~No More Time~ (EraserMic)

Peculiar Encounter

An hour later, the scruffy black alley cat once again found himself in the cold night air of the city, crouched low on the rooftops with wind blowing through his hair, goggles pushed low over his eyes as he scanned the street for trouble. Something was different about tonight though. He didn't feel the sudden rush of excitement and adrenaline that he usually experienced when out on patrol, instead feeling nothing but a dull, tired ache in each of his limbs as he slurped down an energy drink he had picked up on the way to his now rooftop perch, wincing at the taste.

"Yuck...how can Zashi stand these things?" Aizawa muttered under his breath, dumping out the last inch of liquid left in the can with a sigh before kicking off the roof's cement curb and landing crouched in the alleyway to his right. He pushed himself up to stand with a low groan from the back of his throat, walking over to the dumpster and tossing the can inside. "Now I know how he feels about my fruit drinks..."

He chuckled in spite of himself, closing the lid and turning around, about to head back to his rooftop perch when something caught his eye, crouching down to the dirty cement ground and squinting to see in the dark as salt and metal hit his nose.

Blood....

Small, child sized, rusty red footprints lead further into the dirty midway, vanishing around the corner deeper in. The marks were uneven, blotchy and starting to dry, but the lingering scent of metal told him they were still new, only an hour or less, and whoever they belonged to was injured, severely. He stood up, whirling around and creeping along the rusty, uneven trail with one hand gripping firmly into the strong layers of scarves that wound around his shoulders, keeping to the wall. He turned the corner, keeping silent as the footprints became a little more uneven, the red fading away until it was just a rusty shadow on the dark cement, curling off down the midway between two rows of buildings and vanishing.

"Shit..." Aizawa muttered when he lost the trail, disappointed in himself as he turned the corner at the end of the street, his head jolting up when the sound of frightened, ragged breathing and the scrape of metal trashcans being disrupted filled his ears, making him whirl on his heel and head down to the right, following the sound. He stopped when he heard muffled crying, pushing up his goggles and abandoning his crouched sneak in exchange for a brisk walk, halting next to a pushed aside dumpster, the crying becoming slightly louder.

"Is someone here?"

There was a frightened squeak and a rustling of papers and plastic, a scrape of metal on stone and rushed breathing at the sound of his quiet voice, which confirmed his suspicions as he took a few steps closer, crouching down to the dirty ground and peering around the rusty metal corner, the musty scent of dried blood hitting his nose. Pushed into a medium width gap between the wall and the trash was a dented pasteboard box surrounded by dirty plastic and crumpled papers that rustled as the figure inside pushed themself further into the dark hollow they had constructed for themself, the soft scrape of fabric and skin against the slightly wet cardboard, trying to hide their small body from his sight.

Aizawa moved himself to kneel a good distance from the slightly dented and trash cluttered hollow, squinting in the dark to make out who lay hidden inside as he felt a twinge of pity crawl up into his chest, the fearful breathing carried off with the wind that carried the lingering tang of metal and salt.

"Is someone in there?" He asked quietly, unsure what to do as he tried to find something to say that would coax the scared child out of their dented box home, reaching up and scratching at the corner of his eyes. "Can you come out of there?"

Aizawa sighed as there was a scrape of skin and fabric against the cardboard, frightened and rushed breathing filling the air as whoever hid inside pushed themself further into their trash cluttered hollow, hiding in the darkness, safe from his view. The man shook his head, running a hand through his hair and squinting into the box's edge, still unable to make out anything but a silhouette.