In this world, there are those that have, and those that have not. Media informs us that the haves are roughly one percent of the total population, and that the have nots incorporate the rest. Common sense decrees a vast issue with this form of dichotomy.
Media also tells us that we – the ninety-nine percent – have only recently become the party of the unentitled. We are told that our slippage down the financial ladder is a travesty only discovered by their tireless vigilance, their scintillating intellect, and impeccable honesty. Which, by the way, happens to be so very deserving of our hard-earned cash, so that they may continue their ceaseless monitoring of other vital threats to our well-being. Defenders of truth, justice, and Hemingway, as it were.
What, media moguls aren't part of the One Percent?
I feel admiration for that kind of chutzpah. They have a shtick, and are making a ton of money off of it. By reporting something shady, and taking the role of being the pillar of society, no one questions fair remuneration for services rendered. At last, not until an election comes up, and then all sides start accusing each other of controlling the media, looking for scapegoats on poorly-thought out comments, and so on. It can get uncomfortable for pundits and broadcast systems. If they had shame, that is.
My opinion is a touch more practical. The last place people shine the metaphorical Light of Truth is at the spotlight operator.
Now me, I earn my cash in a completely different fashion. Unlike famous criminals like Dr. Otto Octavius – he of the metallic limbs and scowling face – or the Black Cat – she of the plunging neckline and superb assets – I am but a humble thief. A purveyor of misplaced items, liberator of the tiny things of life.
Let the others take the glory, the mighty prizes of ancient artifacts powering entire civilizations until the Grand Poobah sneezed in the Eternal Light … or whatever. High profile is good for profit. It's bad for longevity and I like living. It's how I do everything, eat lunch, take naps … and come up with ways to avoid dying. Emphasis on that last.
Call me Knut. It's not my actual name, but doting parents devoted to Nordic lore somehow saw fit to bequeath the name Jerk – and no, they didn't watch movies. My last name is equally difficult to pronounce, but that's due more to successful ancestors than unwise parenting. You don't get a last name by having failed ancestors, right? We'll get back to that later.
Imagine, if you will, a picturesque villa filled with the comforts of vacationing splendor. All the essentials are present, of course. Tiny, herb-scented crackers for guests to exclaim over, expensive vases created by those intelligent enough to slap clay into a glorified spittoon and give it a pretentious name, and of course, enough loose change to re-stock a couple uni vending machines. Not the cheap models stocked with candy and ear buds, but the high-class private school variety packed with caviar and ambergris.
Beautiful, isn't it?
Now me, I like the art. Private collectors have a real eye for hidden gems. Which, by happy coincidence, I also enjoy.
Most high-end villas have an equally munificent security. Guard dogs, security officers, cameras, the whole nine yards. With the right equipment, you don't even need mutations to get past them. Which is why I don't use my … admittedly unusual genetic specialty. It's not embarrassing, just … odd.
Back to work. The safe room was easily identifiable for someone like me, a connoisseur of Old School methods. Architects try to disguise safe-rooms by shifting walls around, like a GPS cache hunt. The materials used to harden such a room however, are a bit different from the weight-bearing walls, or the dividing walls. Honestly, you'd think they would spring for a little more stonework, if only to make the deception ... convincing.
Access to a safe room is easy, when you know it's there, and the lockdown has not been engaged. Locating the passcodes, sewn into the drapes, was lucky too.
Inside, I had to restrain the urge to utter a loud whistle. In all probability no one would have noticed, but it's the principle of the thing. And a bad habit – not that I have any.
Inside was a pile of my favorite little friends: gems. And the accompanying precious-metal settings. I love that stuff. So easily transported, meltable, and capable of having high-security nanochips. Finding a couple diamonds the size of my thumb would be nice, but unlikely. Most gemstones are roughly the size of a grain of rice, and only the uber wealthy would pay a fortune for something so small. Well, romantics as well – there's no cure for the intellectually sappy. That kind of mentality makes my job all the easier.
The best about gemstone settings? They slipped into my side-wallet with no difficulties whatsoever, individually wrapped in a long silk sash to stop that annoying clink. Little details like that are what get the less capable thieves caught. I hesitate to be rude of my … peers … because I can afford manners. Successful thieves – repeatedly successful mind – can have that kind of expense.
But, there was no sense pushing my luck. I'm sure there were tens of thousands of dollars' worth of potentially-clinking goodies lying around, but that wasn't my target.
