[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/S6xnXd2.png[/img][/center]

[color=#e4e5e6]Flick let out a throaty growl as Dizzy deliberately disobeyed him. It was all fun and games until the police showed up. When the boy was done, Flick gave him a firm smack on the head. Not too hard, but hopefully hard enough to knock some sense into him. He then took the rest of the bags into the alley, where they could search through them in peace. 

Flick tore open a particularly bulky one and found an old backpack sitting on top. He immediately began to rifle through the pockets for anything left behind. A couple quarters, an empty notebook, and a odd little flat foil wrapper with the word "Trojan" written on it several times. Useless garbage. 

The older boy dug through the clothes for something suitable to wear, tossing some spare clothes into the pack as well. Just in case. He found himself a pair of worn blue jeans with a couple tears in the front. Not the warmest things, but they would do. He set them aside with a drab green long sleeve shirt and a black jacket. Socks, a pair of boxers, and even a pair of shoes from another bag made up a halfway normal looking ensemble. 

Flick shouldered the bag and tucked the clothes under one arm. "Stay here," He said to the group, then walked off a brief way down one of the side alleys to change out of sight. Ever since he'd returned from over seas, Flick had been very careful to hide his new scars from the others. He wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to; maybe he just didn't want to scare the shit out of them. The possibility that the same could happen to them. But now, even after escaping that fate, he just wasn't comfortable opening up about it. 

He peel off his dingy scrub top and let it drop the ground. Flick spread his wings out briefly, letting them breath for a moment before tucking them back in tight. His back was marred with two large scars that looked suspiciously like burns. Accompanying them were dozens of other, smaller ones from cuts, burns, and possibly even bullets. Being that he healed faster than a typical human, who knew what all he had endured. 

Flick used his slightly grown out claws to tear two small holes into the back of his new shirt, then worked them down until they were big enough to let his wings through. He then tugged the shirt on and pulled the jacket on over top. Next, he discarded his old scrub pants. His legs were just as scarred up as the rest of him, and his tail, once long and graceful, was little more than a gruesome nub. He didn't even bother making a hole for it anymore. Flick dressed himself the rest of the way, tied his shoes, and put the back pack over one shoulder. He planned on keeping it to tow stuff around in, if they ever found anything useful.

As he made his way back to the others, his mind now less occupied with staying hidden, a whiff of food crossed his nose. The humid air from the rain carried it, and his heightened senses picked it up. He stomach gave an angry growl. Despite having been much less vocal about it than the others, Flick was [i]starving[/i]. In the last few days alone, he was pretty sure he'd dropped a few pounds. The smell of fatty breakfast foods cooking was entrancing. 

"Follow me," He said to the others as he came back to face them. He doubted anything they found would be as good as the hot, fresh food he smelled, but it was a good place to look. Flick headed out of the alley and began to follow his nose towards the smell. [/color]