Young'n Restless
Height: 5'3"
Weight: 107
Eyes: Hazel green
Hair: Brown, shoulder length
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Age: 20 - 24
In his mind, he thinks it woulda been better if he could say he was born on a dark and stormy night. Nah, he wasn't. But, as he sits on a rooftop in the darkness of the cityscape, he looks down at the cars careening lazily onwards towards their oblivions. Towards their oblivious homes. He wonders if he will ever be a part of those people, down there, living for the fun of living. Living in a house off the streets. Wearing a pair of shoes that doesn't have duct tape holding them together. Wearing a pair of sweatpants his size, instead of jeans three sizes too big, cinched at the waist with a yard-long length of rope. Wearing a good-looking shirt, instead of the ratty... ripped hoodie smelling one step away from an alley-rat toilet.
He cracks knuckles bound in duct-taped, old half-finger gloves, and rises from where he sits, moving to the interior space of the rooftop. Just once, a day to be in, away from the cold; a day not spent stealing to survive. A day not spent running from the law to get to a new town, a new city, a new place to survive for a little while.
He sighs, and breaks from a stationary stance into a sprint across the rooftop, half-hopping as he takes the edge, and drops over the side of the fire-escape, and into the darkness of the city.
It's not even been two weeks since he started living off the streets of Bhudapest. Since he got tired of simply stealing bread and fencing small shit to survive. The authorities here are crap, but they are relentless mothers. He's seen that in other places, but at least here, they give enough of a chase through the old and the new streets that they keep skills up and going. And they don't use the double-teaming, back-stabbing bullshit the American cops use.
He's run into this big, bad-ass-lookin' motherfucker. Knows him only as Anton. Gave him one hell of a net. So far, it's gotten him off the streets for a couple nights. So long as the deal pans out, he's good. If shit turns bad, he's outta this one. So long as he gets money in his pocket, he'll work for this brick shithouse known as Anton.
After all, he's got clothes, now. And a place to walk into every night. It's cool shit. All he's gotta do is watch some place he intended to make a quick dollar out of. That's one hell of a quick dollar.