My true target was the computer panel set in the wall beside the emergency control panel, and more specifically, the thumb-drive access port therein. I calmed myself; any mistake at this point would net a grand total of nothing. All the planning, stakeouts, trips to the City Planner office, rendered worthless.
Well … except for a pocket full of high-quality gems. Nice consolation prize.
But I have always gone for big game – within reason – and performed the past forty-two times with flawless capacity. There was just something about that number … that made me want to increase it. Could I pull a flawless forty-third? After all, I only needed to be lucky one more time. To catch me, the cops had to be lucky all the time, to twist a certain saying.
The data-box, a rounded cylinder, came out of the silk lining without catching. The static-proof exterior slid open, revealing the enameled black device within. It felt heavy in my hand, as well it should have. Five terabyte hard drive, solid state no less, were expensive. Quickly I located the access port, plugged it in, and took a fast step back. Interrupting the upload had the potential to leave a digital trail wider than a politician's moral compass point.
While it did its work, I performed a quick change. Silk leggings and lycra-tight shoulders were covered with a nauseating green pair of slacks, and button-front. An equally revolting over-shirt covered a Kevlar vest, or at least what looked to be Kevlar. Since the entire outfit had been designed for a much tubbier individual, the last piece added was the inflatable bladder, underneath the entire ensemble. In seconds, the skinny, lanky form of Knut the Thief became the pudgy form of Tom 'Seneca' McNichols, private contractor and liberator of donuts everywhere. The former had entered through a darkened laundry sack of a help-service vehicle; the latter would walk out, visually identical to any of a hundred rent-a-cops.
Just in time, a bright green light winked on the thumb-drive, indicating its program had been pushed through. I snatched it up, hastily dropping it into its protective casing.
More casually, I left the safe room, adopting the confident swagger of the average bouncer. It was in the leg; how police officers were trained to saunter. Proceeding they called it.
My exit from the safe room took me into the bedroom, and then the hall. The actual guards were dedicated members of Dos Hermanos, an elite firm based out of Sao Paulo. While that didn't excuse the lack of fashion sense, it certainly did explain the ease with which I'd acquired their uniform.
Cue rimshot. Sometimes, I kill myself.
Normally, the interior of an off-time place is dead quiet. So quiet you can hear a buzzing fly two stories away. That meant a soft tap, quiet as the sound of snowfall on dry leaves, caught my attention. Little sounds tended to do that; I know what a thief sounds like. It's as simple as listening to myself breathe.
The best defense in this case was ignorance. Pretending anything would give me away. I wasn't just looking like a guard, I was a guard. A fat, professional, overconfident, self-important man; possibly not supposed to be where he was. So, slightly nervous, a little top-heavy, and more than a bit eager to get out of there.
I heard it again, a few feet away from where it had been the last time, and louder. Now, any good cop would investigate, but was I really a good cop? Not a bad cop certainly, so maybe mediocre? Right; like any mediocre cop, I looked at the spot, and started walking that way. "Excuse me? Is someone there?" Adding a tiniest bit of quaver to my voice capped the persona nicely.
Nothing happened, then a sinuous form, slinked around the edge of a drape. I had no trouble gulping. This was a professional thief. Too public for my taste, rumored to have a thing going for Spider-Man, recipient of super powers, and considered to be one of the most attractive people on the planet, just under Mary Jane Watson and Susan Richards. From my own viewpoint, this woman was an easy contender for first place. It was like her black skinsuit and white fur-encased cleavage was a magnet; I forced my eyes away, nervousness did not need to be simulated. Attractive women do that to me – ironic.
"Why, officer," she purred. "I didn't know you were in here, what a … surprise." One hand reached forward, teasing at a pocket on my vest. I ignored the silvery decorative points on the white-gloved fingertips. Possibly not decorative at all – so, five lethal weapons dancing around the region of my thoracic cavity. Not worrisome at all.
Regaining control, I stepped back, thinking fast. She'd been seen in Brooklyn yesterday! What was she doing here? "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't realize the party guests had started arriving." Was it my imagination, or did she look worried for a tiny moment? She should have, no party was scheduled that I knew of, and no thief liked being surprised by a literal party. "I'll just let you get ready; the bedroom is back there, and I'm sure the boss would be glad to see you too."
