“Mmph.” He mumbled, drowsy. “Mmrphh.”

Dean Finnigan slowly rose, his breath short and halted. The thick, black tarp on top of him wrinkled, and morning dew slid off of it. The boy blinked twice, his eyes heavy with fatigue. His hair was a mess, disheveled and greasy. The taste of bitter morning breath greeted him, with it’s same old “[i]Hey! Go fuck yourself![/i]” The boy had become accustomed to a New York City good morning, after one long month of disappointment. When he had come here, he had come imagining it as some conduit haven. The city where any conduit could find a job, and food, and money with ease. His opinion on the matter quickly changed. In fact, if he hadn’t brought some of his own starting money when he came here, he doubted he would be even living right now.

The boy set the tarp down gently, flattening it. He walked to a nearby, rooftop generator, one of many on the wonderful roof he lived on. The generator’s top was polished clean, similar to a countertop. A porcelain plate, a set of utensils, a paper cup, and a cheap coffee brewer sat on top, with fresh, cool beads of morning dew sliding down. The coffee brewer appeared to be sloppily hooked up to the generator. The boy began the brewer, and began to prepare breakfast. He first opened up the generator’s innards, where a mess of multicolored wires and metal boxes lay. Dean reached inside, pulling out a steel pan, a box of matches, a chunk of tree bark, and a canister of gasoline. The average, run-of-the-mill supplies for a healthy breakfast.

He lay the wood down in a nearby pile of ashes, and added a supple amount of gasoline. He lighted a match, and set the wood ablaze. The fire’s orange plume flickered, sending embers floating up into the stack of smoke. Usually, the smoke and smell went unnoticed, luckily enough. He held the pan above the white tongues of flames, and reached back into the generator box. It was dangerous, maybe, reaching into a box of deadly electric wires, but he was pretty stupid. The boy, after a moment of fiddling around, pulled out a carton of eggs. He set several into the pan, throwing the eggshells over his shoulder, and stood, holding the pan over the fire. Occasionally, the boy would shake the pan, sifting the eggs about, trying not to sear his hand. He bent back over to the generator, and reached inside. He pulled out several small bottles of cheap spices, and added them generously to the mix, flavorful black and red specks mingling with the white yolk.

After several minutes time, he pulled the pan back, and dumped the contents onto the plate on top of the generator. Not bothering to stamp out the fire, he picked up the plate, fork, and cup of cold coffee, and walked to the edge of the rooftop, where a street of bustling cars and people hurried along. The fire would fade soon, but for now, a distinct scent of gasoline wafted by. He sat, letting his feet dangle off of the edge, just like every morning. For his regular morning dose of eavesdropping, he usually listened into conversations on the streets. It was often fun, listening in with his increased hearing. Sometimes he'd get arguments, which were always fun. The boy sighed, taking a long sip of his cool coffee. It was distastefully bitter. Unfortunately, a lot of the conversation was boring, mostly discussion on the state of weather or what they should paint their room. He began to dig into his eggs, taking a large forkful. They tasted like rubber shit.

On a nearby, lower roof, he noticed a sudden flash, and a woman dressed in white faded in. It was good for him, too. He was starting to get tired of his morning entertainment being the idle chitchat of people in coffee shops and the like. Hopefully, this woman would do something interesting.