[There are ways to react to distress and there are ways not to react to distress but the general, honest opinion of it all is that people react differently so what does it matter? What matters is the situation and the situation involves and food? Food is wonderful, particularly since he came to live in this strange place where people had freak, bird wings and food could be a comfort object. Food like caramel, fucking popcorn. A delicious orgy of flavor in your mouth and damn, it could be better than sex, but that all depends on the partner and once again that's opinion.

What's tragic and where the distress of the situation comes from is that the beautiful place on isle three, right next to the bagged up sweets is where it used to sit so nicely stacked and ready for consumption. The key phrase there was used to because it was gone, all of it gone. It was all he wanted at that very moment and being such a child of id, he wanted it and he wanted it now. He could have alcohol, he could light up but for once in a long time he didn't want to end up piss drunk in a gutter. Was seventeen too old to have a temper tantrum? Certainly not.

So currently, lamenting the loss of his beloved indulgence, Aðal--looking a little disheveled--held to the end of the empty shelf and slammed his forehead dramatically against the empty block.] Why?

Why, why, why, why!

Fuck--

[When worlds change normally people have half a mind to realize that but for Aðal sometimes these things don't always hit him immediately because back home? Things like this were fun and fun is a very important aspect of day to day life. When you suddenly have nasty feathers sprouting from your back you crave that familiar taste of home, despite the smog ridden air. Back home he could scale buildings so quickly and hell, it was part of his job but here things are a little different. Maybe it's the fact that he has wings that make him a little dense when considering the jump from one building to another because he's certainly not lighter and they're certainly not helping him any here.

So far he managed to get his elbows and forearms up onto the edge of the rooftop but the issue here is that he can't seem to pull himself up any further because he's tired, and that took a lot of energy--too much, he needs a break or to stop smoking but kids gotta pick his battles. So, huffing and puffing and looking generally like a fool, a fool with asthma to be certain, Aðal's trying to save what's left of his dignity as his feet scramble along the side of the building before calling to whoever.]

Somebody? [A little louder could likely help more--but his pride is a sake here.] Help--just, help.