For the barest moment, I saw anger in her eyes. My veiled – and blatantly ignorant – suggestion of her occupation must have stung. Or, she felt hurt by the lack of recognition? But, she flashed a grin in my direction, pouting a little. "Oh don't worry about it, darling. I saw the door open and just let myself in. Incidentally," her white-gloved hand started towards me again; I 'clumsily' inched backwards, closer to the door. "Would you happen to have the key? Mine is missing somehow."
Quick, tiny steps took me the rest of the way to the doorway, words hurried. "Sorry ma'am, I just have the copy they gave me. Haveagoodday!"
Fleeing felt like victory. It's not often you cross paths with the self-proclaimed Queen of Thieves. It's regularly said that just meeting her is bad luck; she's not called the Black Cat for nothing. That brought a thought to mind; I reached to the little chain on my left flank: the key was gone.
I recalled a fun fact, learned in my youth: in England, black cats were considered lucky; even more so when they enter a house uninvited. At the moment, I wholeheartedly agreed with the English sentiment. My key was missing, and that was important.
To most people, it would be an irritating thing, a realization of being outwitted. To me, it was actually a bit of a compliment. My performance was good enough that she believed my role; hard to do when the person you're fooling is such an excellent judge of character. When survival requires a superbly honed ability to read a target, it becomes second nature to detect the little lies we tell ourselves throughout the day. More dangerously, the lies we tell others become far more obvious. Things like: "That dress looks great on you!" or "I didn't eat the last donut, honest."
Or maybe she thought nothing of such an incompetent thief-slash-cop like me. Either way, all I had to do was get away.
Ahead, the exit into the evening light looked welcoming. A few steps away; no guards in sight. Except for the one tied to the pillar, unconscious. I snorted. Subtle, Cat. Subtle.
Outside, my pace picked up from the leisurely stroll to a more businesslike walk. My next change of clothes waited in a duffel bag, stashed at the local gym. Since the gym was only a few dozen feet off the villa property, it made the covert shift simple and easy – two words I love to hear. As my observations had shown, my exfiltration route remained unbothered by actual security guards; they tended to keep to the same pattern whenever no one was actually home. Now if the homeowner had actually been in the villa, it would have been a different story; varied patrols staggered with different people, check-ins every five minutes, active sensor monitoring … still do-able, but much more work.
I'm lazy. Cut me some slack.
Getting to the fence was easy. Without the key, I had to incorporate a little acting; struggling with the lock until another guard helpfully opened the door for me. He didn't check to see why my apartment key wasn't working on the high-security entrance. Complacency is the bane of humanity.
So I trekked onward, shedding the 'Kevlar' vest and slinging it over one arm. Given the number of security guards Osbourne employed in the area, I attracted no attention.
Five minutes later plus one change of clothes, and Tom 'Seneca' McNichols, contract protector of Dos Hermanos was gone, replaced by Guy Brisbane, ace reporter for a blog no one ever reads. I even put articles on it every month, the desperate kind of writing most often seen by bad authors on fan-fiction websites.
As I left, I couldn't help glancing back at the villa, admiring its outline in the waning light. Guards were still on their regular rounds, but on the rooftop, silhouetted in a point where no one inside the grounds could see, was a dark figure on the roof; silver gleamed for a moment, and the head seemed remarkable in its reflective properties – like shiny white hair. Or a pair of reflective goggles. The roof guard wasn't due to appear for another fifteen minutes, which meant human vagaries, or one petty thief, was at work.
I gave the distant individual a little wave, and went on my way, cheap digital camera snapping pictures of anything and everything. I even got a young couple to take my picture with the villa in the background. I never got their last names, but Wanda looked exotic, and the guy she was with seemed polite … cold, but polite.
At any rate, after carefully putting the camera's memory card in an insulated case, I got into my taxi-yellow Lamborghini and drove off, over-revving the engine a few times, just to show off to the pretty young ladies draping themselves on its sleek flanks.
Just kidding, I hitched a ride from a taxi-yellow taxi. It smelled like diesel and curry, but had a very friendly driver, eager to discuss his intentions for establishing a restaurant for which New York had a desperate need. Oh, and ridiculously comfortable seats – oops, I lied again. The seats were terrible, but had a good, visible structure. Springs everywhere. From that cultural experience, I transferred to a public transit service; the bus.
