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Patrol, he could do this, it was stupidly easy really, walk around, suck some energy out of people… deliver.

It was a little like picking pockets except he was a little further away from the people he drew from, and they tended to fall asleep after rather than chase him yelling ‘stop thief’.
It was bringing out a bit of a malicious streak in him to be honest. It was like the perfect chance to put people who were arrogant by day, into a embarrassing but not really compromising positions.

Sometimes it was just people who had reminded him of people he’d known in the past suited too, others were just, because they were there.

He was going to cream this ‘quota’ s**t and go back to delighting her with leftovers from work.

The itch to pick a few pockets was there too, especially when they were already out cold. Instead he was carefully framing one business man who’d been really -quite- rude as he bustled by was now laid on a park bench, carefully covered with strips of cardboard and, he’d fished empty bottles of booze out of a few bins to set about as well.

He stood back to smirk at his handiwork, drumming his fingers against his leg as he contemplated that wallet. It wasn’t even like the bugger would probably miss it but… ugh. No, he was in a better place now, and someone else might need it more.

He stepped away and froze as he felt… something crawl across his skin. A sort of ‘something in the air’. Sort of like when he was talking to ‘his boss’ but, wrong somehow. It made him want to scratch at his skin where he felt it, or his brain because it seemed more like something he was aware of more than a tangible touchable thing in the air.

He felt really foolish reaching for his ‘crochet hooks’, but he found himself doing it anyhow.

He blinked at the amount of white the newcomer was wearing, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re one of those… invader people.” He concluded after a moment. At least General Cavansite had filled him in on that, or he’d have had no idea why he might have that uncomfortable creeping feeling. How did people not notice when they walked down the street? Was this one of those odd things that went with the mystery super hero clothes?

Weird…

He looked, nervous though, really nervous.

“Are you supposed to do anything like, monolog or do introductions? I know this isn’t a comic book other than you look a bit ridiculous… but I’m learning as I go eh?”

Parasite quirked a smile, it was a rather malicious one if he had to admit. But he stepped forward with a hard ‘Stomp” and said “BOO.” Because honestly it looked like it would work.
Maybe, maybe if he showed them he wasn’t an ‘officer’ to be messed with.

He’d done a pretty good strike on the General after all, and she was a seasoned fighter at all this.

He narrowed his eyes, what a stodgy little ponce.
“If that was supposed to be a threat, then you didn’t start in a good spot. Blood’s gonna look like hell on all that white.” He said curling his lip.

He could have said a lot, could have postured like some of the people he’d found over time did. But he wasn’t here to try and win a fight with words. That was for people from civilized homes that fought for a thrill.

He stepped forward to make the first move, curling his fingers and striking up not with his knuckles but with the base of his palm and aiming for the nose. That sort of strike if it hurt was enough at the least to bring tears to even the toughest fighter’s eyes. He knew, he’d been on the receiving end of it when he was younger and cocky.

He hissed air through his teeth, the boot heel jammed hard into his foot. His general would be familiar now with his counter-attack, leaving his foot, pinned under his opponent's boot. For all that he longed to yank it free, he instead stepped forward, One leg between the 'knight' or whatever's leg's and swept to hook at the stomping bugger's neck. It wasn't the most graceful sweep, but proximity demanded compromise.
If he were Lucky, those stupid white pants would have a good-sized stain on them from the concrete when he tipped top over teacups.

If he could take him down, maybe, he'd do something foolish like tear some stitches with his stupid little crochet hooks—just a little something to be humiliating. Damn things had to have some useful thing he could do with them. Ah, who was he kidding? They were just about useless unless he wanted to stuff them into someone's nostrils.

He should not have become so caught in the moment; he should have, absolutely should have seen someone else coming. There was a more robust feel of that unpleasant prickling sensation over his skin than even the ponce in white managed to put out. He’d been out of the game too long, that was the only excuse he had, and if this had gotten serious…

His breath caught in his throat, and he glanced down, half offended, half assessing at the hand that had wrapped up a full handful of his shirt. The command in his voice was enough to send an electric shiver over his skin, the unpleasant crawl of something he tried not to remember.

If anything had been close enough, he’d probably have bitten at that moment. He heard what was said, listened to the warning in it, but there was a low crawling panic that surged up, and he lashed out, flattening his hand and swiping the edge of it towards the slender man’s throat.

How much worse could he be, after all? He was tall and whiplike, and more than that. The need to free himself was almost a scream in his head.

He couldn’t even articulate in his moment the demand that he be released, it was break free or nothing.

He wasn’t surprised that he got tossed backward, but was shocked at how far he went. It made him misjudge his landing, heels of boots catching on pants that were entirely too long, and he stumbled, falling onto his a** with an indignant hiss.
A feral snarl followed quickly as he staggered to his feet, braced and watchful.

His eyes narrowed.
Can’t win a fight against him?? Can’t? He gritted his teeth, assessing the challenge. He half wanted to take another go at it, but he hadn’t survived as long as he had by being a dumb-a** who let pride take him down.

His gaze flicked to the trident and back, and he stood for a moment huffing for air, trying to rediscover words for a moment.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Tell your brat not to start things they can’t finish.” He snarled.

So much for not using verbal bravado as a cover, but he was planning his retreat. He backed away, flicking glances back towards them as he removed himself, distrusting them, unsure they wouldn’t follow.

Worse, he wasn’t sure they couldn’t teleport as his General could. He couldn’t remember if she said they could or not.
Time for more questions next time he saw her.

It had been a while since he’d felt such a distinct surge of anger at anything like authority or worse, the look he saw on the ponce’s face; pitty.

He bared his teeth in a grimace, clenching his fists like he wanted to fight, wanted to establish this as his territory, his patch of ground, his…HIS.
They wouldn’t waste pity on him after that. They wouldn’t look down at him, they -

He hissed out air through his teeth and shook his head.

“Guess we’ll talk again sometime.” He said through gritted teeth, eyes darting between the both of them. How much stronger did you have to be to throw like that? How much harder could he hit. How much more could he take?

Not questions he dared test tonight, he was slipping quickly back into a need for cover and safety. There were bigger dogs out than him tonight, and he had to accept that, for now.

He tossed a mock salute, two fingers to his brow, and swept out again before he retreated out of sight.