They were the signs every New York kid knew to look for, and every New York kid knew to avoid. Having both headphones in, for a start. Looking down, not making eye contact, not paying attention to where you were. Especially if you had a phone in hand. Especially especially if that phone was brand new, top of the line.

Those were just the things a kid could control. There were others, too: like being small, young, alone. Like being visibly an income bracket or two ahead of the other people around you, and a different flavor of skin color or genetic heritage. A visible mutation—a harmless one, like feathers or a tail—was another mark on the tally.

'Thug' wasn't the media-appropriate word. At risk youth was all the rage these days, in sensitive social circles. So let's put it this way: on the bus going home that day, one at risk youth nudged another at risk youth with his elbow, and jerked his head towards the front of the bus, where a platinum blonde rich brat was wearing studio headphones, and hadn't looked up from his new phone once since he'd sat down. Maybe not even before then; he'd pretty much taken the steps up on auto-pilot. He looked eight, maybe nine. He looked small and young and alone.

When he got off the bus three stops later, two juvenile delinquents in training stepped off after him. The kid didn't look up once as they followed.

It was nine o' clock at night, and Panu was not a New York kid. Finland was a much much safer place for children to walk, with population of whole country less than population shoved into stupid cramped Manhattan. And he was used to being dangerous one. He was Tuonela's Takala. He was Ragnarok's Muninn. He was most dangerous thing in these streets.

He was nine years old and very very easy to beat up for his cell phone. Especially since, with the thug's hand covering the phone's camera while he held it just out of reach, Panu was very very blind.

“Give back!” He could feel where it was through his power, so that is where he jumped, but he knew even as he did that he would miss, because he could feel Thug A tossing his phone over his reaching hands to Thug B. Then they were laughing at him, even more loudly. “I am probably have you murdered if you don't give back!”

To be fair, in the accent of a nine year old Fin, death threats sounded adorable.

There were more than dozens of people within the city of New York, more than enough to lose yourself within a crowd. Faceless figures, all going about their mundane lives under towers of steel, brick and mortar. For most anyone needing to get lost, this would be more than perfect. As a mutant, however, this becomes a lot more tricky. It's especially so when you have technicolor hair and eyes on top of being covered in layers of scavenged clothing and a hoodie.

Gavin could only hope some cop didn't choose to pick on him to fill some arrest quota.

Really, he would rather not be bothered by anyone. It's only been about four or five years since the incident that brought him to America came to be. Every time his mind went to think about it, his heart quickly sank. He still remembered trying to sneak into the hospital, holding onto Max's hand one last time before...before...

His head lowered, pausing for a moment. They all came flashing around him, the lights and sounds of the city mixing in with the horrifying images. Car horns, parents yelling, some teenagers laughing, the pained gasping of the people Gavin killed, a dog's bark, a father shouting "Go and burn, Mutie"---

Gavin shook his head, clutching his face with exhaustion. He had been wandering around Manhattan for nearly three days now, trying to find a regular place to stay. The boy hugged his own waist, feeling a chill as he tried to keep his mind in check. Gavin needed to keep himself focused, and the last thing he needed was to break into the panic in front of hundreds of strangers. He had gone by alright so far, and he wasn't about to risk things now...

That would've been true tonight, if it weren't for a sudden cry shooting into his ear. 

He had to admit, there were several times where he had to step in and save some unfortunate soul, not even counting how many times this happened back in Wales. You'd think being the hero, busting heads and giving that purse back to the nice lady would be a dream, but Gavin would just glare at you. There were broken bones, there were cuts and bruises and all the other sorts of pain a "hero" goes through. Then, there's that constant risk of your venom slipping into that guy you punched, the lady you kicked off, that other one you just so happened to brush up on. Who's to say that same venom wouldn't leave itself on that woman's purse, either?

Yet, Gavin was the sort of idiot to play the hero, again and again. Simply because it's right, he would suppose. 

So here he was, following the faint sound for a few moments before finally stopping in front of the scene. Two punks, a cellphone, and a kid who's way too young to be out on his own. From a distance, one could see some bits of purple hair flowing out of the hood sparingly, a pair of matching eyes staring dead at the two troublesome youths. To be quite honest, his heart was beating and his mind was racing in a million different direction, but Gavin had to try looking intimidating.

"Put the phone down. Leave. Let the little one go." Trying to stifle his Welsh accent had been a little more difficult than he expected, coming into this country.

>> “Put the phone down.”

Yes. Yes, this was a useful stranger. Panu could not see him, because his eye was flying in the air stupid teenagers, but he could feel him coming like an old flip phone. Exactly like an old flip phone. It was not metaphor: this is what the person carried.

>> “Leave.”

Yes double yes. He jumped in the air and he almost caught it that time but they were taller than him which was unfair but life was unfair so maybe he would read the contacts of their families off of their phones and hire hitman to show them how unfair if they did not give back phone now--

>> “Let the little one go.”

“Am not little!” The nine year old panted, flailing blindly at his phone as one of the teens engaged the age-old tactic of shoving a hand against his forehead to hold him off.