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Klaus Hargreeves (quattuor) wrote in somerealityrpg,

"Look at der mist," he called out, his voice indignant, his body language nonthreatening, calling out to anyone willing to stop and listen for a bit. But this was New York; people generally didn't care about some junkie’s leather pants slowly getting soaked in the rain, and honestly, neither would his family. "My pants [...]" Leather and rain didn't mix, and peeling it off his skin was going to be akin to waxing his ass with chocolate pudding. Neither were fun. "Are ruined." Pity; he loved them. But he loved leather anything, and there was real money to be made from that [...] in the right circles, but seeing the proof would probably give his siblings an aneurysm. Still, that was neither here and now, and he was prepared to let everyone's aloofness go, when a letter smacked him right in the face. Rude. Granted, the letter had floated right up to him, but Klaus was Klaus, and Klaus had seen a lot of weird shit, and a floating letter? Was really, really low on his personal bar of weird. Hence, the letter had decided on a slightly more drastic course of action. But it was still rude, as far as Klaus was concerned.

But then his stomach lurched, and settled into a low, rumbling whine. Food - he needed food. Diet, wasn’t that like, important for a recovering drug addict? Ben would know for sure, because he paid attention to all those things, and lorded them over his head, but yeah! He was pretty sure of that. Even if a burrito wasn’t on the list, he’d still chance it. After spotting a food truck in the distance, he crumpled up the letter, shoved it into his pants - for safe-keeping, of course - and pouted when it turned out to be selling hot-dogs. “I don’t want a hot-dog. It’s too late for hot-dogs.”

Maybe the next block? He gave the vendor an apologetic smile and a wave before letting his feet take him further. And further, when that block didn’t pan out, and the one after that. What the fuck did he have to do to find a burrito in this place, anyway? But then there was the smell of iron in the rain, and panic gripped at this throat. Neither were new to him. Ten months ago, he’d just have walked on past. Dark alleys and the rougher sides of town, they were just as much a part of him as the Umbrella Academy tattoo on his wrist. Mean streets were for skipping through them happily, preferably with his next fix in his hands, not for running. But he was running now, ignoring the echoes of rotor blades whirling in the sky, and finally, kneeling down next to a [...] kid? Shit. “Med[...]”, but he swallowed the rest of that word.

There were no medics here. No medics anywhere. “I’m Klaus.” His eyes strained against the darkness, and his hands found the worst of it - on the kid’s right arm. He had to stanch the blood flow - it was just battle 101. Get him to a clinic. “Okay, we’re gonna go up. I got you.”