Derek watched from the sideline as people stared at the destroyed motorcycle that lay strewn about on the ground and in to the convenience store window, patting the satchel at his hip with an unheard rhythm. The cops would be here soon enough to figure out what all was going on, and why there was some hunk of junk sticking out of a store where it shouldn't be. The store owner and employees were already outside.
If you asked him, he'd say that the bike would have been better suited to a scrap yard. But that was his opinion. Regardless of how crappy the bike looked, he could still examine it to see if there was anything worth taking from the hunk of metal. He kicked a set of handle bars on the ground that looked like they had gone through a few rounds of being used as a horrible crowbar before walking in to the alley near the store and finding the back entrance.
Inside of the store didn't look much better than the outside. Derek maneuvered his small frame, one of the few times he was actually thankful to be his size, around several collapsed shelves and through some busted parts of a counter. How it had ended up sticking in to the frozen goods doors, he didn't know. Evidently, whatever had hit this bike had hit it hard. Part of it was obscured from the now-open-air window, which was what he immediately went to. To his joy, he found that it was actually the part where the engine was. Whatever was left of it at least. His satchel produced a set of tools that he started using, taking apart this and that, inspecting the machine with a trained eye. While Derek looked as if he was, at the oldest, 14, his 20 year old brain knew what it was doing with the trashed parts that he pulled off. Once in a while, he smirked, taking one thing and putting it away in his bag, before removing still more. And, eventually, he ended up with a few satisfactory parts, replacing everything back where he had taken it apart from, wiping each one of fingerprints as he did so.
Outside felt even more hectic as more and more people flocked to see what was going on. Instead of going out the front, he again went through the back, taking the alley around a few more buildings before taking a fire escape to the top of a roof to better survey his metal treasures. Surprisingly, the oil pump had survived, as had the piston and push rod. The crank shaft was... adequate, though if the bike had rolled a bit more, it might have been down for the count. Along with this, he had gathered an exhaust tube that would need some scrapes buffed out and fixed, and the brake pedal, which would need the same treatment. The rest wasn't salvageable. His personal diagnosis of the bike was that it was completely and utterly totaled. Not that it was worth anything anyways. Sliding down the ladder, he returned to walking down the sidewalk, listening to the soft clanking of metal within his bag as he did so. It hadn't been a total waste of a day after all, really.
The Strong Arm
The feeling of a rumble in his stomach reminded the massive Russian that he had yet to eat anything today. All of the commotion with him waking up to the sound of gunshots this morning had thrown off his normal schedule slightly, and evidently he had forgotten to grab anything before walking out of his apartment. Not that it was a big deal, really. He could always go find something, since there was no shortage of restaurants within a city. It was only difficult when he wanted some authentic Russian food. Difficult enough that he had to often go buy the ingredients himself and make whatever he wanted, thanking the inventor of the internet that recipes were readily available to him though technological means. He was a bachelor, but that didn't mean he couldn't cook when he really needed to. Though he would always choose to eat outside of the house than eat inside, when his tastebuds gave him that option.
Today, they did just that. He found himself walking around, perusing the different buildings that exclaimed the foods that they had inside, each seemingly trying to upstage the next, which almost blinded him to whatever it was that they were advertising, as he wasn't used to the colors and neon like he should be. The back of his mind complained that buildings that looked like these were usually strip clubs or boobie bars in his home town. Here, flashing lights and colors seemed to be the norm.
Eventually, however, his eye caught sight of a restaurant that didn't appear to be overly advertising itself to the people on the streets. It was small, like it was family owned, which Gustav immediately was drawn to. It was like home, really. Little family owned businesses and things like that. Even if the place was a Chinese restaurant. Which was quite foreign to his old home, though not foreign to himself. He had tried Chinese before, since it was one of the few things that he could order to his apartment, other than pizza or that sub sandwich place down the street. Sliding up to the window, he waited behind some other Chinese man, who apparently was waiting on his food to get to the window. The only problem, Gustav realized, would be communicating with the owners of this place. He didn't have the best English, nor did he know how to even begin speaking Chinese. The whole language was just one big cluster fuck to him.