Greaser leaned against the side of his house, dilapidated though it was, his thumbs hooked into his pockets. With a sigh, he slowly leaned his head back, staring at the sky. It was a grey day, no sun in sight, and the air was filled with dust, coating his lungs with each inhale. He coughed once, doubling over, then straightened, running a hand through his hair as he did so. It'd been a long day for the teen, and at this point he was simply waiting for it to come to an end.
Cars beeped as they shot past him, sending up clouds of exhaust and yet more dust. Greaser closed his eyes, rethinking his possible courses of action.
Late this morning he'd been finally released from his latest stint in the juvenile retention center. He wasn't legally old enough to be thrown in literal jail, but it was as a close as you could get. As a frequent resident, whenever Greaser was marched in he was usually waved to any of the empty cells. His company for the week or month, depending on his crime, would be others like himself‒down on their luck teens just trying to get by in life, and if that meant shoplifting or pick pocketing, so be it. The guards were fairly lackadaisical, at least when their boss wasn't around. The manager, Mr. Larrabee, was as strict as they came and seemed determined to shape the city's youth into well-trained, obedient, mindless drones. Of course, that was very had to manage with a kid like Greaser around, but he never stopped trying, Greaser had to give him that. Larrabee could be quite an inconvenience at times, but Greaser knew his way around both the city and the center, with a seemingly infinite amount of tricks up his sleeve. He knew that Larrabee held a certain degree of respect for him, though very begrudgingly. And never mind the other street rats‒Greaser might as well be a god to them.