The late afternoon was balmy, even pleasant, but to Dick, who had been running, leaping, fighting and lifting the entire day, it was unbearably hot and sticky. The sun glared down on him as it started to sink, and he was actually missing his suit, which though dark, actually breathed well and used small, weightless chemical packs to regulate temperature. Dick hauled his single remaining crutch up off the ground and hooked it on the end of the fire escape, looking down as a clowder of cats streaked through the alley below, hissing to themselves as they bounded and twisted. "Always wanted to use 'clowder,' in a sentence," Dick commented to himself, tearing a piece of his shirt into a long stripe so he could bind the wound on his arm. This would probably only stop the bleeding at best; the bite was deep and ugly, courtesy of what he could have sworn was a raccoon.
His leg wasn't holding up all that well, and he was lucky that the dog he'd first come across that morning had decided to bite the crutch on his other side instead of his leg. He'd been helping people get to higher, safer ground all day, moving over the roofs as only he or one of his trained kind could; he'd managed to avoid getting bit right up until about ten minutes ago, and he was still cursing the mistake. He took in his breath in a long hiss as he tried to get the bleeding to stop, and looked around into the windows of the building behind him. He might have to break into one and find something to clean the wound with, or this was going to get ugly fast. "Wonder what a bunch of raccoons are called."