Welcome to Gaia! ::

He had his backpack thrown over his shoulders, comfortable shoes on, was moving down the street at a quick jog. Warwick's pace had a bit of a hop in it: a springy edge that an acrobat or a dancer might recognize. He knew how to move, and even when he was just running from one place to another, that showed in the way his feet struck the pavement, the little bit of bounce, the careful spread of his hands...

Aitana's eyes would lift just as he decided he didn't want to head the long way back to the tattoo parlor. Her distracted gaze would just catch the hint of movement out of the corner of her eye as he caught the edge of a stone and, with the appearance of no effort at all, hauled himself up and onto a wall a foot and a half taller than him.

He looked down into someone's backyard.

The worst they could get him for was trespassing, anyway.

Well, less a bound and more a deliberate scrabble, the catch of a toe against stone, a graceful hoist of his body -- but it got him there, yes. And at the top, Warwick shook himself up, fidgeting the bag up a little higher on his shoulders. Did Negaverse agents carry battered backpacks with old band patches and festival stickers all but covering black-faded-to-grey cloth? Did they wear dayglow bright sneakers and wife-beaters?

Blue eyes scanned the backyard of this well-fenced-in home and he took off along the top of the wall, instead. A good eight inches wide, it wasn't hard to move across the top of it and start for the fire escape on the next building. If she scurried, she could catch him before he disappeared up toward the roof.

Crouched, preparing to jump out and grab ahold of the bottom rung of the fire-escape, Warwick was momentarily thrown off-balance by the shout from below -- enough so that he very nearly went careening off the edge of the wall and down toward the grass below. He righted himself with considerably less grace than usual, and turned very wide, very blue eyes down at her.

"Hoy back at you!" His own accent was milder than hers, but his vowels still had [and always would] a relaxed, Australian feel to them. He liked his lips, and raised his eyebrows. "I'm trying not to fall on my a**! I know you?"

"Magic." It came with a grin, cocky and teasing, perhaps not realizing that in this city that was more than possible. He shot a look to the fire escape, then back to her -- and jumped, finally, catching the bottom of the ladder and riding it down to the ground. Now they could talk more safely, with both of his feet on the pavement and not in someone else's territory, bag no longer hanging crookedly from his shoulders.

Many people would have been hostile, yes, but he mostly just seemed amused, shaking himself out and starting in her direction. "You're not from around here?"

"Uh." He paused to swipe palms against the sides of his pants before taking her hand, making sure there was no clinging dirt from the climb. It seemed he had a hard time standing still; his weight shifted and rolled from heel to toe, fidgety and uncertain, perhaps eager to get on the move again -- except that he seemed so focused on her for the moment...

"Leslie Warwick, please don't tease, it's just Warwick if you don't mind." That had a rehearsed air to it, judging from the way his smile went crooked and bemused, the quick hike of his shoulders.

"From, um, near Perth." Obviously from Australia; she could probably pick up on that. "I don't do the school thing."

"Oh, uh, I don't know -- " But his instinctive protest cut off as Warwick actually took the time to look her over, considering her as he drew his hand back. Usually he argued that it was harder than it looked, tried to gently remind people that physical limitation were physical limitations, all the time feeling like a colossal a*****e for it. The girl in front of him, though, seemed lest restricted by that. Looser. More physical.

"I'm, um, not much of a teacher. And I kind of just make it up, you know?" But this was a weaker protest. Warwick was struggling against a flush. He was flattered despite himself.

God help him but Warwick actually clapped for her, laughing a little -- torn between surprise and pleasure or maybe a little bit of both. He appreciated what she could do, certainly, and it left him more inclined to help out. The problem didn't lie in her court but in his own lack of experience as a teacher, his inability to put movements into words.

"Um. Let's see." He looked around them, not exactly thrilled with the pavement, as he shrugged the backpack off his back and shook out his hands. There were scratches, here and there, on his knees and his elbows, along his arms, where he'd brushed roughly up against stone or caught on the top of a fence. Warwick almost always had a scab somewhere, from something stupid.

Just one more pause and then he tumbled into a handstand -- holding it, one-handed, long enough that his shirt flipped up and offered a long view of the tattoos raking down his sides, over his stomach, one leg straighter than the other and his free hand slowly stretched out to the side. He was more than willing to play a little game of back and forth.