Viktor much preferred the city by nighttime.
Away from Bourbon Street and the heart of the nightlife the streets went quiet and sleepy, silent as the grave, if he were particularly lucky. It wasn’t that Viktor craved solitude (quite the opposite) but he had found that solitude quite suited him in a way that the company of others never did. Perhaps his brain worked differently to theirs, that he could never quite seem to find the right rhythm. It was a theory he’d consider exploring if dissecting his own brain were a viable option.
Instead, he wandered and he gathered.
The heavy burlap sack that he’d hoisted over one shoulder didn’t smell the freshest, but Viktor was more than accustomed to the pungent stench of death. The roadkill within that he’d been meticulously curating to add to his collection of experiments swung absently over his shoulder as he scurried from lamp-post to lamp-post, squinting into the gutter as Bentley yeowled his displeasure every so often from where he was busily stalking him through the shadows.
Cats were such terribly jealous creatures.
“Enough of that,” he admonished the cat after a particularly offended yeowl, “You’ll shred your vocal chords and then where will we be? I had to take the last ones from a possum and now they have my photo posted behind the desk at the zoo like some common criminal and you sound like Cassandra in one of her moods.”
The sound of footsteps sent Viktor jerking around on his toes, burlap sack clasped suddenly behind his back as if he were afraid whoever it was might have designs on stealing his night’s treasures. His eyes darted nervously from the interloper’s feet towards some point over their shoulder, fingers flexing possessively around their grip on his sack. “Hu— hello. Nice evening for it, isn’t it?”
