Peter Alger moved down the street slowly, deliberately.
People stared, but he didn't really mind. Sometimes he found it quite amusing, actually. Narrowing his eyes and huffing a bit, he dragged his bum leg along like a piece of deadwood.
His back was hunched and his shoulders were uneven because of his awkward gait. His face was scarred and his mouth didn't sit quite straight on his face. His nose was bumpy and his neck constantly had a crook in it. His black hair was prematurely gray and his blue eyes were constantly bloodshot.
His mind was still sharp as hell.
When he arrived at a crosswalk he ignored the concerned looks coming from people all around him. Well, perhaps it wasn't genuine concern. The people of New York, as a whole, were probably more worried that if he died it might hinder their travel plans. Apparently the public was under the impression a cripple couldn't get across the street without getting pancaked. Sometimes he truly wished he would get flattened, but most drivers seemed to avoid running down the handicapped.
Walking into the street when a flashing icon told him he could, he did his best to take steps so that each time his steady foot hit the ground it made contact with a white strip. Some of the paint had worn off of the ground because of traffic. All of it was oil stained and dirty. That was the story of New York, though.
Clearing his throat in the stale air, he didn't pay any attention to the camera flashing on the street corner he laboriously shambled onto.
It paid attention to him, though.
Here it is, a short (and for now seemingly "irrelevant") lead in to the sequel! Please keep an eye out for Slow - the continuation of this story!