boxfullofzeroes | (no subject)

Wykkyd may have bitten off a great deal more than he could chew, coming into Gotham and robbing a museum. As of now he crouches in the corner of a warehouse filled to the brim with beeping electronics and pitch-black otherwise, looking altogether a harmless and normal child drowning in shadows-- except for his eyes, balefully glowing coals, and his skin, gray in a way that even shadows can't give. He's not wearing his costume since he's not been with the HIVE and he doesn't plan to get caught or seen, just a band t-shirt and ratty jeans. No shoes-- closer inspection will reveal coyote-like claws pushing their way out from under his toenails, which is less a sign of disposition and more a sign of puberty but a warning nonetheless. Two horns push from his scalp, small enough to be lost in his hair.
He doesn't have enough energy to teleport back to his hideout, he certainly doesn't have enough energy to walk there, and the tiny golden idol tucked in his pocket and wrapped with cloth can't help him now. He has just enough energy to teleport within the walls of the warehouse, not even that.
He gives it a try. Instead of reliably spitting him out on a server rack, it deposits him neatly on top of a pile of boxes, and in short measure they all come tumbling loudly down. Wykkyd scrambles off, pats his pockets, pats his smarting knees, and then looks around wildly in the event it's called somebody.