one flew over...

[boy_named_crow]

Back home (if home really existed somewhere other than the fuzzy recesses of his mind), people would have called it karmic. Spend all your time helping murderers and rapists find inner peace, and it'll come back to get you

Comments

[corvenus]

*Riddick was walking slowly down the street towards the dock to see who had arrived with the latest boat. His uniform jacket was thrown over one shoulder. He was scanning the crowd for anything new or that might be a threat, but was not in anyway obvious that he was doing so.*

[boy_named_crow]

Part of spending time among the rapists and murderers of the world, particularly at age 15, was that it made you rather... wary. Not so much of who was going to slit your throat or pick your pocket; no, that's why other people edged away from you yourself. It was the Authorities you came to sense from a few blocks away, watching everything like hawks so that you wouldn't slip through into the lives of ordinary citizens.

Part of being in a European country was that there were far fewer people to disguise a person in a crowd. Pulling a disgruntled look over his face, the boy named Crow tugged up the collar of his jacket a little higher, shoving his hands deep in his pocket and walking with a purpose. He could see uniforms, after all, even if the other early risers looked fairly harmless. And uniforms were much more terrifying than any bulky man with arms like tree trunks.

Or supernatural shrine stones.

[corvenus]

*That very act slightly perked Riddicks interest, after all if you didn't have anything to hide then you weren't bothered by the police, and he needed someone for a job. He didn't immediately start to follow the Little guy but watched him for a while to see just what he might do.*

[boy_named_crow]

...being watched. For sure. Crow could feel it now in the slight tickle at the back of his neck. Part of why being human didn't make a whole lot of sense; he couldn't exactly fly off without being noticed. Something of a grimace contorted his lips, then fell into a casual expression.

No one here knew about Kafka. No one knew about the murders or the shrine or anything he'd left back home after landing on the boat. Maybe he'd find a respectable person to latch onto this time.

...nah. Respectable people tended to be boring.

Glancing over his shoulder, the boy cast a sunny smile at the two or three men who were probably watching him (at least one of them was, he could tell), and promptly bolted off in the early morning traffic.