Caelan bristled at the man’s response. As if his lack of a thick accent such as this stranger’s meant that he wasn’t from New Orleans. Granted, he<i>wasn’t </i>from New Orleans, but he liked to think the last five or six years in the city meant something. He’d like a participation trophy, at the very least. Still, he didn’t argue, simply staring at the man with a stoic expression as he prattled on with his thick tongue.<br/><br/>“The scrapyard won’t be useful to me. I highly doubt it will have as little as a bicycle tire, let alone a dirt bike tire.” Caelan sniffed. He wrapped his hands around the handle bars, squeezing tight once the man exited his vehicle. The blond could take him, if it came down to it. He was leaner, presumably quicker on his feet. The man would have to return to his truck and use its speed to outrun the boy.<br/><br/>He kept his eyes on the stranger as he surveyed his bike. “Thank you.” He supposed. Truthfully, Caelan knew little about these machines other than what he had taught himself since stealing the thing from the garage attached to an abandoned house. He found a few manuals at the local sports shop and spent several nights reading their instructions via flashlight. Now, all these years later, Caelan could fix most of the issues that came up with the dirt bike. Despite never having ridden one before, Caelan knew that these bikes weren’t meant to be daily drivers without someone putting extra care into the mechanics.<br/><br/>“Dusty.” Caelan repeated, giving him a courteous nod before he shook his hand. His palm was rough and calloused against Caelan’s. He certainly hadn’t lived the simple life, by the feel of it. Caelan’s was not soft by any means. Scars dotted the back of his hands from all too often attempting to reseat the chain on his dirt bike while all of the engine components were still roaring hot. “I…” He sighed, taking his hand back and eying the man and his beater truck. “I wouldn’t mind a ride.” Caelan could hear the red flag sirens going off in his head. “You can drop me off anywhere near the Quarter. I know most try to avoid Canal Street and that’s where I’m headed, so, I don’t blame you if you’d rather stay in the skirts.” The stranger didn't look the type to be afraid of the buzzards, as he called them, but everyone was entitled to saving their own skin.<br/><br/>Canal Street was the heart of the city, naturally, which also made it the heart of all things evil. The Vultures had long since set up camp there, creating a hub to return to after their short travels. They roamed the city, taking what they thought was theirs without any care of who these possessions might belong to. Caelan lived a few streets away, in an apartment that had a small sliver of a view of the main thoroughfare. Day after day, he hauled his dirt bike up the steps, locked his door, and stayed silent until morning. Night was the most dangerous time to be out, so Caelan knew he needed to be returning soon.<br/><br/>He knocked the kickstand away and wheeled his bike to the back of the truck. It thumped along on the flattened tire, making the trip unseemly. Caelan paused there, waiting for the man - Dusty - to agree to his proposal before bothering to lift the thing into the back of his truck. If Dusty refused, Caelan didn’t want to already be exhausted before having to walk all the way back to the Quarter.