Hey people, I'm back! :-D Here's the next chapter. They're pretty short, but, well, you can't really do much with a school assignment…Reviews are soooo appreciated. I'm a new member of fictionpress (also very addicted to fanfiction), so I'm trying to learn the ropes. As far as I know, I really don't want any flames. I have feelings you know…Anyway, back to the story!

Exile

Chapter Two

Tristan breathed slow, deep breaths. In and out…in and out. His nerves would not be calmed. He hadn't eaten all day and hadn't slept all night. The assault on the other gang was tonight, and he was anything but ready. He was scared, terrified!

It was 5 o'clock p.m. Two hours was all that he had left to think, to breathe. His parents were away at work and he was alone in their pent-house overlooking the whole of L.A. Gingerly, he pulled out a large bundle from under his bed. Inside he could hear metal clinking against metal. The sound made him shiver. God, he wasn't ready for this! Unraveling the bundle on his bed he looked over what it had carried: Guns, and all eighteen of them. It hadn't been as hard as he'd expected to get them. After all, in West Los Angeles, there was a gun store around every corner. But the price for them? Well, that was a different story, but the clerk had readily sold them to the teen, not caring what they were to be used for.

Tristan tentatively reached out to grab one of the many revolvers that lay on his bed. His hand shook as though he were afraid to touch the thing. The butt of the gut felt cold and lifeless in his palm. "Cold and lifeless," he thought darkly. "Just like whoever will be at the end of this barrel."

He had done his job in getting the weapons. That was all that had been asked of him. Silently Tristan hoped that he wouldn't have to doing any fighting. Maybe the rest of the gang would consider him too young and inexperienced to participate. Deep down, he knew that it was a fool's hope.

Reaching under his bed again he brought up another bundle, this time it was filled with bullets and shells. "There only pieces of metal, you coward," he whispered to himself. No, they weren't pieces of metal, and he knew that well. The bullets were death; death to the enemies of Deep Blood.

Tristan opened up a box of bullets slowly and simply stared at the silver pellets. They almost reminded him of the marbles, despite the fact that they weren't round, which he used to play with when he still had his innocence.

He took a bullet out of the box and held it close to his eyes, gazing it over. For the first time in a long time he was reminded of the feeling he once had when he saw a gun. He had once feared them even in his dreams, but now here he was, getting ready to use one for a bloody sport. Suddenly, his stomach revolted and Tristan threw the bullet away as if it burned him. He stormed out of the room and onto his balcony, close to tears that he had not shed for what seemed an eternity.

He leaned heavily on the railing, wiling all of his troubles away. "What have I done?" he asked himself. "What am I about to do?"

All of a sudden he was angry. He was angry with himself, angry with Deep Blood, angry with Blade; angry with whatever he could think of. Why had he even agreed to join the gang anyway? Because he was lonely? Because he didn't belong? Now he realized that joining hadn't made everything better, it had only made things worse. There was no longer a future for him. What could he become? Nothing. Once again he felt like a failure.

Looking to the darkening sky, Tristan let out one loud yell, pouring into it all of the emotions he'd held onto for so long. After he was done, all he was left with was despair. He searched his heart for answers, but it had none to give. The truth in him was gone; there was no turning back from the path he had chosen.