the room, giving a fleeting glance back. "Lead the way."