Things that go bump in the night

Having some muscle wasn't enough by far when you lived on the streets. You were forced in a position to be clever and unforgiving. To be downright ruthless. Natural selection right down to its ugly core. Sometimes, though - brute strength won over brains. Even here, in the Middle Ring, goons walked the back alleys thinking it wasn't okay for such a scrawny man to survive for so long, making small deals left and right and scheming his way to a warm meal, some coin or a piece of new attire at the end of the day. 'Envy. That's what it is,' a voice in his skull scoffed as Crawford stifled a groan, his eyes squeezed shut. At first the group of ruffians only wanted to take the scraps of meat off his person. But then they spotted his winter's coat and the two neurons in their heads fired for the first time in a week. Sure, he had kicked, swiped, bitten and trashed around as much as he could. All to no avail: some very strong hands easily twisted his arms on his back and he was rendered defenseless. Now he found himself pinned against a backdoor by some huge man. 'Coat!' the man roared with a low, scruffy voice in his ear, his breath foul and smelling of alcohol. 'Hand it over. I'm gonna loot your shirt too!' "Go right ahead! I'm dying to see if it will fit over that cyclopian meathead," he threw a sarcastic hiss over his shoulder. Picking on someone their own size wasn't only a fitting phrase here; it could really benefit them too if it was some warm clothes they were looking for. Discussing terms with men who only solved their problems through violence wasn't really an option, though. A hand the size of a shovel grabbed a fistful of his ravenblack hair and smashed his head against the wood. None of them were concerned about the fact that smacking a little homeless guy continuously into a door could be depicted as some really impatient visitor for any unlucky tenant living there. A door somewhere at the end of the street loudly swung open, followed by an angry woman yelling about all the noise in the dead of night. The group immediately made a run for it.

Crawford slowly slid down to the ground with his back against the door, slightly panting, his head buzzing. Blood trickled down his upper lip. His vision was still blurry when he weakly smiled at two gleaming eyes observing him from underneath some rubble. Cautiously, the scrawny kitten poked its head out and soon came pitter-pattering his way, climbing over his belly and his chest to claim its daily scrap of meat. "Eat up. I saved you a juicy one today." His trembling hand gently scratched the cat between its ears as it nibbled at the meat. At least he still had his coat. And his feline friend.

There were but few things that could expel the cold in his bones and drape a blanket of warmth down his shoulders. But this? Why couldn't people be this cute and quiet and all-round accepting, no matter your flaws, status or whatever else. It made him insanely happy just watching the small cat gobbling down the meat. With a content little sigh, Crawford clamped the meat jerky between his sore jaws, tearing at his share. That was what he attempted to do, at least - until his back support all of a sudden slipped away. He slumped over on his back. Hard. And.. right on someone's doorstep. The raven-haired man groaned at candle light painfully meeting his tired eyes, which were sunk in circles so dark, one couldn't be sure whether they were bruised or the result of severe sleep deprivation. Trying to process what had just happened, he blinked up at the upside-down face of a young man. A young, blonde, soot-covered man, ready to hammer in skulls. Apparently not shying away from telling him straight up he looked like shit. The hell? Crawford opened his mouth with a snarky little inhale. "Fuck you." Try living on the streets and keep a pristine appearance, douche. "You look like you lost your sense of self in a chimney. Perhaps you ought to go back to the workhouse your mother-dear ditched you at."

While the soot stud now had more concern about observing his door, Crawford took his chance. That being: vigorously crawling over the floor of this man's home in order to snatch the swab of dried meat. It slid inside somewhere during the whole ordeal. And he was going to get it back. For it was his. His. He had lurked for hours near the butcher shop for the opportunity to steal some easy chow. No private stead or ungodly late hour stopped him from grabbing back what was his, screw them all to damnation. Laser-focused on peering under furniture on all fours, he shuffled around, leaving droplets of blood everywhere. Until the man stopped right in his tracks, as if frozen in the stolen woman's coat he wore. He felt his heart sink in his chest at a downright awful realization. "Where did the cat go?" With soft gasps he turned to the blonde, panic already growing in his eyes. "Cat. The cat? Have - have you seen it?" Because he hadn't. And if he hadn't, this bloke sure had not either.