[overthesea]

Christian shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers curled into fists, bracing himself against the cold winds that seemed to pierce straight through his hoodie. Grimacing, he peered round in the dark, looking for easy pray; tourists, drunks (drunks that didn't seem to violent anyway), lost people clearly in the wrong neighbourhood. He preferred to steal from these people, though god only knows he had taken on tougher jobs than that (and paid for it too, as the scar across the bridge of his nose, where it had been broken testified).

The seventeen year old grimaced as he looked down the street. It appeared no one wanted to be out in this weather, only the crooks like him and the working girls pressing themselves up against he cars of johns. This wasn't his chosen profession; he doubted anyone with him on the streets tonight chose to be here. It just had to be done to survive. Besides, there were far more demoralising carers he could pursue than thievery. He'd been out there two hours now and things were getting pretty desperate. As time crept by and he was sure he'd have to call it a night soon, Christian spotted someone. Though he may not be lost or drunk, he was certainly too good to be living in a place like this and that meant money. You had to aim for outsiders, everybody knew that no one had any money.

With an easy professionalism, the boy pulled down his hood and began to walk towards the man. He often pulled away his hood, knowing people tended to be more at ease if they could see his face. The lower the defence, the easier to pickpocket. Everyone was scared of a hooded figure looming out at them; they were by far less scared of a skinny white kid wandering aimlessly through the streets. With a skill he'd had years to sharpen, Christian "bumped" into the man, uttering an apology whilst his fingers slipped in and out of his pockets with ease, the wallet safely in his pocket and the boy walking away with confidence.