Disclalimer: I own nothing
"Trash'n'dash!"
The unexpected call swept through the air of the stuffy mall, sending the current shopping world of Amity Park careening into chaos. Everyone reacted as planned.
People began to scream as bats and blunt objects appeared in several hands of seemingly random figures on practically every floor. One would swing forward, sending a trash can flying over the banister and down to the first floor of the mall, as the garbage that had been held within it pelted the people below. Another would bash a window, while still another dented railing or the wooden benches that had so recently been occupied by random shoppers. Glass scattered across the floor, screams of hinges as doors were torn from their perches and harsh laughter soon became the only sounds that filled the large halls as people took refuge in bathrooms, closets and stores.
Then, as quickly as the assault had begun, it ended.
A young man with dark hair and a shredded bandanna ((added it for effect...like I said, random person because I don't know who it really is...sorry)) over his eyes, and wearing clothes that looked like they'd been scavenged from the trash, moved past them on a pair of old, worn roller-blades. Each vandalizing person he passed broke off their attack and scattered through the various exits that made the mall such a great hit.
They continued to scatter as security guards finally reached the scene of the disturbance. One of them grabbed the collar of one delinquent who also wore roller-blades.
"You guys are going down this time," the older man hissed to the younger one, as the kid looked up defiantly over the shirt he now wore around his chin.
"I don't think so," the surprisingly harsh voice from the teen responded as a larger figure suddenly slammed into the cop, causing him to drop the boy.
"Every man for himself Basher! Now move it!" A shouted order caused several heads to turn and look at the tall, thin figure standing on a second floor precipice in dark clothes. A white mask covering half his face (reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera) clung to a face that had been darkened with black paint. His shirt had three fairly large rips running from his right shoulder toward his hip as though something had clawed at it, and no one had bothered to do anything about it. Where there should have been pale skin through glimpses in the tears or on the hands and neck, only red could be seen. A pair of black jeans had a chain running through it's belt loops overlapping the combat boots that completed the bottom of the outfit, as chains had been wrapped around them.
With a cruel laugh, the figure jumped onto the railing of an escalator and rode down it at break-neck speed, only to flip off just as he reached the bottom. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he started running for the exit, easily dodging the debris that now littered the tiled floor.
He continued to charge forward, despite many policemen shouting at him to stop, and crashed through the side doors he'd seen earlier, only to find himself surrounded by white cars with flashing lights.
"FREEZE!" Several voices yelled at once. This time, he obayed., staring down the barrels of the firearms aimed at his chest and head.
"Shit." he cursed under his breath.
Then, slowly, he raised his hands.
"COWABUNGA!" A sudden voice yelled out from the half-darkness and shadows cast by an older building behind them. The cops turned toward the sound, only to find no one there. Nothing that shouldn't have been there could be seen in either direction on the street they'd congregated in. The quickest of the cops turned back almost immediately to see that their previous target had disappeared.
A tall, black haired teen panted heavily as he turned down an alley, obviously racing at top speed. Without looking he reached down and grabbed ahold of a backpack that had hidden there almost an hour before. Opening it as he ran, he ripped off the mask on his face, and shoved it into the bag unceremoniously. A quick grab of a rag allowed him to remove most of the dark face-paint just as he came to the end of the walk-way, and dashed across the street.
He continued to run into another alley where he (with some difficulty) pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a white shirt with a red oval in the middle. Then, he ducked behind a dumpster and quickly peeled off the oversized pants, leaving a regular pair of blue jeans in their place. He forced the boots off as he drug the pants over them, quickly switched to a pair of street shoes that had been in back-pack.
He stuffed the last of his clothing into the dirty, grey-blue bag, and stood up, taking deep breaths. A few seconds later, a dark-haired, blue eyed boy casually walked into the darkened streets with a smile.
"We did it again," he muttered happily to himself, and turned to head to his home.
The sight of the large household had made more than one person stop and stare several times. Despite the fact that he'd lived here all his life, the teenager couldn't help but pause and stare up at the odd-looking house. The fact that it had been built as an overly large house to beging with didn't help all of the equipment that seemed to spring out like boils and splinters all over the roof and upper floor. The metal saucer at the very top, along with the Neon sign that flashed "Fenton Works" just served to enhance the eerie scene.
With a growl, he hiked his backpack higher onto his back, and stomped up the cement stairs. After a few more moments pause, he dug his keys out of a pocket and let himself into the house quietly as quietly as he could. He'd been able to sneak to his room before without being detained or detected, but tonight, all of his care meant nothing as he poked his head through the opening, only to come face to face with his older sister.
"Danny, where were you?" The red-haired teen glared down at him menacingly. "You should have been home hours ago!"
He rolled his eyes in contempt. "Not that it's any of your business, Jazz, but I was at the mall. Some psychos trashed the place."
Jazz's eyes narrowed. "And where were you while this was going on?"
"In the bathroom, hiding," he sneered. "Is that a crime?" The hostility that dripped dangerously from his words could have made any normal, battle-hardened soldier cringe, but Jazz barely even blinked. Danny almost sighed, annoyed that nothing he did seemed to affect his older sister.
"Let me see your backpack," she said after a slight hesitation, and held out her hand
expectantly. The ice in her voice left no room for argument, so he took off the requested object, and handed it to her. She quickly worked the zipper open and peered in, only to stare at the contents of the bag. He had to hide a smile at the look on her face.
"Are you going to stare at my books all night, or can I go now?" He asked, a hint of amusement lacing his words.
Her face hardened, but she handed the dark-blue bag back to him, eying him warily. Danny could only smile. Despite wide spread belief from just about everyone he knew, Danny Fenton was not stupid. He had ditched the disguise in the rusty, old shed his parents had built on to the back of the house several years back. His "costume"would remain well hidden until he and his...'group' planned the next raid.
"Have a good night, sister dear," he said as he started up the stairs towards his room. The patronizing tone in his voice did not go unnoticed by either of them, but the sneer that curled across her lips did–by him at least.
"The second I get proof, little brother, you're going down."