Allen's cold. He's so cold. He can't feel anything around him, it's so cold. He's slowly beginning to not feel the freezing temperatures, his body transitioning to numbness. God, he can't feel anything. He's so cold.

But lying in a fall jacket and mittens, of course Allen's cold. He's covered in snow on a day well below freezing, he can see the breath he barely breathes. Ten years old and freeing to death, all alone. Ten years old and on his own, abandoned by prejudice and death. His family of deserters gone, in one way or another, some more willing than others.

He's cold, he's alone and he's not really afraid to die. There are tears frozen on his cheeks and his white lashes, but they've long since been cried. They weren't shed for him anyway. They were shed for one of Allen's unwilling deserters, who left the boy to instead have company with death. It's bitterly funny that everyone leaves Allen, that the only person Allen ever really loved would rather face death than him. He tried to keep the deserter from death, and gained white hair and a beautifully ugly scar along his cheek.

Keep it ugly, they say. But Allen doesn't want to keep it ugly, he wants to desert the world for death. Even if he didn't want to follow the stranger that claimed one of his deserters, he wouldn't have much of a choice with his collapsed limbs and unfeeling muscles. The burning of his muscles and flesh fighting to keep alive is lost to Allen, who doesn't have the will that everyone else does. He's weak, he's always been weak. Stronger than some others, granted, but still weak. He's a weak boy, and everyone has deserted the weak boy. They wanted him gone, some of them, so they took him or themselves away. They left Allen, left him for someone better, someone not cursed. They took the easy way out, not that Allen can blame them.

He is deserting the world as his mind blankly forgets to run his life before his eyes, as he stares at the grey London sky with hardly an expression at all. He's Allen Walker, a street performer and pianist, he's everything no one would miss if gone. He's not specially significant, he's just a boy. He's the child you reject and disregard. Thats' how he reads his audience, he looks at them and knows his place. He starts with a large trick, gets bigger and bigger and forgets all the little numbers he could pull. He does dangerous stunts, gains some attention and is forgotten as the adult performer next to him does something Allen can't do yet. It's an adult's world, and Allen can't compete. He can never compete, not with anything.

Not with a perfect child, not with death. He's ugly, he's deformed and unappealing. He has too much sass, something one of his deserters told him to fix. It's too late no, isn't it? He's going to die. He's going to be all alone in the world, but he won't be, not really. Because he blissfully won't be in the world. He won't live, he'll die. He can't, honestly, wait to die. He can, actually, but only because he wants the cold to take him. He wants to ignore the screaming signals his brain is giving his body, he wants them to go away. He wants them to stop. He wants them to... He wants them to disappear...

A man and his sister come into the alleyway, gasping when they see the dying boy. The girl looks worried as she rushes over to the body, and she pulls him out of the pile of snow. Allen just stares with blank eyes at the dull grey sky that matches his eyes o perfectly. He doesn't say anything when she asks him to, he doesn't even look at her. He doesn't even know if he can hear her.

"Let's take him home, Lenalee." The man says, picking up the boy. He can barely hear a faint heartbeat. It's a heartbeat that doesn't want to be there. It's a broken heartbeat, a lie of a heartbeat. This boy isn't alive. He's dead, he's been murdered inside. He's going to live, though. Komui won't let this child die, won't let this boy who looks around the same age as his sister crumble into nothing by himself in a lonely London alleyway.

Allen's eyes shut eventually, and he sleeps in a coma like state as Komui carries him back to his flat, the young girl trailing behind. They hurry along the street, trying to get the dead boy back to somewhere they can breathe him life.

But they're too late. The boy dies in Komui's arms, and no one cries or him. The young girl and scientist look sad, but they never met the dying boy. And the crown slips from heads unworthy, and right onto Allen's. The crown of death, they crown of an abused and wasted life.