[size=10pt]To call himself a fugitive wouldn’t be… well, he can’t say it’s wrong, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. There’s a bounty on Ottawa’s head, though he wouldn’t ever consider himself a crook. The creatures after him sure would, but for them, anything is a crime. He had apparently committed quite the serious offense - treason, which is defined as daring to question the authorities. To be fair, it wasn’t hard to follow his old gang’s rules. You were either with them or you were rotting in their little dungeons. You kept your mouth shut, head down, and you did as you told.

He had been born into it. He had no choice in whether or not he was part of such a thing, his parents decided for him. Unfortunately for his mom and dad, Ottawa had grown up to be a rebellious free spirit. They gave him plenty of thorough beatdowns in hopes that if he got hit upside the head enough, he’d become compliant. It didn’t seem to work.

Though he’s been on the run for so long now, yellow warpaint is still caked on his face. It serves no purpose other than to act as the target on his back. He’s got plenty of other identifying marks, such as the thin scar running down his muzzle, his tattered ears or the funny way he talks. Ottawa wouldn't look too odd otherwise, just a bit battered, however the paint, minimal as it is, is still flashy enough to draw attention to him, wanted or not.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s stumbled into a camp of sorts. He’s clearly not well-received, judging by the glares he receives, however a rustling sound behind him makes him bolt further and further until he’s stopped by some poor creature blocking his path.

Ottawa has never heard of the Pitt. His view of the outside world has been limited to what the gang was willing to tell him - he was often confined to home base, so everything he’s learned so far, he’s learned while on the run.

He knows what trouble looks like, and obviously trespassing has landed him in some deep shit. In any other case he would chuckle nervously, maybe try to smooth-talk his way out of a beating, but he’s too on edge and uptight at the moment to so much as offer half a smile. If anything, all he does is grit his teeth. Despite all this, he still has the nerve to ask, ”Uh, where am I?”

[size=10pt]Even if he had such limited knowledge of the outside world, it would be understandable Ottawa has no idea where he is. He's a long, long way from home. He would expect that by now, after travelling so far, running for hours and hours on end, they would've dropped it and just let him go. However for some reason, the gang is insistent that he be caught and punished. Well, assuming he doesn't get his throat slit right here, Ottawa knows that at some point he'll have to turn himself around and face them.

"I, uh, sorry," he mutters, as if that will help his case. "I, um, I just - y'see, I'm kinda on the run here. I - I got nowhere to hide." It's hard to excuse himself when he's out of breath. The last place he'd intruded in, he had met a lot more people, however they were a lot more understanding to his situation. He doubts he'll see that kindness here, after hearing what Butch had to say, but he can hope. "Listen, I - I need somewhere to hide. I mean, uh, stay. I'll - I'll work for it, too." He would consider himself to be relatively young and healthy.

Ottawa peers around the canine to see if anyone else is coming. He hopes they don't corner him. If shit hits the fan, he's ready to make a run for it, but he's hoping he can use his master negotiator skills to deter them from tearing out his throat.

[size=10pt]Valkyr's arrival makes him jump, visibly so. Ottawa takes a step back or two, ears laid flat against his head. God, what is that? In all his time on earth, never once has he ever seen something like that. Is it a... dog? Would it be rude to ask? Is this some higher power physically manifesting itself before him? Man, he sure hopes he hasn't suddenly incurred God's wrath.

It speaks. It's calm, so he thinks. No bolt of lightning from above has come down to smite him, so Ottawa lets himself slump just a bit. He doesn't think he'll need to run at this point. He wonders if they'll hunt him down if he makes a break for the exit. "Slaves?" Ottawa repeats softly. He grimaces. Hopefully he hasn't been misunderstood - he didn't plan to sign his life away or anything today. "...that's not..." It probably isn't his place to say anything, though he's sure the look on his face makes it clear he disapproves.

"I - I can't tell if you're being serious," he says. Is this a joke? No one is laughing. "Ottawa," he mumbles. "I - I won't be here for very long." Assuming he even has the choice to leave anymore, he plans to book it out of here the second he can. This doesn't seem like the kind of place he wants to be.