Curse looking put together at all; he certainly isn’t working a prestigious 9-5 anymore, nor would he be able to squeeze his way in anywhere if he weren’t silver-tongue his way into anywhere for that matter.
But does working his way up really matter, anymore? And even if it didn’t–
He certainly doesn’t deserve to be man-handled like this. They’re in the same damned cubicle crammed to the fullest with a simulation of whatever it is the authorities are doling out, brazenly charading as choice.
“Now, we can talk this out in few words.” Crane puts as much firmness behind his crisp diction, mirth and disdain filling out his eyes.
Does it really look like he has anything worth stealing on him? The thrifted suit and tie ensemble emerged from a move for desperation, and perhaps it was against his best interests for survival; if he could only blend in.
What on earth could this -scum of the earth- hope to achieve from cornering him?
Other than for his paper-white skin that looks promising to common skulking hoodlum, just a suit doesn’t necessarily mean a fat wallet, but that would be lost on a lowlife like this – desperate times, as he is, calls for desperate measures.
Crane still keeps his chin tilted up to the man in question, arrogance branded onto all his features. If he’s learned anything from being swung around by his share of vigilantes, his show of indignance would get his face scraped across the ground.
If only he’d learned then.
At the familiar, distant click that could only mean one thing, Crane’s tongue grows heavy in his mouth and he raises both hands with what feels like a rock lodged in its throat.
The worst thing about this isn’t the dawning realization that he’ll have to sc-ream uncle; only lint and a measly few bills line his pockets. His credentials? No one would care anyways, if he was found dead or alive.
It’s that he doesn’t trust this god-forsaken place to cough up a hero than one of these opportunistic ingrates to come find him if he does. Crane thrashes with the hand clenched down in his bangs sopping with sweat, ramping up the necessary theatrics and letting the dread swell in his chest.
“Pl-ease! I have a wife. Please, please, you can take anything you want as long as I can see my son and daughter again. You have a family, don’t you!? Whatever that family looks like– Surely you can–”
Crane’s shrill, sob-drowned cry for help cuts through the otherwise deafeningly quiet, isolated alley.
He might as well accept that he’ll never amount to anything else. Anything, to get himself out of this pinch. If it’ll excuse him from being found bleeding out with a 0.35″ cavity drilled out and deep-seated in his head.
God, he’s built for more than this. More brilliance offer, more people to help. A type of help that would harm people than help them, but that he genuinely believes will enhance them.