But why he can't clean up after himself I'll never know.
There were any number of chores that Harpuia would have preferred to be engaged in; filing, paperwork, training, patrol even. But instead there he was, working his way methodically across the lawn of the townhouse's substantial back lot, rooting out clumps of mangled machinery from amongst the grass and tossing them into a bin for recycling.
Picking up a shattered hard-hat, he snorted through his bangs.
"They're like crabs or lobsters for him, I suppose ..."