Author note: The parts of this are written to be individual stories/vignettes that come together to tell one story. Each one also has some sort of theme to the writing. This is sort of an experiment for me, so I hope it works. I am not a Doctor, Lawyer, Police officer, Materials Chemist or American. I've researched this fic as best I could and relied somewhat on artistic license, but please forgive any errors.

Fifteen years before, they had still been at home. The image of it had grown rosy in his mind with time and distance, he no longer remembered the leaking roof and the way the mildew crawled up the walls, the rusty chain link fence and the broken window. Emotion had seeped into the image he held in his memory, given it warmth and rich colours, the smiling face of his mother, the scent of his father's cigarettes permanently impregnated into the furniture and the walls. It was linked forever to lullabies and stories, candy bars and Christmases, although his memories of any specific event that happened there were hazy and elusive, shying away from him every time he tried to touch them.

Five years before, they had left home forever. You shouldn't leave home at twelve, or at fourteen. But they got as little say in that as they had had in losing their parents, just another random act of reality that tore through their lives like a tornado and destroyed everything in its path. They bounced around the foster system, from family to family and home to home. He'd always been smart, smart enough to realise that no one wanted teenagers with what the state politely termed as 'problems', a word they wore around their necks like a tag that announced them as unloveable. He retreated into his own world, roaming whatever neighbourhood he was living in at the time, scavenging broken objects and fixing them, making them work again. He didn't want them, just the momentary thrill of pleasure in making order out of chaos. Some of his foster parents yelled at him for it, some tried to restrain his liberty; some just gave him a sad eyed smile of comprehension that made his skin crawl. Only his brother understood and let him be, catching him sometimes in a rough one armed hug when he knew no one was looking, praising his smart, strange little brother. Somehow he always knew where to find him, even when they were separated.

Two years before, he'd found out how smart his brother was. Smart in a way he could never be, smart with people, not objects, but smart enough not to be caught. His brother had been reluctant to allow him into his world, shaken him and told him he was destined for better things. But at that he had rolled his eyes, looked around the dimly lit room in the latest home, the cracks in the plaster and the water seeping under the sill. They weren't bad people, most weren't. But foster care didn't pay for better things and they both knew it. He'd let him in reluctantly, but he'd let him in nonetheless. Partly because he loved him but mostly because he needed him to do the things he couldn't, the things that involved machines and computers and sensors and alarms. He'd been amazed at the people who listened to his brother, who respected him, and he craved having that respect like a starving man.

One year before, he'd gained that respect with a brutality he never wished for. But when his brother was gone they needed someone to look up to and for all he was the smart, strange little brother, he was still the closest thing they had. He'd found the role easier to fill than he imagined he would, feeling his brother's hand guiding him as he'd once dreamed he felt his parents. He too was smart enough not to be caught, to leave little damage and little trail. He prospered.

One month before, it was an easy job. He'd been told about this place, about the easily disabled alarm, of the overconfidence of the owners in their electronic and mechanical protection, confident enough not to leave anything as expensive as a human in place to guard it. It was routine, another take from a world that never seemed to learn its lesson.

One hour before, the routine had changed. An unexpected rainstorm had begun a cascade of unfortunate events. The alarm system had been more complicated than he had anticipated, the extra time made the others more edgy, some tapping the guns they had brought in belt holsters, even though he kept telling them they wouldn't need them. They were all creatures of habit, two steps up from street thugs. Even if they did respect him they did not trust him that much.

One minute before, the getaway driver was waiting. He was chewing his fingernails in the driver's seat and apparently intent on working his way down to the bone when they piled in with half of what they had come for, frustrated and unsettled. Somebody barked at him to move and he threw the car into reverse, bouncing them around the inside the car as they started rapidly backwards. The bump was sudden and for a wild second he wondered how he could have missed such a sharp lump in the tarmac when they were running to the car. Then the headlights caught an object and he knew even before his brain had fully processed its human shape.

"Shit." The word was a sudden slice through a shocked silence. He began to take in details, a security guards uniform and a large torch that had rolled away from the body. He wondered if he had missed something, if the man had been alerted by some other silent alarm he hadn't seen. He got his answer a second later when he heard the distant wail of sirens. In a moment his brain ran through every detail of the job; the sloppiness, the frustration, the evidence they had left behind.

"We have to go." His own voice sounded strange in his ears.

"He might still be alive." He didn't even notice who had spoken. The… thing in the road didn't look alive, or maybe he just didn't want to see it as anything that was ever living.

"No way." He tapped the driver. "Go." The man in his nervousness floored the accelerator and the car shot forward, with a second sickening bump.

"Well he isn't now." Someone said and there was almost some nervous laughter. He felt light-headed, trying hard to adjust to this new reality. The word 'murderer' kept buzzing around his mind, making it hard to think. They would assume that, especially now, even if they had never meant it. They would assume and that would be it, game over. A sudden thought struck him and he tapped the driver again.

"Stop." He said and the driver shot him a look of disbelief.

"What?"

"Stop." There was a sudden halt. He tapped two of his companions. "Come on." He said opening the door. The two looked between themselves as if asking each other if they both thought he was crazy.

"Where are we going?" One asked.

"We left some things; we need to get them back."

"Get them back?" The other parroted, incredulous.

"Unless you want what just happened to come back on you." He replied, his voice taking on a low dangerous tone he barely recognised. They followed and he slammed the door behind them, watching the car speed away. By now there would be cops and CSI's and the whole damn travelling show, but they could wait. Until everything was collected and packaged and ready to go, they could wait.