Blue had always been a runner, he just never knew it. Most were too large to follow his small body through the twisting mass of rails, walls, ledges, and people that made up the streets below. So when he was hungry he could grab and run. It was like any other day, he was hungry and wanted to eat. He had always tried not to steal from other homeless if he could, but this one looked like he could miss a meal, and the cinnamon roll he was carrying looked delicious. So he did what he always did, he snatched the roll and ran. But this one didn't react like the others, he followed.
Blue was running. The wind was in his hair. Blue loved the scenery here, and he loved the pace of the place. Vault here, underbar here, slide here, maybe a flip here, 'nother vault; it was all great fun. Blue never took the exact same route through the rooftops, preferring instead to keep it random, but the run did have one constant, it always ended at the jump he never took. It was a long one, and dangerous too, missing the jump would spell certain death.
Blue remembered being desperate. This one had followed him, on foot through all the twists and turns, dead-set on getting the roll back. Then he had an idea, he would run up. So up they ran, one leading, the other close behind. They went up until they couldn't go up any more. So, in desperation and worry of what this man would do to him, he began taking random turns, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, and somewhere along the ride, the worry faded, he laughed. Then he was struck, tripped from behind with a large wooden staff, and the man spoke, "Not so fast! You take that jump there and you'll fall. But you're good kid. Nah, Kid won't work, I'll call ya Blue, on account of that rag you're wearin' like a shirt. Ah, but where's ma manners, I know ya but ya don't know meh. Name's Red, Kid, wait, sorry, Blue..."