The sound of ruffling resonated as Luc planted himself upon one of the many park benches. His fingers had grasped a scrap of metal sheet and a spring, bending and tweaking the items in a meticulous whim. It was another casual day, another casual place; nevertheless, there was a certain pleasantness to be had in the matter. He'd struck oil visiting the junk yard that day. The bountiful metals, springs, plastics; they had poured in like rich nectar for deities. He would be able to make something suitable of it, that was for sure - and it had certainly been good time since he had been granted the opportunity to feed his hungry hands and mental engine.
Grunting lowly, Luc had curled the metal sheep as much as he could, attempting to jam it into the spring no bigger than the size of his palm. The sheet quivered with force, threatening to burst the small cylinder it had been shaped into. Luc pressed forward, squeezing tighter, his tail curling up over the edge of the park bench until it seemed to explode. A howl bombarded the air from his throat as the metal sheet flipped forward a few short feet, landing on the sidewalk which would through the park. It bounced faintly, the sheen of light dancing all upon its surface in blissful euphoria for having escaped. Luc had seethed; in anger, he threw the spring he'd been using to the ground. His ears perked up as he stood up from the park bench, looking at his arm and hand. His face felt controted and pained - and for good reason: he'd managed to slice a bit of his hand and forearm with the edge of the sheet. It wasn't too serious. He wasn't nervous, he wasn't scared, but it certainly hurt, and the bit of red that had established itself on his fur was uncomfortable to look at as it melded with the dirt, mud, and grease that had began to envelope his filthy self.
Swallowing hard, Luc planted himself back on the bench. He touched his scarf, as if contemplating using it to wrap up, but later decided against it, instead simply unbuckling the one overall strap that still worked to have access to his shirt. An involuntary whistle-whine escaped his nose as he curled the hem of his shirt about his arm, leaning over to stare at the ground. So much for the pleasantness, but he supposed there needed to be a trade off somewhere along the line. That was what Pockets always said: there's a trade-off for everything.
"Ow."
