"Well when you're a professional clumsy person such as myself, you have to show-off your talents once in a while" I say, talking into the pavement, with my arms just about hauling myself up into a crawling position. "Or else you just get rusty" I finish, finally looking up. Bright light pierces my eyes which were still firmly adjusted to the dingy darkness of basements.

Gradually, they manage to re-adjust and see a human being looking down at me, a look of benign amusement upon her face. "Oh, you wouldn't want that, right?" She laughs like a giggle lost in a deep ravine. That's interesting. "

"Nah" I smile. "It's probably the only marketable skill I have in my arsenal"

"I can believe that" she notes, but there's no degrading sincerity in her voice. It's just an honest judgement. "So are you going to get up off this dirty ground littered with the sewage of a hundred heroin addicts or what?"

I try, but my arms refuse and it's just too much work. Perhaps this slab of pavement will be my bed for the night. "I'm good. I'm in my natural elemental habitat right now" I grin up at her. 

She laughs again, and I can tell she understands the truth. "I would help you up, but it may be more productive to ask if someone has a spare crane lying around you to launch you into the air".

And now the laughter has been struck into my laugh, and my volleyful gale-worthy fits are struck somewhat with greater power than the joke deserved.  

After washing the ground with my saliva, I finally have enough air to ask "what's your name anyway?"

"Laura Gringotts"

"Gringotts Wizarding Bank?" I smirk at the reference.

She feigns astonishment at my outrageous jab at her obviously genuine name.  "It is my real name, I'll have you know!"

"Of course it is" I wink. I'm still lying flat out on the ground. But my life is so messed up, this doesn't even seem weird to me. Meh. "So what's your true identity?" I say, with absolutely every thin veil of subtlety shattered with an iron clad club. 

"Does it matter?" She asks bluntly.

"Not really".

"You sure do have some pointless questions, Sir Lazyton" she sweeps her short crop of brown hair back and looks toward the road ahead of her, debating whether to continue with her run and leave this over-sized slug behind. Go for it, sister. 

"Sir Lazyton" I remark, playing with the new but highly suitable name. "That's a good name. You're good at giving descriptive names".

"I'm good at many things" she says, and I can detect succinct pride and honesty in her voice. She speaks as if she's sitting on a giant bundle of accomplishments, but that's totally and utterly fine and chill, dude. "I'm also highly skilled at suddenly departing a conversation to my own, personal run". 

"Oh rea-" but I don't finish, all I can see is tight (some black female running trousers, I have no idea what they're called) and bright white trainers charging off into the concrete horizon.