That conveyance conveyed me to Brooklyn, where I took a subway farther north. When the line ended, I walked, acquiring a lift from an exceedingly friendly locale, whom I had to dissuade from mugging me by means of fisticuffs, and a generous exhibition of my mastery in common physics.
Primitives. Honestly.
After borrowing the hoodlum's car – which was left near a police station – I walked the last few blocks to an apartment complex. My brother owns it, and rents me a room in the basement for a phenomenal, nominal, fee.
"Tyyyler," I sang out, walking down the last flight of stairs. "I'm hoooommmmeeeeee!"
The scraping of wheels responded almost immediately. My brother's wheelchair whirred into sight. "Did you do it?"
I dropped the pouch of gemstones into a lead-lined container next to the door, ready for just such an occasion. A miniaturized Faraday wiring set into the thick walls hummed to life. "Fine, thanks. How are you?"
His intent gaze softened. "Sorry, how are you?"
"Success," I grinned. "Program went in no problem, and I picked up a few gewgaws to make it look good."
Tyler rolled closer, pausing just outside safe range. "Excellent. And the hard-drive performed adequately?"
Tossing it into his lap, I started moving again, headed for the kitchen. Theft made me hungry. "Didn't fry it. Got better control than that, even when Black Cat showed up."
The wheels scraped against a wire lying on the ground, "Black Cat? Did she spot you? Trackers?"
"Pickpocketed my master key. Thought I was a guard." Ham and cheese would be great, and easily made on a propane stove. No microwaves for me, thanks.
My brother followed, as persistent as the methodical laborer with which his name affiliated. "But the tracker? We've theorized about that possibility for years!"
I snorted. "Tech. Me. Remember what happened when I got too close to your wheelchair last month, and got irritated?"
To his credit, Tyler winced. While brothers, we had very different personalities – in case it wasn't obvious. He tends to be cautious, introverted, and worried about everything while I tend to be cautious, introverted and find it hard to care about much. Comes from being unable to move freely in a world made of touchy electronics, like a father's pacemaker.
"Right, right. Continuing on an alternative venue," Tyler shifted directions. "Did the Osbourne's have anything good?"
That brought a smile to my face. "There's the Tyler we all know and love; what happened to you? Did bad-ol' worrywart Tylie hide you away?" Before he could respond, I continued. "Some decent art, Rococo style. Some safes I didn't have time to check, two panic rooms with waaaaay too many locks to be an actual room for panic. A Lotus in the carpark, two vintage corvettes, and a Rolls somewhere in the back."
We both knew I was just reeling off the highlights. Norman Osbourne is one of the wealthiest – and crookedest – businessmen in the world. When you have that much money, my little excursion wouldn't be felt by one of his lower minions. In all likelihood, it would be replaced within a few days, if it was even noticed in the first place. "Not the most I've ever seen, but certainly not the worst."
"A mistress then," Tyler rubbed his chin. "Mayhap a simple tax break subterfuge. Yet such explanations do not clarify her presence."
I rolled my eyes. "She's a thief. I'm a thief. Well, mostly. We probably just had a good idea at the same time."
"No, no-no-no-no." My brother rolled away, disappearing into the Faraday Cage construct surrounding his mysterious laboratory. I'd had my suspicions as to why a computer lab was right next to the kitchen, but kept them to myself. Every man is allowed a few secrets. The energy barrier preventing electromagnetic waves from somehow jumping vast distances distorted his voice. "No one commits resources without good reason. We had ours, what was hers'?"
Pure deliciousness began heating on the burner. I took the opportunity to change; yes in the kitchen. It was warm, close at hand, and held an extra pair of pants in one of the cupboards.
My brother knows me very well.
While changing, something hit the linoleum, clicking against the hard floor. I waited until I had a new pair of pants on, something less form-fitting – and picked it up. "Hey, Tyler? You might've been right …."
"Be still my pulsating heart," he called back. "To what deity should I give thanks for this insight?"
I turned the object over in one hand, very careful to keep my power in check. "I found a bug."
There was a crash from the lab, and a squealing of tires. I didn't know you could do that with a wheelchair … learn something's old every day. The mechanized wheelchair blew through the barrier like smoke, coming to a stop well inside my safe zone. "Where? Whatisitwheredidyoufind – " his gaze fell on the palm of my hand. "Oh."
