[ He's felt nervous for days. That's not an unusual thing, or at least he doesn't think it is. Wyatt always has his eyes open for people who notice him. He's in this city exactly because he's trying not to get noticed. Its crowds, all the loudness of everyone more eager for attention than Wyatt, the sheer scale of the place; he can get lost there. He keeps to himself, neither wanting nor needing company, except for when he meets his dealers and customers. That, he thinks of is business. The rest is his business, and no one else's.

But someone has taken an interest in him. He doesn't know why. He doesn't think he's done anything to deserve it, but he wracks his brains trying to work it out. Did he use his powers in public? Did he get noticed talking to someone, selling something? It could be any or none of those, but either way he's nervous.

Tonight he's riding a bus back and forth, trying to sleep there because it's better than the street. He shifts in his seat when he meets your eyes. Something about this feels wrong. Either he's seen you one too many times today, or he thinks he has. Or he's gained a new level of paranoia, because he's not taking this anymore. He drops into the seat behind you. ]

Okay. What is it? I didn't ask for company and I've seen you like five times today. What the hell do you want from me, man?

cw: drugs
[ The club is a regular haunt for Wyatt. He isn't inside, because frankly he wouldn't get past the front door, but he's on the streets close by. He's every inch a street kid, looking scrawny and underfed in clothes that don't really fit him. He's careful about revealing that he's anything more than that, afraid of drawing attention from the wrong people. Registration for the Enhanced? He's not supposed to be in New York in the first place.

The people he's meeting aren't friends of the enhanced. There are quick exchanges, technology he's scavenged from the streets passed over in exchange for more bills than even the best pound of weed ever earned him. He's selling nothing that he imagines can be of any value, but the fact that he sells it at all keeps them off his back. An enhanced, selling Chitauri tech to Vigilantes? That would never happen.

Despite all of that, there's drugs on offer too. The clients who want something more special than that know to ask for it. He waits for business not far from the club, a joint in his hand. Despite the fire he literally has at his fingertips, he lights it with a regular lighter, and the draw he takes makes his pupils dilate. The music from the club is decent; Wyatt listens even while he looks for business, trying to catch the eye of anyone coming by either to enter the place or to protest its existence. ]

You here for a party? [ He calls, eyebrows lifting whenever he catches anyone's attention. ]

[ He's making a trade when it happens. Part of a staff, broken but apparently still useful. They're mid-trade when it happens; sound, heat and glass everywhere, the blast throwing Wyatt clean off his feet and into the brickwork behind. Winded and dazed, he's lost all track of where he is. There's a shard of glass buried in his abdomen. He hasn't noticed that yet. He tries to stand, but the wall he'd been thrown into is unsteady, and he loses his grip. ]

Help...someone help me!

[ He tries to call, but it's weak. More noticeable than that are the flames licking their way around his fingers. Wyatt is immune to his own powers, but the broken debris around him is not. If he doesn't stop, it's going to go up, and he doesn't even know he's doing it. His head rolls while he tries and fails to stand again, this time pulling more debris down on top of him. ]

[ ooc: Prompt Wyatt! I'm halfbloodly if you want to plot. ]