I turned it over. Its nature was undoubtedly espionage, given the little antenna and tiny hooks. The miniscule bits of smoke rising through invisible cracks, based on my exemplary knowledge of forensic computer science, allowed me to deduce there wasn't much that could be done to resuscitate it.
"Well," it rolled in my hand, oddly heavy. "At least it didn't track me."
His voice moved upwards, "You can't be certain, you don't know!"
The metal sparked in my hand. Tyler gasped, rolling back out of range. "Knut! You're – "
I stopped the bug's movement, trapping it between thumb and palm. The sparks died out, sinking into my skin. The sensation felt like it always did, a little ticklish, a tad creepy and more than a little invigorating. "Must have sparked it a while back; internal energy. Feels like an hour or so, maybe right after I left the villa."
Reluctantly, Tyler approached again. "You've been running electromotive-force through that for the past hour? That is … impressive."
I took a step back, after laying the tracking device on the counter. My power ruins electronics, anything near me. Fantastic for getting rid of evidence, terrible for living with a family that has a need for electricity-based hardware. I don't know much about the X-men, I certainly don't trust Magneto's Brotherhood, and the Fantastic Four or Avengers would be … less than forgiving of my actions. Yeah, they've taken in criminals before, but they've also made really asinine decisions too … so no. We've learned to compromise: I stay away from the hardware while I learn control, they stay from me while I learn control. Well, if they knew I existed. Which I doubt.
Small-time thieves are a rarity for Big People. They don't notice clever, handsome people that lurk in the shadows after the famous things are already gone. I'm just that good.
My brother on the other hand is an electronics genius, built his own wheelchair after a few courses in design. He has a recently discovered condition, m-type muscular dystrophy. Seems that all the genetic shifting going on isn't just meta-powers and fantastic hair – he got the short end of the stick. Medical terms are long, but if he strays too far from a source of electricity, his heart stops.
Oddly, he can be near me without a power source just fine. But since neither of us cares to be quite that close for so long, he built the chair. And I stay away from it.
He picked it up from the countertop, feeling it for himself. "Obviously a custom job. Special-run titanium as well, off market creation … spectro-analysis will give me the composition, but not the manufacturer. I need to start a new file."
The data sailed over my head, making a little whistling noise as it did so. "It's cute. A little paint and it could be an actual bug, not just a doodad."
Tyler scooted across the floor, power supply humming under his seat. "I will store it for analysis. Meanwhile," he glanced back to me. "There has been a complaint about the pipes in the Penthouse."
"Again?" I groaned, "That's the third time this month! Why can't they just take showers like normal people?"
His chuckling didn't improve my mood any.
Grumbling, I made my way to my half of the subterranean apartment, taking my clothes – and my sandwich – with me. There I spent an enjoyable ten minutes consuming the delicate confection, and setting up the spectrum analyzer for the gemstones. The container was both wired with a Faraday cage, and lead-lined, because of geeks like my brother and their wont of tiny signal devices that could 'flare.' While we had alternative accommodations, moving would be a pain in the neck. Better to just stash the loot in a signal-proof box, and overcharge it with enough power to destroy anything with wires.
Having fully changed clothes, and ballasted with a decently-made sandwich, I went over to the maintenance elevator. Its chains locked the entire doorway shut in a fashion that left them unreachable from the inside. A metahuman could smash the whole thing open, but that triggered an entirely different response. I doubt the Fantastic Four have a napalm bomb hitched up to their basement. Or an anvil welded to four svardstafen blades, high in the elevator shaft.
I undid the latch, avoiding the panel my brother used. So far, we'd never had to replace anything, but we'd been lucky.
The elevator took me up to the thirtieth floor, inside the janitor's closet. There was one on each level, a safe position for me to enter. Since the building was rather old, it had enough space for two elevators: one public and one private. With a sigh, I exited, straightening my collar. Thief by night, janitor by day; that's the way the little boys play.
I'm not the world's best-known thief. I'm just the best.
A/N: So, my first venture into the First Person Point-of-View. I've had this character bounce around in the darker corners of my mind for over three years now, and at last it sees the light of day! Thanks to Nightstride for his beta work, and a shout-out to Tyler, whom has the admirable trait of looking at something and saying: "Why don't we turn it up to 11, and kick in the afterburner?" Special thanks to SchadenFreude95, who frankly inspired me to write a comic-book tale. Thanks!
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